“You noticed the women’s footprints?” he said suddenly.

 

The inspector laughed.

 

“Naturally. But several different women have walked this way—and men as well.

It’s a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be impossible to sort

out all the footsteps. After all, it’s the ones on the window-sill that are

really important.”

 

Poirot nodded.

 

“It’s no good going farther,” said the inspector, as we came in view of the

drive. “It’s all graveled again here, and hard as it can be.”

 

Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house—a kind of

superior summer-house. It was a little to the left of the path ahead of us, and

a graveled walk ran up to it.

 

Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the house. Then

he looked at me.

 

“You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my friend

Hastings,” he said, with a twinkle. “I observe that you do not quit my side. How

say you, Dr. Sheppard, shall we investigate that summer-house? It interests me.”