“I am afraid—for you. . . .”
I did not hear young Renauld’s answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a little further down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.
Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of ear-shot.
“What were you doing there?” I asked.
“Exactly what you were doing—listening.”
“But I was not there on purpose!”
“Ah!” said Giraud. “I was.”
As always, I admired the man whilst disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.
“You didn’t help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?”
“M. Poirot has gone to Paris,” I replied coldly.
“And I can tell you, M. Giraud, that he is anything but an old fossil. He has solved many cases that have completely baffled the English police.”
“Bah! The English police!” Giraud snapped his fingers disdainfully. “They must be on a level with our examining magistrates. So he has gone to Paris, has he? Well, a good thing. The longer he stays there, the better. But what does he think he will find there?”
I thought I read in the question a tinge of uneasiness. I drew myself up.
“That I am not at liberty to say,” I said quietly.
Giraud subjected me to a piercing stare.
“He has probably enough sense not to tell you,” he remarked rudely. “Good afternoon. I’m busy.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, and left me without ceremony. Matters seemed at a standstill at the Villa Geneviève. Giraud evidently did not desire my
