“Why can’t Annie go?” I asked coldly.

 

“She’s doing some mending. I can’t spare her.”

 

Caroline and I looked at each other.

 

“Very well,” I said, rising. “But if I take the beastly thing, I shall just

leave it at the door. You understand that?”

 

My sister raised her eyebrows.

 

“Naturally,” she said. “Who suggested you should do anything else?”

 

The honors were with Caroline.

 

“If you _do_ happen to see M. Poirot,” she said, as I opened the front door,

“you might tell him about the boots.”

 

It was a most subtle parting shot. I wanted dreadfully to understand the enigma

of the boots. When the old lady with the Breton cap opened the door to me, I

found myself asking if M. Poirot was in, quite automatically.

 

Poirot sprang up to meet me, with every appearance of pleasure.

 

“Sit down, my good friend,” he said. “The big chair? This small one?