“What moved them in the first place to try if the front door were open? It was a most unlikely thing that it should be. It was far more probable that they should at once try to force a window.” “But all the windows on the ground floor are barred with iron shutters,” objected the commissary. Poirot pointed to a window on the first floor. “That is the window of the bedroom we have just come from, is it not? And see—there is a tree by which it would be the easiest thing in the world to mount.” “Possibly,” admitted the other. “But they could not have done so without leaving footprints in the flower-bed.” I saw the justice of his words. There were two large oval flower-beds planted with scarlet geraniums, one each side of the steps leading up to the front door. The tree in question had its roots actually at the back of the bed itself, and it would have been impossible to reach it without stepping on the bed. “You see,” continued the commissary, “owing to the dry weather no prints would show on the drive or paths; but, on the soft mould of the flower-bed, it would have been a very different affair.” Poirot went close to the bed and studied it attentively. As Bex had said, the mould was perfectly smooth. There was not an indentation on it anywhere. Poirot nodded, as though convinced, and we turned away, but he suddenly darted off and began examining the other flower-bed. “M. Bex!” he called. “See here. Here are plenty of traces for you.” The commissary joined him—and smiled. “My dear M. Poirot, those are without doubt the footprints of the gardener’s large hobnailed boots. In any case, it would have no importance, since this side we have no tree, and consequently no means of gaining access to the upper story.” “True,” said Poirot, evidently crestfallen. “So you think these footprints are of no importance?” “Not the least in the world.” Then, to my utter astonishment, Poirot pronounced these words: “I do not agree with you. I have a little idea that these footprints are the most important things we have seen yet.” M. Bex said nothing, merely shrugged his shoulders. He was far too courteous to utter his real opinion. “Shall we proceed?” he asked instead. “Certainly. I can investigate this matter of the footprints later,” said Poirot cheerfully. Instead of following the drive down to the gate, M. Bex turned up a path that branched off at right angles. It led, up a slight incline, round to the right of the house, and was bordered on either side by a kind of shrubbery. Suddenly it emerged into a little clearing from which one obtained a view of the sea. A seat had been placed here, and not far from it was a rather ramshackle shed. A few steps further on, a neat line of small bushes marked the boundary of the Villa grounds. M. Bex pushed his way through these and we found ourselves on a wide stretch of open downs. I looked round, and saw something that filled me with astonishment. “Why, this is a golf course,” I cried. Bex nodded.