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Continued.] "Yes."

The young man stared at him in a puzzled manner.

"You do not catch my meaning, I see," said Poirot, smiling enigmatically. "Now I should like to make a few inquiries at the bank."

Ridgeway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it.

"Send this in, and my uncle will see you at once."

Poirot thanked him, bade farewell to Miss Farquhar, and together we started out for Threadneedle Street and the head office of the London and Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgeway's card we were led through the labyrinth of counters and desks, skirting paying-in clerks and paying-out clerks, and up to a small office on the first floor, where the joint general managers received us. They were two grave gentlemen, who had grown grey in the service of the bank. Mr. Vavasour had a short white beard, Mr. Shaw was clean-shaven.

"I understand you are strictly a private inquiry agent?" said Mr. Vavasour. "Quite so, quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves in the hands of Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeil has charge of the case. A very able officer, I believe."

"I am sure of it," said Poirot politely. "You will permit a few questions, on your nephew's behalf? About this lock—who ordered it from Messrs. Hubbs?"

"I ordered it myself," said Mr. Shaw. "I would not trust to any clerk in the matter. As to the keys, Mr. Ridgeway had one, and the other two are held by my colleague and myself."

"And no clerk has had access to them?"

Mr. Shaw turned inquiringly to Mr. Vavasour.

"I think I am correct in saying that they have remained in the safe where we placed them on the twenty-third," said Mr. Vavasour, and then added: "My colleague was unfortunately taken ill a fortnight ago—in fact, on the very day that Philip left us. He has only just recovered."

"Severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age," said Mr. Shaw ruefully. "But I am afraid Mr. Vavasour has suffered from the hard work entailed by my absence, especially with this unexpected worry coming on top of everything."

Poirot asked a few more questions. I judged that he was endeavouring to gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew. Mr. Vavasour's answers were brief and punctilious. His nephew was a trusted official of the Bank, and had no debts or money difficulties that he knew of. He had been entrusted with similar missions in the past. Finally we were politely bowed out.

"I am disappointed," said Poirot as we emerged into the street.

"You hoped to discover more? They are such stodgy old men."

"It is not their stodginess which disappoints me, mon ami. I do not expect to find in a bank manager a 'keen financier with an eagle glance,' as your favourite works of fiction put it. No, I am disappointed in the case—it is too easy!"

"Easy?"

"Yes, do you not find it almost childishly simple?"

"You know who stole the bonds?"

"I do."

"But then—we must—why"

"Do not confuse and fluster yourself, Hastings. We are not going to do anything at present."

"But why? What are you waiting for?"

"For the Olympia. She is due on her return trip from New York on Tuesday."

"But if you know who stole the bonds, why wait? He may escape."

"To a South Sea Island, where there is no extradition? No, mon ami, he would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait—eh bien! To the intelligence of Hercule Poirot the case is perfectly clear; but for the benefit of others not so greatly gifted by the good God—the Inspector McNeil, for instance—it would be as well to make a few inquiries to establish the facts. One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself."

"Good Lord, Poirot! Do you know, I'd give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself—just for once. You're so confoundedly conceited!"

"Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times when you almost detest me! Alas! I suffer the penalties of greatness!"

The little man puffed out his chest and sighed so comically that I was forced to laugh.

Tuesday saw us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of the L. and N.W.R. Poirot had obstinately refused to enlighten me as to his suspicions—or certainties. He contented himself with expressing surprise that I, too, was not equally au fait with the situation. I disdained to argue and entrenched my curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.

Once arrived at the quay alongside which lay the big Transatlantic liner, Poirot became brisk and alert. Our proceedings consisted in interviewing four successive stewards and inquiring after a friend of Poirot's who had crossed to New York on the 23rd.

"An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, hardly moved out of his cabin."

The description appeared to tally with one Mr. Ventnor, who had occupied the cabin C$24$, which was next to that of Philip Ridgeway. Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor's existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited.

"Tell me," I cried, "was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?"

The steward shook his head.

"No, indeed, Sir. He was one of the last off the boat."

I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure.

"It's all very well," I remarked heatedly; "but that last answer must have damped your precious theory, grin as you please!"

"As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the coping stone of my theory."

I flung up my hands in despair.

"I give it up."

Once more we were in a train—speeding towards London this time. Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes, and then sealed up the result in an envelope.

"This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing, and then to the Rendez-Vous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss Esmé Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us."

"What about Ridgeway?"

"What about him?" asked Poirot, with a twinkle.

"Why, you surely don't think—you can't"

"The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of fact, I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief (which was perfectly possible) the case would have been charming—a piece of neat, methodical work."

"But not so charming for Miss Farquhar."

"Possibly you are right. Therefore, all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone asserts the incredibility of its being smuggled ashore"

"Yes, but we know"

"You may know, Hastings. I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain. It was hidden on board—also rather difficult; or—it was thrown overboard."

"With a cork on it, do you mean?"

"Without a cork."

I stared.

"But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they could not have been sold in New York."

"I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York; therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?"

"Where we were when we started."

"Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard and the bonds were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Mr. Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London."

"Yes, but then"

Poirot waved an impatient hand.

"Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the twenty-third. They reappear in New York half-an-hour after the Olympia gets in, and, according to one man whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in. Supposing, then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all. Is there any other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves from Southampton on the same day as the Olympia starts from Liverpool, and the former holds the record for the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day before the Olympia arrived. All is clear; the case begins to explain itself. The sealed package is only a dummy. It would have been an easy matter for any of the three men present to prepare a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in; but someone must travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of the robbery."

"But why?"

"Because, if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London. No; the man on board in the cabin next door does his work, pretends to force the lock in an obvious manner so as to draw immediate attention to the theft, really unlocks the trunk with a duplicate key, throws the package overboard, and waits until the last to leave the boat. Naturally, he wears glasses to conceal his eyes, and is an invalid, since he does not want to run the risk of meeting Ridgeway. He steps ashore in New York, and returns by the first boat available."

"But who—which was he?"

"The man who had a duplicate key, the man who ordered the lock, the man who has not been severely ill with bronchitis at his home in the country—enfin, that stodgy old man, Mr. Shaw! There are criminals in high places sometimes, my friend. Ah, here we are! Mademoiselle, I have succeeded! You permit?"

And, beaming, Poirot kissed the astonished girl lightly on either cheek!