“He wants to know whether Ralph Paton’s boots were black or brown,” said

Caroline with tremendous solemnity.

 

I stared at her. I see now that I was unbelievably stupid about these boots. I

failed altogether to grasp the point.

 

“They were brown shoes,” I said. “I saw them.”

 

“Not shoes, James, boots. M. Poirot wants to know whether a pair of boots Ralph

had with him at the hotel were brown or black. A lot hangs on it.”

 

Call me dense if you like. I didn’t see.

 

“And how are you going to find out?” I asked.

 

Caroline said there would be no difficulty about that. Our Annie’s dearest

friend was Miss Ganett’s maid, Clara. And Clara was walking out with the boots

at the Three Boars. The whole thing was simplicity itself, and by the aid of

Miss Ganett, who coöperated loyally, at once giving Clara leave of absence, the

matter was rushed through at express speed.

 

It was when we were sitting down to lunch that Caroline remarked, with would-be

unconcern:—

 

“About those boots of Ralph Paton’s.”