“It may be as you say. Now, M. Poirot, you would without doubt like to visit the scene of the crime. I am sorry that the body has been removed, but of course photographs have been taken from every conceivable angle, and will be at your disposal as soon as they are available.” “I thank you, monsieur, for all your courtesy.” The commissary rose. “Come with me, monsieurs.” He opened the door, and bowed ceremoniously to Poirot to precede him. Poirot, with equal politeness, drew back and bowed to the commissary. “Monsieur.” “Monsieur.” At last they got out into the hall. “That room there, it is the study, _hein?___” asked Poirot suddenly, nodding towards the door opposite. “Yes. You would like to see it?” He threw the door open as he spoke, and we entered. The room which M. Renauld had chosen for his own particular use was small, but furnished with great taste and comfort. A businesslike writing desk, with many pigeon holes, stood in the window. Two large leather-covered armchairs faced the fireplace, and between them was a round table covered with the latest books and magazines. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the end of the room opposite the window there was a handsome oak sideboard with a tantalus on top. The curtains and _portière___ were of a soft dull green, and the carpet matched them in tone. Poirot stood a moment taking in the room, then he stepped forward, passed his hand lightly over the backs of the leather chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval. “No dust?” I asked, with a smile. He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities. “Not a particle, _mon ami!___ And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.” His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there. “Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearth-rug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of paper. “In France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit to sweep under the mats!” Bex took the fragment from him, and I came closer to examine it. “You recognize it—eh, Hastings?” I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar. The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine. “A fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed. The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in ink the word “Duveen.” “_Bien___,” said Bex. “This cheque was payable to, or drawn by, one named Duveen.” “The former, I fancy,” said Poirot, “for, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of M. Renauld.” That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk. “Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.” Poirot laughed.