“I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not _because___ of them. And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.” “What is that?” I asked, impressed. “If you would use your grey cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do, you too would perceive it, my friend.” This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers. He went on, without waiting for me to speak. “Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts—not by my leading you by the hand.” We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested, looking out to sea. From farther along the sand, the cries of the bathers reached us faintly. The sea was of the palest blue, and the halcyon calm reminded me of the day we had arrived at Merlinville, my own good spirits, and Poirot’s suggestion that I was “fey.” What a long time seemed to have elapsed since then. And in reality it was only three days! “Think, my friend,” said Poirot’s voice encouragingly. “Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. There is the secret of success.” I endeavoured to obey him, casting my mind back over all the details of the case. And reluctantly it seemed to me that the only clear and possible solution was that of Giraud—which Poirot despised. I reflected anew. If there was daylight anywhere it was in the direction of Madame Daubreuil. Giraud was ignorant of her connection with the Beroldy Case. Poirot had declared the Beroldy Case to be all important. It was there I must seek. I was on the right track now. And suddenly I started as an idea of bewildering luminosity shot into my brain. Trembling I built up my hypothesis. “You have a little idea, I see, _mon ami!___ Capital. We progress.” I sat up, and lit a pipe. “Poirot,” I said, “it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say we—although I dare say _I___ would be nearer the mark. But you must pay the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been strangely remiss. There is some one we have forgotten.” “And who is that?” inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes. “Georges Conneau!” 20 An Amazing Statement The next moment Poirot embraced me warmly. “_Enfin!___ You have arrived. And all by yourself. It is superb! Continue your reasoning. You are right. Decidedly we have done wrong to forget Georges Conneau.” I was so flattered by the little man’s approval that I could hardly continue. But at last I collected my thoughts and went on. “Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to believe that he is dead.” “_Aucunement___,” agreed Poirot. “Proceed.” “Therefore we will assume that he is alive.” “Exactly.” “Or that he was alive until recently.”