I was silent, impressed in spite of myself. Another few minutes brought us to the famous shed. We found all our friends there and, after an interchange of polite amenities, Poirot began his task. Having watched Giraud at work, I was keenly interested. Poirot bestowed but a cursory glance on the surroundings. The only thing he examined was the ragged coat and trousers by the door. A disdainful smile rose to Giraud’s lips, and, as though noting it, Poirot flung the bundle down again. “Old clothes of the gardener’s?” he queried. “Exactly,” said Giraud. Poirot knelt down by the body. His fingers were rapid but methodical. He examined the texture of the clothes, and satisfied himself that there were no marks on them. The boots he subjected to special care, also the dirty and broken finger-nails. Whilst examining the latter he threw a quick question at Giraud. “You saw these?” “Yes, I saw them,” replied the other. His face remained inscrutable. Suddenly Poirot stiffened. “Dr. Durand!” “Yes?” The doctor came forward. “There is foam on the lips. You observed it?” “I didn’t notice it, I must admit.” “But you observe it now?” “Oh, certainly.” Poirot again shot a question at Giraud. “You noticed it without doubt?” The other did not reply. Poirot proceeded. The dagger had been withdrawn from the wound. It reposed in a glass jar by the side of the body. Poirot examined it, then he studied the wound closely. When he looked up, his eyes were excited, and shone with the green light I knew so well. “It is a strange wound, this! It has not bled. There is no stain on the clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discoloured, that is all. What do you think, M. le docteur?” “I can only say that it is most abnormal.” “It is not abnormal at all. It is most simple. The man was stabbed _after he was dead___.” And, stilling the clamour of voices that arose with a wave of his hand, Poirot turned to Giraud and added, “M. Giraud agrees with me, do you not, monsieur?” Whatever Giraud’s real belief, he accepted the position without moving a muscle. Calmly and almost scornfully he replied: “Certainly I agree.” The murmur of surprise and interest broke out again. “But what an idea!” cried M. Hautet. “To stab a man after he is dead! Barbaric! Unheard of! Some unappeasable hate, perhaps.” “No, M. le juge,” said Poirot. “I should fancy it was done quite cold-bloodedly—to create an impression.” “What impression?” “The impression it nearly did create,” returned Poirot oracularly. M. Bex had been thinking. “How, then, was the man killed?” “He was not killed. He died. He died, M. le juge, if I am not much mistaken, of an epileptic fit!” This statement of Poirot’s again aroused considerable excitement. Dr. Durand knelt down again, and made a searching examination. At last he rose to his feet. “Well, M. le docteur?”