“It seems to me utterly irrelevant,” I declared.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” demurred the inspector. “But I must confess I think Mr.

Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clews than that. The

fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.”

 

Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over

anything.

 

“M. l’Inspecteur,” he said, “beware of the blind—the blind—_comment dire?_—the

little street that has no end to it.”

 

Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

 

“You mean a blind alley?” I said.

 

“That is it—the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those

fingerprints—they may lead you nowhere.”

 

“I don’t see how that can well be,” said the police officer. “I suppose you’re

hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done, though I can’t

say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true—they’re bound to

lead _somewhere_.”

 

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.