It took us some time to run Mr. Aarons to earth, and it was after midnight when we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every evidence of warmth, and professed himself ready to be of service to us in any way. “There’s not much about the profession I don’t know,” he said, beaming genially. “_Eh bien___, M. Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella Duveen.” “Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for the moment I can’t place it. What’s her line?” “That I do not know—but here is her photograph.” Mr. Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted. “Got it!” He slapped his thigh. “The Dulcibella Kids, by the Lord!” “The Dulcibella Kids?” “That’s it. They’re sisters. Acrobats, dancers and singers. Give quite a good little turn. They’re in the provinces somewhere, I believe—if they’re not resting. They’ve been on in Paris for the last two or three weeks.” “Can you find out for me exactly where they are?” “Easy as a bird. You go home, and I’ll send you round the dope in the morning.” With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word. About eleven o’clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us. “The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to you.” Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at the theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety performance that evening. The show was wearisome beyond words—or perhaps it was only my mood that made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves precariously, would-be fashionable men, in greenish evening dress and exquisitely slicked hair, reeled off society patter and danced marvellously, stout prima donnas sang at the top of the human register, a comic comedian endeavoured to be Mr. George Robey and failed signally. At last the number went up which announced the Dulcibella Kids. My heart beat sickeningly. There she was—there they both were, the pair of them, one flaxen haired, one dark, matching as to size, with short fluffy skirts and immense buster brown bows. They looked a pair of extremely piquant children. They began to sing. Their voices were fresh and true, rather thin and music-hally, but attractive. It was quite a pretty little turn. They danced neatly, and did some clever little acrobatic feats. The words of their songs were crisp and catchy. When the curtain fell, there was a full meed of applause. Evidently the Dulcibella Kids were a success. Suddenly I felt that I could remain no longer. I must get out into the air. I suggested leaving to Poirot. “Go by all means, _mon ami___. I amuse myself, and will stay to the end. I will rejoin you later.”