“If you do happen to see M. Poirot,” she said, as I opened the front door, “you might tell him about the boots.”

It was a most subtle parting shot. I wanted dreadfully to understand the enigma of the boots. When the old lady with the Breton cap opened the door to me, I found myself asking if M. Poirot was in, quite automatically.

Poirot sprang up to meet me, with every appearance of pleasure.

“Sit down, my good friend,” he said. “The big chair? This small one? The room is not too hot, no?”

I thought it was stifling, but refrained from saying so. The windows were closed, and a large fire burned in the grate.