yourself," he murmured confidentially. “It is very suggestive."
"Mademoiselle would doubtless like to hear it also," said Poirot. "You do not object. Monsieur le Commissaire?"
"No," said the Commissary, who clearly did object very much. "No, certainly, M. Poirot, if you say so. You have finished here?"
"I think so. One little minute."
He had been turning over the rugs, and now he took one to the window and looked at it, picking something off it with his fingers.
"What is it?" demanded M. Caux sharply.
"Four auburn hairs." He bent over the dead woman. "Yes, they are from the head of Madame."
"And what of it? Do you attach importance to them?"
Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.
"What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully."
They went back again into the first compartment, and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be questioned.
"Your name is Pierre Michel?" said the Commissary.
"Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire." "I should like you to repeat to this gentleman"—he indicated Poirot—"the story that you told me as to what happened in Paris."
"Very good. Monsieur le Commissaire. It was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I came along to make the beds, thinking that Madame would be at dinner,
