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‘A very foolish young man, captain Ralph Paton,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘To leave so much evidence of his presence.’


‘Ah! well,’ said the inspector, ‘it was a dry, fine night, you know. he left no prints on the terrace or on the gravelled path. But, unluckily for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the path from the drive. See here.’ A small gravelled path joined the terrace a few feet away. In one spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy. Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and amongst them the shoes with rubber studs.


Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side.

‘You noticed the women’s footprints?’ he said suddenly.

The inspector laughed.

‘Naturally. But several different women have walked this way – and men as well. It’s a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be impossible to sort out all the footsteps. After all, it’s the ones on the window-sill that are really important.’

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