“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. “It is impossible. I _cannot___ be wrong! The facts, taken methodically and in their proper order admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I _am___ right!” “But then—” He interrupted me. “Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word—” He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet assured voice: “The victim is a man of middle-age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that he was stabbed in a similar manner to M. Renauld, though not necessarily in the back.” It was my turn to gape—and gape I did. In all my knowledge of Poirot he had never done anything so amazing as this. And, almost inevitably, a doubt crossed my mind. “Poirot,” I cried, “you’re pulling my leg. You’ve heard all about it already.” He turned his earnest gaze upon me reproachfully. “Would I do such a thing? I assure you that I have heard nothing whatsoever. Did you not observe the shock your news was to me?” “But how on earth could you know all that?” “I was right then? But I knew it. The little grey cells, my friend, the little grey cells! They told me. Thus, and in no other way, could there have been a second death. Now tell me all. If we go round to the left here, we can take a short cut across the golf links which will bring us to the back of the Villa Geneviève much more quickly.” As we walked, taking the way he had indicated, I recounted all I knew. Poirot listened attentively. “The dagger was in the wound, you say? That is curious. You are sure it was the same one?” “Absolutely certain. That’s what make it so impossible.” “Nothing is impossible. There may have been two daggers.” I raised my eyebrows. “Surely that is in the highest degree unlikely? It would be a most extraordinary coincidence.” “You speak as usual, without reflection, Hastings. In some cases two identical weapons _would___ be highly improbable. But not here. This particular weapon was a war souvenir which was made to Jack Renauld’s orders. It is really highly unlikely, when you come to think of it, that he should have had only one made. Very probably he would have another for his own use.” “But nobody has mentioned such a thing,” I objected. A hint of the lecturer crept into Poirot’s tone. “My friend, in working upon a case, one does not take into account only the things that are ‘mentioned.’ There is no reason to mention many things which may be important. Equally, there is often an excellent reason for _not___ mentioning them. You can take your choice of the two motives.”