stain on the clothes. The blade of the dagger is slightly discolored. 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 clamor 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?”
“M. Poirot, I am inclined to believe that you are correct in your assertion. I was misled to begin with. The incontrovertible fact that the man had been stabbed distracted my attention from any other indications.”
Poirot was the hero of the hour. The examining magistrate was profuse in compliments. Poirot responded gracefully, and then excused himself on the pretext that neither he nor I had yet lunched, and that he wished to repair the ravages of the journey. As we were about to leave the shed, Giraud approached us.
“One other thing, M. Poirot,” he said, in his suave, mock-
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