he was stabbed in a similar manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.”
It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably. a doubt crossed my mind.
“Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.”
He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully.
“Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?”
“But how on earth could you know all that?”
“I was right then? But I knew it. The little gray cells, my friend, the little gray cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.”
As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew. Poirot listened attentively.
“The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it was the same one?”
“Absolutely certain. That’s what makes it so impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most extraordinary coincidence.”
“You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two identical weapons would be highly improbable. But not here. This particular weapon was a souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for his own use.
“But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected.
A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone.
“My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are mentioned. There is no rea-
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