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“
Wait
a
second
,
you
haven
’
t
told
me
your
address
?
”
“
Oh
,
I
’
m
staying
at
the
Hôtel
du
Phare
.
It
’
s
a
little
place
,
but
quite
good
.
Come
and
look
me
up
tomorrow
.
”
“
I
will
,
”
I
said
,
with
perhaps
rather
unnecessary
empressement
.
I
watched
her
out
of
sight
,
then
turned
and
retraced
my
steps
to
the
Villa
.
I
remembered
that
I
had
not
relocked
the
door
of
the
shed
.
Fortunately
no
one
had
noticed
the
oversight
,
and
turning
the
key
I
removed
it
and
returned
it
to
the
sergent
de
ville
.
And
,
as
I
did
so
,
it
came
upon
me
suddenly
that
though
Cinderella
had
given
me
her
address
I
still
did
not
know
her
name
.
In
the
Salon
I
found
the
examining
magistrate
busily
interrogating
the
old
gardener
Auguste
.
Poirot
and
the
commissary
,
who
were
both
present
,
greeted
me
respectively
with
a
smile
and
a
polite
bow
.
I
slipped
quietly
into
a
seat
.
M
.
Hautet
was
painstaking
and
meticulous
in
the
extreme
,
but
did
not
succeed
in
eliciting
anything
of
importance
.
The
gardening
gloves
Auguste
admitted
to
be
his
.
He
wore
them
when
handling
a
certain
species
of
primula
plant
which
was
poisonous
to
some
people
.
He
could
not
say
when
he
had
worn
them
last
.
Certainly
he
had
not
missed
them
.
Where
were
they
kept
?
Sometimes
in
one
place
,
sometimes
in
another
.
The
spade
was
usually
to
be
found
in
the
small
tool
shed
.
Was
it
locked
?
Of
course
it
was
locked
.
Where
was
the
key
kept
?
Parbleu
,
it
was
in
the
door
of
course
!
There
was
nothing
of
value
to
steal
.
Who
would
have
expected
a
party
of
bandits
,
of
assassins
?
Such
things
did
not
happen
in
Madame
la
Vicomtesse
’
s
time
.
M
.
Hautet
signifying
that
he
had
finished
with
him
,
the
old
man
withdrew
,
grumbling
to
the
last
.
Remembering
Poirot
’
s
unaccountable
insistence
on
the
footprints
in
the
flower
beds
,
I
scrutinized
him
narrowly
as
he
gave
his
evidence
.
Either
he
had
nothing
to
do
with
the
crime
or
he
was
a
consummate
actor
.
Suddenly
,
just
as
he
was
going
out
of
the
door
,
an
idea
struck
me
.
“
Pardon
M
.
Hautet
,
”
I
cried
,
“
but
will
you
permit
me
to
ask
him
one
question
?
”
“
But
certainly
,
monsieur
.
”
Thus
encouraged
,
I
turned
to
Auguste
.
“
Where
do
you
keep
your
boots
?
”
“
Sac
à
papier
!
”
growled
the
old
man
.
“
On
my
feet
.
Where
else
?
”
