“_Mon ami___, a clue of two feet long is every bit as valuable as one measuring two millimetres! But it is the romantic idea that all important clues must be infinitesimal! As to the piece of lead-piping having nothing to do with the crime, you say that because Giraud told you so. No”—as I was about to interpose a question—“we will say no more. Leave Giraud to his search, and me to my ideas. The case seems straightforward enough—and yet—and yet, _mon ami___, I am not satisfied! And do you know why? Because of the wrist watch that is two hours fast. And then there are several curious little points that do not seem to fit in. For instance, if the object of the murderers was revenge, why did they not stab Renauld in his sleep and have done with it?” “They wanted the ‘secret,’” I reminded him. Poirot brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a dissatisfied air. “Well, where is this ‘secret’? Presumably some distance away, since they wish him to dress himself. Yet he is found murdered close at hand, almost within ear-shot of the house. Then again, it is pure chance that a weapon such as the dagger should be lying about casually, ready to hand.” He paused frowning, and then went on: “Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—” He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me. “My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!” “Where?” “In that right-hand bed yonder. M. Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if that is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow.” Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us. “You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the footmarks?” I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they _were___. “Exactly,” said Poirot. “But won’t he think it very odd?” “He will not think about it at all.” We could say no more, for the old man had joined us. “You want me for something, monsieur?” “Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?” “Twenty-four years, monsieur.” “And your name is—?” “Auguste, monsieur.” “I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They have been planted long?” “Some time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off.” “You put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the middle there, and in the other bed also?”