the sergent de ville Marchaud, “in case M. Giraud should require it while we are upstairs.” I thought it quite likely that the Sûreté detective, after using it, had returned it to Marchaud again. Leaving the girl out of sight in the shrubbery, I entered the house. Marchaud was on duty outside the door of the salon. From within came the murmur of voices.
“Monsieur desires Hautet? He is within. He is again interrogating Françoise.”
“No,” I said hastily, “I don’t want him. But I should very much like the key of the shed outside if it is not against regulations.”
“But certainly, monsieur.” He produced it. “Here it is. M. le juge gave orders that all facilities were to be placed at your disposal. You will return it to me when you have finished out there, that is all.”
“Of course.”
I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I realized that in Marchaud’s eyes, at least, I ranked equally in importance with Poirot. The girl was waiting for me. She gave an exclamation of delight as she saw the key in my hand.
“You’ve got it then?”
“Of course,” I said coolly. “All the same, you know, what I’m doing is highly irregular.”
“You’ve been a perfect duck, and I shan’t forget it. Come along. They can’t see us from the house, can they?”
“Wait a minute.” I arrested her eager advance. “I won’t stop you if you really wish to go in. But do you? You’ve seen the grave, and the grounds, and you’ve heard all the details of the affair. Isn’t that enough for you? This is going to be gruesome, you know, and—unpleasant.”
She looked at me for a moment with an expression that I could not quite fathom. Then she laughed.
“Me for the horrors,” she said. “Come along.”
In silence we arrived at the door of the shed. I opened it and we passed in. I walked over to the body, and gently pulled down the sheet as M. Bex had done the
