And Poirot, having effectually silenced, if not convinced me, leaned back with a satisfied air. On the boat, I knew better than to disturb my friend’s solitude. The weather was gorgeous, and the sea as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond, so I was hardly surprised to hear that Laverguier’s method had once more justified itself when a smiling Poirot joined me on disembarking at Calais. A disappointment was in store for us, as no car had been sent to meet us, but Poirot put this down to his telegram having been delayed in transit. “Since it is _carte blanche___, we will hire a car,” he said cheerfully. And a few minutes later saw us creaking and jolting along, in the most ramshackle of automobiles that ever plied for hire, in the direction of Merlinville. My spirits were at their highest. “What gorgeous air!” I exclaimed. “This promises to be a delightful trip.” “For you, yes. For me, I have work to do, remember, at our journey’s end.” “Bah!” I said cheerfully. “You will discover all, ensure this 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 Geneviève. “Straight on, monsieur, through the town. The Villa Geneviève 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 towards 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 Geneviève? Just a few steps up this road to the right, monsieur. You could see it if it were not for the curve.”