“And then,” said Poirot gravely, “the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back.… Now, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of _two___ crimes. The first crime, the crime that M. Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate (ah, but he made a famous mistake there! He misjudged Hercule Poirot!) is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult—since the criminal in his wisdom, has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by M. Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve. A young hand, like Giraud, who does not place any reliance on the psychology, is almost certain to fail.” “You’re marvellous, Poirot,” I said, with admiration. “Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you could have done it!” I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life, he looked almost embarrassed. “Ah, then you no longer despise poor old Papa Poirot? You shift your allegiance back from the human foxhound?” His term for Giraud never failed to make me smile. “Rather. You’ve scored over him handsomely.” “That poor Giraud,” said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. “Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had _la mauvaise chance___ once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading.” “To tell you the truth, Poirot,” I said slowly, “even now I don’t quite see—whose hair was it?” “Madame Renauld’s of course. That is where _la mauvaise chance___ came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as easily have been a grey hair—and then, by no conceivable effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But it is all of a piece. Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory! Did not Giraud find the traces of two persons, a man and a woman, in the shed? And how does that fit in with his reconstruction of the case? I will tell you—it does not fit in, and so we shall hear no more of them! I ask you, is that a methodical way of working? The great Giraud! The great Giraud is nothing but a toy balloon—swollen with its own importance. But I, Hercule Poirot, whom he despises, will be the little pin that pricks the big balloon—_comme ça!___” And he made an expressive gesture. Then, calming down, he resumed: