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terrible discovery.”
    The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.
    “Come now, is it not so? I tell you solemnly - on my word of honour - that to be frank now is your only chance.”
    “I'll risk it,” said the man suddenly. “It was just as you say. I came in, and went straight to the master - and there he was, dead on the floor and blood all round. Then I got the wind up proper. They'd ferret out my record, and for a certainty they'd say it was me as had done him in. My only thought was to get away - at once - before he was found -”
    “And the jade figures?”
    The man hesitated.
    “You see -”
    “You took them by a kind of reversion to instinct, as it were? You had heard your master say that they were valuable, and you felt you might as well go the whole hog. That, I understand. Now, answer me this. Was it the second time that you went into the room that you took the figures?”
    “I didn't go in a second time. Once was enough for me.”
    “You are sure of that?”
    “Absolutely certain.”
    “Good. Now, when did you come out of prison?”
    “Two months ago.”
    “How did you obtain this job?”
    “Through one of them Prisoners' Help Societies. Bloke met me when I came out.”
    “What was he like?”
    “Not exactly a parson, but looked like one. Soft black hat and mincing way of talking. Got a broken front tooth. Spectacled chap. Saunders his name was. Said he hoped I was repentant, and that he'd find me a good post. I went to old Whalley on his recommendation.”
    Poirot rose once more.
    “I thank you. I know all now. Have patience.” He paused in the doorway and added: “Saunders gave you a pair of boots, didn't he?”
    Grant looked very astonished.
    “Why, yes, he did. But how did you know?”
    “It is my business to know things,” said Poirot gravely.
    After a word or two to the Inspector, the three of us went to the White Hart and discussed eggs and bacon and Devonshire cider.
    “Any elucidations yet?” asked Ingles, with a smile.
    “Yes, the case is clear enough now; but, see you, I shall have a good deal of difficulty in proving it. Whalley was killed by order of the Big Four - but not by Grant. A very clever man got Grant the post and deliberately planned to make him the scapegoat - an easy matter with Grant's prison record. He gave him a pair of boots, one of two duplicate pairs. The other he kept himself. It was all so simple. When Grant is out of the house, and Betsy is chatting in the village (which she probably did everyday of her life), he drives up wearing the duplicate boots, enters the kitchen, goes through into the living-room, fells the old man with a blow, and then cuts his throat. Then he returns to the kitchen, removes the boots, puts on another pair, and, carrying the first pair, goes out to his trap and drives off again.”
    Ingles looked steadily at Poirot.
    “There's a catch in it still. Why did nobody see him?”
    “Ah! That is where the cleverness of Number Four, I am convinced, comes in. Everybody saw him - and yet nobody saw him. You see, he drove up in a butcher's cart!”
    I uttered an exclamation.
    “The leg of mutton?”
    “Exactly, Hastings, the leg of mutton. Everybody swore that no one had been to Granite Bungalow that morning, but, nevertheless, I found in the larder a leg of mutton, still frozen. It was Monday, so the meat must have been delivered that morning; for if on Saturday, in this hot weather, it would not have remained frozen over Sunday. So some one had been to the Bungalow, and a man on whom a trace of blood here and there would attract no attention.”
    “Damned ingenious!” cried Ingles approvingly.
    “Yes, he is clever. Number Four.”
    “As clever as Hercule Poirot?” I murmured.
    My friend threw me a glance of dignified reproach.
    “There are some jests that you should not permit yourself, Hastings,” he said sententiously. “Have I not saved an innocent man from being sent to the gallows? That is enough for one day.”

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