"Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then cut his throat. That's clear enough.

But how the dickens did he come or go? They notice

strangers quick enough in a little place like this. It came to me all at once--nobody did come. I took a good look

round. It had rained the night before, and there were

THE BIG FOUR 29

footprints clear enough going in and out of the kitchen. In the living-room there were two sets of footprints only (Betsy Andrews' stopped at the door)--Mr. Whalley's

(he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man's. The

other man had stepped in the blood-stains, and I traced

his bloody footprints--I beg your pardon, sir."

"Not at all," said Mr. Ingles, with a faint smile; "the adjective is perfectly understood."

"I traced them to the kitchen--but not beyond. Point Number One. On the lintel of Robert Grant's door was

a faint smear--a smear of blood. That's point Number

Two. Point Number Three was when I got hold of

Grant's boots--which he had taken off--and fitted

them to the marks. That settled it. It was an inside job. I warned Grant and took him into custody; and what do

you think I found packed away in his portmanteau? The

little jade figures and a ticket-of-leave. Robert Grant

was also Abraham Biggs, convicted for felony and

housebreaking five years ago."

The Inspector paused triumphantly.

"What do you think of that, gentlemen?"

"I think," said Poirot, "that it appears a very clear case--of a surprising clearness, in fact. This Biggs, or Grant, he must be a man very foolish and uneducated,

eh?"

"Oh, he is that--a rough, common sort of fellow. No idea of what a footprint may mean."

"Clearly he reads not the detective fiction! Well, Inspector, I congratulate you. We may look at the scene of

the crime. Yes?"

"I'll take you there myself this minute. I'd like you to see those footprints."

"I, too, should like to see them. Yes, yes, very interesting, very ingenious."

We set out forthwith. Mr. Ingles and the Inspector

30 Agatha Christie

forged ahead. I drew Poirot back a little so as to be able to speak to him out of the Inspector's hearing.

"What do you really think, Poirot. Is there more in this than meets the eye?"

"That is just the question, mon ami. Whalley says

plainly enough in his letter that the Big Four are on his track, and we know, you and I, that the Big Four is no

bogey for the children. Yet everything seems to say that this man Grant committed the crime. Why did he do so?

For the sake of the little jade figures? Or is he an agent of the Big Four? I confess that this last seems more

likely. However valuable the jade, a man of that class

was not likely to realise the fact—at any rate, not to the point of committing murder for them. (That, par

exemple, ought to have struck the Inspector.) He could