The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me. Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of good-humoured contempt. “Ah, _c’est l’Anglais!___ Enter then. Let us see what you can make of this affair.” Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in. “There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner. I stepped across. The dead man lay straight upon his back. He was of medium height, swarthy of complexion, and possibly about fifty years of age. He was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, well cut and probably made by an expensive tailor, but not new. His face was terribly convulsed, and on his left side, just over the heart, the hilt of a dagger stood up, black and shining. I recognized it. It was the same dagger I had seen reposing in the glass jar the preceding morning! “I’m expecting the doctor any minute,” explained Giraud. “Although we hardly need him. There’s no doubt what the man died of. He was stabbed to the heart, and death must have been pretty well instantaneous.” “When was it done? Last night?” Giraud shook his head. “Hardly. I don’t lay down the law on medical evidence, but the man’s been dead well over twelve hours. When do you say you last saw that dagger?” “About ten o’clock yesterday morning.” “Then I should be inclined to fix the crime as being done not long after that.” “But people were passing and repassing this shed continually.” Giraud laughed disagreeably. “You progress to a marvel! Who told you he was killed in this shed?” “Well—” I felt flustered. “I—I assumed it.” “Oh, what a fine detective! Look at him, _mon petit___—does a man stabbed to the heart fall like that—neatly with his feet together, and his arms to his side? No. Again does a man lie down on his back and permit himself to be stabbed without raising a hand to defend himself? It is absurd, is it not? But see here—and here—” He flashed the torch along the ground. I saw curious irregular marks in the soft dirt. “He was dragged here after he was dead. Half dragged, half carried by two people. Their tracks do not show on the hard ground outside, and here they have been careful to obliterate them—but one of the two was a woman, my young friend.” “A woman?” “Yes.” “But if the tracks are obliterated, how do you know?” “Because, blurred as they are, the prints of the woman’s shoe are unmistakable. Also, by _this___—” And, leaning forward, he drew something from the handle of the dagger and held it up for me to see. It was a woman’s long black hair—similar to the one Poirot had taken from the arm-chair in the library. With a slightly ironic smile he wound it round the dagger again.