“Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to ‘pick up.’ Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As Monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot.” Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous. “That is a splendid specimen there,” said Poirot, pointing. “Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?” “But certainly, monsieur.” The old fellow stepped into the bed, and carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired. Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow. “You see?” said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. “It is quite simple.” “I did not realize—” “That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?” I examined the bed carefully. “All the footmarks in the bed were made by the same boot,” I said at length after a careful study. “You think so? _Eh bien___, I agree with you,” said Poirot. He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else. “At any rate,” I remarked, “you will have one bee less in your bonnet now.” “_Mon Dieu!___ But what an idiom! What does it mean?” “What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these footmarks.” But to my surprise Poirot shook his head. “No, no, _mon ami___. At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark, but, as I hinted just now to M. Bex, these footmarks are the most important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud—I should not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever.” At that moment, the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came down the steps. “Ah, M. Poirot, we were coming to look for you,” said the magistrate. “It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil. Without doubt she will be very much upset by M. Renauld’s death, and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are weak, don’t we?” I admired the picturesqueness of M. Hautet’s language. I suspected that the examining magistrate was by now thoroughly enjoying his part in the mysterious drama. “Is M. Giraud not going to accompany us?” asked Poirot. “M. Giraud has shown clearly that he prefers to conduct the case in his own way,” said M. Hautet dryly. One could see easily enough that Giraud’s cavalier treatment of the examining magistrate had not prejudiced the latter in his favour. We said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining magistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind.