III

“Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I came along too? Any objection?”

“I should be charmed to have your company, but we must start at once. We shall not reach Dartmoor until close on nightfall, as it is.”

John Ingles did not delay us more than a couple of minutes, and soon we were in the train moving out of Paddington bound for the West Country. Hoppaton was a small village clustering in a hollow right on the fringe of the moorland. It was reached by a nine-mile drive from Moretonhampstead. It was about eight o’clock when we arrived; but as the month was July, the daylight was still abundant.

We drove into the narrow street of the village and then stopped to ask our way of an old rustic.

“Granite Bungalow,” said the old man reflectively, “it be Granite Bungalow you do want? Eh?”

We assured him that this was what we did want.

The old man pointed to a small grey cottage at the end of the street. “There be t’Bungalow. Do yee want to see t’Inspector?”

“What Inspector?” asked Poirot sharply; “what do you mean?”

“Haven’t yee heard about t’murder, then? A shocking business t’was seemingly. Pools of blood, they do say.”

“ Mon Dieu! ” murmured Poirot. “This Inspector of yours, I must see him at once.”

Five minutes later we were closeted with Inspector Meadows. The Inspector was inclined to be stiff at first, but at the magic name of Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, he unbent.