Mr. Renauld’s safety, run the would-be assassins to earth, and all will finish in a blaze of glory.”
“You are sanguine, my friend.”
“Yes, I feel absolutely assured of success. Are you not the one and only Hercule Poirot?”
But my little friend did not rise to the bait. He was observing me gravely.
“You are what the Scotch people call ‘fey,’ Hastings. It presages disaster.”
“Nonsense. At any rate, you do not share my feelings.”
“No, but I am afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I do not know. But I have a premonition—a je ne sais quoi!”
He spoke so gravely that I was impressed in spite of myself.
“I have a feeling,” he said slowly, "that this is going to be a big affair—a long, troublesome problem that will not be easy to work out.”
I would have questioned him further, but we were just coming into the little town of Merlinville, and we slowed up to inquire the way to the Villa Geneviéve.
“Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviéve is about half a mile the other side. You cannot miss it. A big villa, overlooking the sea.”
We thanked our informant, and drove on, leaving the town behind. A fork in the road brought us to a second halt. A peasant was trudging toward us, and we waited for him to come up to us in order to ask the way again. There was a tiny villa standing right by the road, but it was too small and dilapidated to be the one we wanted. As we waited, the gate of it swung open and a girl came out.
The peasant was passing us now, and the driver leaned forward from his seat and asked for direction.
“The Villa Geneviéve? Just a few steps up this road to the right, monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.”
The chauffeur thanked him, and started the car again. My eyes were fascinated by the girl who still stood, with one hand on the gate, watching us. I am an admirer of beauty, and
14
