I did not hear young Renauld’s answer, for my attention was distracted by an unusual appearance a little further down the hedge. There appeared to be a brown bush there, which seemed odd, to say the least of it, so early in the summer. I stepped along to investigate, but, at my advance, the brown bush withdrew itself precipitately, and faced me with a finger to its lips. It was Giraud.
Enjoining caution, he led the way round the shed until we were out of ear-shot.
“What were you doing there?” I asked.
“Exactly what you were doing—listening.”
“But I was not there on purpose!”
“Ah!” said Giraud. “I was.”
As always, I admired the man whilst disliking him. He looked me up and down with a sort of contemptuous disfavour.
“You didn’t help matters by butting in. I might have heard something useful in a minute. What have you done with your old fossil?”
“M. Poirot has gone to Paris,” I replied coldly.
“And I can tell you, M. Giraud, that he is anything but an old fossil. He has solved many cases that have completely baffled the English police.”