there on this hot morning.”
This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me.
“If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated.
“Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?”
“Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”
“The human foxhound,” murmured Poirot, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair, and closed his eyes. “By all means, my friend. Au revoir.”
I strolled out of the front door. It was certainly hot. I turned up the path we had taken the day before. I had a mind to study the scene of the crime myself. I did not go directly to the spot, however, but turned aside into the bushes, so as to come out on the links some hundred yards or so further to the right. If Giraud were still on the spot, I wanted to observe his methods before he knew of my presence. But the shrubbery here was much denser, and I had quite a struggle to force my way through. When I emerged at last on the course, it was quite unexpectedly and with such vigour that I cannoned heavily into a young lady who had been standing with her back to the plantation.
She not unnaturally gave a suppressed shriek, but I, too, uttered an exclamation of surprise. For it was my friend of the train, Cinderella!
The surprise was mutual.
“You,” we both exclaimed simultaneously.
The young lady recovered herself first.
“My only Aunt!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“For the matter of that, what are you?” I retorted.
“When last I saw you, the day before yesterday, you were trotting home to England like a good little boy. Have they given you a season ticket to and fro, on the strength of your M.P.?”
I ignored the end of the speech.
