it. Here we have a true clue—a psychological clue. You may know all about cigarettes and match ends, M. Giraud, but I, Hercule Poirot, know the mind of man!” And the ridiculous little fellow tapped his forehead with emphasis.
Giraud remained singularly unimpressed.
“For your guidance,” continued Poirot, “I will also advise you of one fact which might fail to be brought to your notice. The wrist watch of Madame Renauld, on the day following the tragedy, had gained two hours. It might interest you to examine it.”
Giraud stared.
“Perhaps it was in the habit of gaining?”
“As a matter of fact, I am told it did.”
“Eh bien, then!”
“All the same, two hours is a good deal,” said Poirot softly. “Then there is the matter of the footprints in the flower bed.”
He nodded his head toward the open window. Giraud took two eager strides, and looked out.
“This bed here?”
“Yes.”
“But I see no footprints?”
“No,” said Poirot, straightening a little pile of books on a table. “There are none.”
For a moment an almost murderous rage obscured Giraud’s face. He took two strides toward his tormentor, but at that moment the salon door was opened, and Marchaud announced:
“M. Stonor, the secretary, has just arrived from England. May he enter?”
75
