“By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round to the side of the house toward the rose-garden. The long French window of the study opens on to the rose-garden, and Mr. Davenheim frequently entered and left the house that way. But the man was a good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six, as the gardeners cease work at that time.”
“And Mr. Davenheim left the house?”
“About half-past five or thereabouts.”
“What lies beyond the rose-garden?”
“A lake.”
“With a boathouse?”
“Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you’re thinking of suicide, Monsieur Poirot? Well, I don’t mind telling you that Miller’s going down to-morrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. That’s the kind of man he is!”
Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. “Hastings, I pray you, hand me that copy of the Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man.”
I rose, and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features attentively.
“H’m!” he murmured. “Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?”