friend napping, but as usual, he was omniscient. He, too, had inquired at the station.
“And without doubt we are not original in the idea, Hastings. The excellent Giraud, he also has probably made his inquiries.”
“You don’t think—" I said, and then stopped. “Ah, no, it would be too horrible!”
Poirot looked inquiringly at me, but I said no more. It had just occurred to me that though there were seven women directly or indirectly connected with the case—Mrs. Renauld, Madame Daubreuil and her daughter, the mysterious visitor, and the three servants—there was, with the exception of old Auguste, who could hardly count, only one man—Jack Renauld. And a man must have dug a grave.
I had no time to develop further the appalling idea that had occurred to me, for Jack Renauld was ushered into the room.
Poirot greeted him in a businesslike manner.
“Take a seat, monsieur. I regret infinitely to derange you, but you will perhaps understand that the atmosphere of the villa is not too congenial to me. M. Giraud and I do not see eye to eye about everything. His politeness to me has not been striking and you will comprehend that I do not intend any little discoveries I may make to benefit him in any way.”
“Exactly, M. Poirot,” said the lad. “That fellow Giraud is an ill-conditioned brute, and I'd be delighted to see someone score at his expense.”
“Then I may ask a little favor of you?”
“Certainly.”
“I will ask you to go to the railway station and take a train to the next station along the line, Abbalac. Ask there at the cloakroom whether two foreigners deposited a valise there on the night of the murder. It is a small station, and they are almost certain to remember. Will you do this?”
“Of course I will,” said the boy, mystified, though ready for the task.
“I and my friend, you comprehend, have business elsewhere,” explained Poirot. "There is a train in a quarter of an
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