‘Such as?’

‘The discrepancies in Sir Gervase’s moods today, the finding of Colonel Bury’s pencil, the evidence of Miss Cardwell (which is very important), the evidence of Miss Lingard as to the order in which people came down to dinner, the position of Sir Gervase’s chair when he was found, the paper bag which had held oranges and, finally, the all-important clue of the broken mirror.’

Major Riddle stared.

‘Are you going to tell me that that rigmarole makes sense?’ he asked.

Hercule Poirot replied softly:

‘I hope to make it do so—by tomorrow.’

Chapter 11

It was just after dawn when Hercule Poirot awoke on the following morning. He had been given a bedroom on the east side of the house.

Getting out of bed, he drew aside the window-blind and satisfied himself that the sun had risen, and that it was a fine morning.

He began to dress with his usual meticulous care. Having finished his toilet, he wrapped himself up in a thick overcoat and wound a muffler round his neck.

Then he tiptoed out of his room and through the silent house down to the drawing-room. He opened the french windows noiselessly and passed out into the garden.

The sun was just showing now. The air was misty, with the mist of a fine morning. Hercule Poirot followed the terraced walk round the side of the house till he came to the windows of Sir Gervase’s study. Here he stopped and surveyed the scene.

Immediately outside the windows was a strip of grass that ran parallel with the house. In front of that was a wide herbaceous border. The michaelmas daisies still made a fine show. In front of the border was the flagged walk where Poirot was standing. A strip of grass ran from the grass walk behind the border to the terrace. Poirot examined it carefully, then shook his head. He turned his attention to the border on either side of it.

Very slowly he nodded his head. In the right-hand bed, distinct in the soft mould, there were footprints.

As he stared down at them, frowning, a sound caught his ears and he lifted his head sharply.

Above him a window had been pushed up. He saw a red head of hair. Framed in an aureole of golden red he saw the intelligent face of Susan Cardwell.

‘What on earth are you doing at this hour, M. Poirot? A spot of sleuthing?’

Poirot bowed with the utmost correctitude.

‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Yes, it is as you say. You now behold a detective—a great detective, I may say—in the act of detecting!’

The remark was a little flamboyant. Susan put her head on one side.

‘I must remember this in my memoirs,’ she remarked. ‘Shall I come down and help?’

‘I should be enchanted.’

‘I thought you were a burglar at first. Which way did you get out?’

‘Through the drawing-room window.’

‘Just a minute and I’ll be with you.’

She was as good as her word. To all appearances Poirot was exactly in the same position as when she had first seen him.