The door was not locked, and we entered. The room, which was a large double one, was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably, and my sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran his finger round a rectangular mark on a table near the window.
"The service leaves to be desired," he observed dryly.
He was staring thoughtfully out of the window, and seemed to have fallen into a brown study.
"Well?" I demanded impatiently. "What did we come in here for?"
He started.
"Je vous demande pardon, mon ami. I wished to see if the door was really bolted on this side also."
"Well," I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the room we had just left, "it is bolted."
Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking.
"And, anyway," I continued, "what does it matter? The case is over. I wish you'd had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it was the kind of case that even a stiff-backed idiot like that inspector couldn't go wrong over."
