At this minute there was a tap on the door, which Bex had closed after him. He strode forward and opened it. Françoise was there. She endeavored to peep in with ghoulish curiosity.

“Well, what is it?" demanded Bex impatiently.

“Madame. She sends a message that she is much recovered, and is quite ready to receive the examining magistrate.”

“Good,” said M. Bex briskly. “Tell M. Hautet and say that we will come at once.”

Poirot lingered a moment, looking back toward the body. I thought for a moment that he was going to apostrophize it, to declare aloud his determination never to rest till he had discovered the murderer. But when he spoke, it was tamely and awkwardly, and his comment was ludicrously inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment.

“He wore his overcoat very long,” he said constrainedly.