At Poirot's suggestion, the typewriting boy was dispatched to the farthest corner.

"It is very confidential, what we have to say," he explained.

Jules Perrot looked pleasantly excited.

"Yes, messieurs?"

"It is this matter of the murder of Madame Giselle."

"Ah, yes, I recollect. I think I have already answered some questions on the subject."

"Precisely. Precisely. But it is necessary to have the facts very exactly. Now, Madame Giselle reserved her place - when?"

"I think that point has already been settled. She booked her seat by telephone on the seventeenth."

"That was for the twelve-o'clock service on the following day?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But I understand from her maid that it was on the 8:45 a.m. service that madame reserved a seat?"

"No, no; at least this is what happened. Madame's maid asked for the 8:45 service, but that service was already booked up, so we gave her a seat on the twelve o'clock instead."

"Ah, I see. I see."

"Yes, monsieur."

"I see. I see. But all the same, it is curious. Decidedly, it is curious."

The clerk looked at him inquiringly.

"It is only that a friend of mine, deciding to go to England at a moment's notice, went to England on the 8:45 service that morning, and the plane was half empty."

M. Perrot turned over some papers. He blew his nose.

"Possibly, your friend has mistaken the day. The day before or the day after -"

"Not at all. It was the day of the murder, because my friend said that if he had missed that plane, as he nearly did, he would have actually been one of the passengers in the 'Prometheus.'"

"Ah, indeed. Yes, very curious. Of course, sometimes people do not arrive at the last minute, and then, naturally, there are vacant places. And then sometimes there are mistakes. I have to get in touch with Le Bourget; they are not always accurate."

The mild inquiring gaze of Hercule Poirot seemed to be upsetting to Jules Perrot. He came to a stop. His eyes shifted. A little bead of perspiration came out on his forehead.

"Two quite possible explanations," said Poirot. "But somehow, I fancy, not the true explanation. Don't you think it might perhaps be better to make a clean breast of the matter?"

"A clean breast of what? I don't understand you."

"Come, come. You understand me very well. This is a case of murder - murder, M. Perrot. Remember that, if you please. If you withhold information, it may be very serious for you - very serious indeed. The police will take a very grave view. You are obstructing the ends of justice."

Jules Perrot stared at him. His mouth fell open. His hands shook.

"Come," said Poirot. His voice was authoritative, autocratic. "We want precise information, if you please. How much were you paid, and who paid you?"

"I meant no harm - I had no idea - I never guessed -"

"How much? And who by?"

"F-five thousand francs. I never saw the man before. I - this will ruin me."