“Ah,” said Poirot, smiling broadly. “That is the cream of Giraud’s little jest. According to him, it is not a woman’s hair at all. Remember that the youths of today wear their hair brushed straight back from the forehead with pomade or hairwash to make it lie flat. Consequently some of the hairs are of considerable length.” “And you believe that too?” “No,” said Poirot with a curious smile. “For I know it to be the hair of a woman—and more, which woman!” “Madame Daubreuil,” I announced positively. “Perhaps,” said Poirot, regarding me quizzically. But I refused to allow myself to get annoyed. “What are we going to do now?” I asked, as we entered the hall of the Villa Geneviève. “I wish to make a search amongst the effects of M. Jack Renauld. That is why I had to get him out of the way for a few hours.” “But will not Giraud have searched already?” I asked doubtfully. “Of course. He builds a case, as a beaver builds a dam, with a fatiguing industry. But he will not have looked for the things that I am seeking—in all probability he would not have seen their importance if they stared him in the face. Let us begin.” Neatly and methodically, Poirot opened each drawer in turn, examined the contents, and returned them exactly to their places. It was a singularly dull and uninteresting proceeding. Poirot waded on through collars, pajamas and socks. A purring noise outside drew me to the window. Instantly I became galvanized into life. “Poirot!” I cried. “A car has just driven up. Giraud is in it, and Jack Renauld, and two gendarmes.” “_Sacré tonnerre!___” growled Poirot. “That animal of a Giraud, could he not wait? I shall not be able to replace the things in this last drawer with the proper method. Let us be quick.” Unceremoniously he tumbled out the things on the floor, mostly ties and handkerchiefs. Suddenly with a cry of triumph Poirot pounced on something, a small square cardboard, evidently a photograph. Thrusting it into his pocket, he returned the things pell-mell to the drawer, and seizing me by the arm dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. In the hall stood Giraud, contemplating his prisoner. “Good afternoon, M. Giraud,” said Poirot. “What have we here?” Giraud nodded his head towards Jack. “He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He is under arrest for the murder of his father, M. Paul Renauld.” Poirot wheeled to confront the boy who leaned limply against the door, his face ashy pale. “What do you say to that, _jeune homme?___” Jack Renauld stared at him stonily. “Nothing,” he said. 19 I Use My Grey Cells I was dumbfounded. Up to the last, I had not been able bring myself to believe Jack Renauld guilty. I had expected a ringing proclamation of his innocence when Poirot challenged him. But now, watching him as he stood, white and limp against the wall, and hearing the damning admission fall from his lips, I doubted no longer. But Poirot had turned to Giraud.