“I will,” I said, with perhaps rather unnecessary _empressement___. I watched her out of sight, then turned and retraced my steps to the Villa. I remembered that I had not relocked the door of the shed. Fortunately no one had noticed the oversight, and turning the key I removed it and returned it to the _sergent de ville___. And, as I did so, it came upon me suddenly that though Cinderella had given me her address I still did not know her name. 9 M. Giraud Finds Some Clues In the _Salon___ I found the examining magistrate busily interrogating the old gardener Auguste. Poirot and the commissary, who were both present, greeted me respectively with a smile and a polite bow. I slipped quietly into a seat. M. Hautet was painstaking and meticulous in the extreme, but did not succeed in eliciting anything of importance. The gardening gloves Auguste admitted to be his. He wore them when handling a certain species of primula plant which was poisonous to some people. He could not say when he had worn them last. Certainly he had not missed them. Where were they kept? Sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. The spade was usually to be found in the small tool shed. Was it locked? Of course it was locked. Where was the key kept? _Parbleu___, it was in the door of course! There was nothing of value to steal. Who would have expected a party of bandits, of assassins? Such things did not happen in Madame la Vicomtesse’s time. M. Hautet signifying that he had finished with him, the old man withdrew, grumbling to the last. Remembering Poirot’s unaccountable insistence on the footprints in the flower beds, I scrutinized him narrowly as he gave his evidence. Either he had nothing to do with the crime or he was a consummate actor. Suddenly, just as he was going out of the door, an idea struck me. “_Pardon___ M. Hautet,” I cried, “but will you permit me to ask him one question?” “But certainly, monsieur.” Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste. “Where do you keep your boots?” “_Sac à papier!___” growled the old man. “On my feet. Where else?” “But when you go to bed at night?” “Under my bed.” “But who cleans them?” “Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on the front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, _bien entendu___, but otherwise—!” he shrugged his shoulders. I shook my head, discouraged. “Well, well,” said the magistrate. “We do not advance very much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago. Has any one seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very good mind to send for him and—” “You will not have to send far, M. le juge.” The quiet voice startled us. Giraud was standing outside looking in through the open window. He leaped lightly into the room, and advanced to the table. “Here I am, M. le juge, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting myself sooner.” “Not at all. Not at all,” said the magistrate, rather confused.