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 here was one whom nobody could have passed without remark. Very tall, with the proportions of a young goddess, her uncovered golden head gleaming in the sunlight, I swore to myself that she was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. As we swung up the rough road, I turned my head to look after her. “By Jove, Poirot,” I exclaimed, “did you see that young goddess.” Poirot raised his eyebrows. “_Ça commence!___” he murmured. “Already you have seen a goddess!” “But, hang it all, wasn’t she?” “Possibly. I did not remark the fact.” “Surely you noticed her?” “_Mon ami___, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” he hesitated. “Yes?” “I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely. But at that moment we drew up at a big green gate, and, simultaneously, we both uttered an exclamation. Before it stood an imposing _sergent de ville___. He held up his hand to bar our way. “You cannot pass, monsieurs.” “But we wish to see Mr. Renauld,” I cried. “We have an appointment. This is his Villa, isn’t it?” “Yes, monsieur, but—” Poirot leaned forward. “But what?” “M. Renauld was murdered this morning.” 3 At the Villa Geneviève In a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement. He caught the man by the shoulder. “What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?” The _sergent de ville___ drew himself up. “I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.” “True. I comprehend.” Poirot reflected for a minute. “The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?” “Yes, monsieur.” Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it. “_Voilà!___ Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?” The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him and was handed Poirot’s message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short stout man with a huge moustache came bustling down to the gate. The _sergent de ville___ saluted and stood aside. “My dear M. Poirot,” cried the new-comer, “I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.” Poirot’s face had lighted up. “M. Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.” He turned to me. “This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings—M. Lucien Bex.” The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex turned once more to Poirot. “_Mon vieux___, I have not seen you since 1909, that time in Ostend. I heard that you had left the Force?” “So I have. I run a private business in London.” “And you say you have information to give which may assist us?” “Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?” “No. By whom?”