“Now, mon ami , imagine that it is the day after the disappearance, and that we are tracking footprints. You love footprints, do you not? See⁠—here they go, a man’s, M. Halliday’s⁠ ⁠… He turns to the right as we did, he walks briskly⁠—ah! other footsteps following behind⁠—very quickly⁠—small footsteps, a woman’s. See, she catches him up⁠—a slim young woman, in a widow’s veil. ‘Pardon, monsieur, Madame Olivier desires that I recall you.’ He stops, he turns. Now where would the young woman take him? Is it coincidence that she catches up with him just where a narrow alleyway opens, dividing two gardens? She leads him down it. ‘It is shorter this way, monsieur.’ On the right is the garden of Madame Olivier’s villa, on the left the garden of another villa⁠—and from that garden, mark you, the tree fell⁠—so nearly on us. Garden doors from both open on the alley. The ambush is there. Men pour out, overpower him, and carry him into the strange villa.”

“Good gracious, Poirot,” I cried, “are you pretending to see all this?”