“But did not you reclose and lock the door when you departed.” “That’s just it,” I said slowly. “That’s what I blame myself for so terribly. My friend was upset at the sight. She nearly fainted. I got her some brandy and water, and afterwards insisted on accompanying her back to town. In the excitement, I forgot to relock the door. I only did so when I got back to the Villa.” “Then for twenty minutes at least—” said the commissary slowly. He stopped. “Exactly,” I said. “Twenty minutes,” mused the commissary. “It is deplorable,” said M. Hautet, his sternness of manner returning. “Without precedent.” Suddenly another voice spoke. “You find it deplorable, M. le juge?” asked Giraud. “Certainly I do.” “_Eh bien!___ I find it admirable,” said the other imperturbably. This unexpected ally quite bewildered me. “Admirable, M. Giraud?” asked the magistrate, studying him cautiously out of the corner of his eye. “Precisely.” “And why?” “Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin, has been near the Villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him.” There was a note of menace in his voice. He continued: “He risked a good deal to gain possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that finger-prints might be discovered on it.” Poirot turned to Bex. “You said there were none?” Giraud shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps he could not be sure.” Poirot looked at him. “You are wrong, M. Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have been sure.” “I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice who was not aware of that fact.” “_Ils sont mal renseignés, les accomplices!___” muttered Poirot, but he said no more. The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M. Hautet addressed us: “Our work here is finished. Perhaps, M. Renauld, you will listen whilst your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned M. Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my heart-felt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day.” And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure. Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his, and observed the time. “Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend,” he said. “And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux.” We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me: