I do not know what put the idea into my head—possibly it was the deep anxiety underlying Marthe Daubreuil’s tones—but I asked suddenly: “Young M. Renauld—he did not leave by that train, did he?” “Ah, no, monsieur. To arrive and start off again within half an hour, it would not be amusing, that!” I stared at the man, the significance of his words almost escaping me. Then I saw.… “You mean,” I said, my heart beating a little, “that M. Jack Renauld arrived at Merlinville that evening?” “But yes, monsieur. By the last train arriving the other way, the 11:40.” My brain whirled. That, then, was the reason of Marthe’s poignant anxiety. Jack Renauld had been in Merlinville on the night of the crime! But why had he not said so? Why, on the contrary, had he led us to believe that he had remained in Cherbourg? Remembering his frank boyish countenance, I could hardly bring myself to believe that he had any connection with the crime. Yet why this silence on his part about so vital a matter? One thing was certain, Marthe had known all along. Hence her anxiety, and her eager questioning of Poirot to know whether any one were suspected. My cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of the train, and in another moment I was greeting Poirot. The little man was radiant. He beamed and vociferated and, forgetting my English reluctance, embraced me warmly on the platform. “_Mon cher ami___, I have succeeded—but succeeded to a marvel!” “Indeed? I’m delighted to hear it. Have you heard the latest here?” “How would you that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my moustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of travelling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.” I cut short his remonstrances. “My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the Villa at once. _There has been another murder!___” I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving news of importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he has dismissed it as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case events have usually proved him justified. But this time I could not complain of missing my effect. Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed. “What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!” “You did not expect it, then?”