A very faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He seemed about to speak, but checked himself. He bent down to where a spade was lying. “That’s what the grave was dug with, right enough,” said Giraud. “But you’ll get nothing from it. It was Renauld’s own spade, and the man who used it wore gloves. Here they are.” He gesticulated with his foot to where two soiled earth-stained gloves were lying. “And they’re Renauld’s too—or at least his gardener’s. I tell you, the men who planned out this crime were taking no chances. The man was stabbed with his own dagger, and would have been buried with his own spade. They counted on leaving no traces! But I’ll beat them. There’s always _something!___ And I mean to find it.” But Poirot was now apparently interested in something else, a short discoloured piece of lead-piping which lay beside the spade. He touched it delicately with his finger. “And does this, too, belong to the murdered man?” he asked, and I thought I detected a subtle flavour of irony in the question. Giraud shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he neither knew nor cared. “May have been lying around here for weeks. Anyway, it doesn’t interest me.” “I, on the contrary, find it very interesting,” said Poirot sweetly. I guessed that he was merely bent on annoying the Paris detective and, if so, he succeeded. The other turned away rudely, remarking that he had no time to waste, and bending down he resumed his minute search of the ground. Meanwhile Poirot, as though struck by a sudden idea, stepped back over the boundary, and tried the door of the little shed. “That’s locked,” said Giraud over his shoulder. “But it’s only a place where the gardener keeps his rubbish. The spade didn’t come from there, but from the toolshed up by the house.” “Marvellous,” murmured M. Bex, to me ecstatically. “He has been here but half an hour, and he already knows everything! What a man! Undoubtedly Giraud is the greatest detective alive today.” Although I disliked the detective heartily, I nevertheless was secretly impressed. Efficiency seemed to radiate from the man. I could not help feeling that, so far, Poirot had not greatly distinguished himself, and it vexed me. He seemed to be directing his attention to all sorts of silly, puerile points that had nothing to do with the case. Indeed, at this juncture, he suddenly asked: “M. Bex, tell me, I pray you, the meaning of this whitewashed line that extends all round the grave. Is it a device of the police?” “No, M. Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.” “A bunkair?” Poirot turned to me. “That is the irregular hole filled with sand and a bank at one side, is it not?” I concurred. “You do not play the golf, M. Poirot?” inquired Bex.