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34 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 gray 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.

“Yes, sir; murdered this morning. A shocking business. They ’phoned to Moreton, and I came out at once. Looked a mysterious thing to begin with. The old man—he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his glass, from all I hear—was lying on the floor of the living-room. There was a bruise on his head and his throat was cut from ear to ear. Blood all over the place, as you can understand. The