his noon-tide haunt, he, too, was attired in
blouse and nightcap. He doffed the latter
as he entered the cottage, and, addressing
himself to me, inquired what there was for
my service: that is to say, what did I happen
to require?

This was soon told. I had heard from his
friend, Monsieur Pierre —who, at this allusion
stepped in and pulled off his nightcap also—
that he, Monsieur Jerome, was the proprietor
of a cabriolet de louage, or carriage of some
kind, and that I wished to hire the same to
go from Abbeville to Boulogne.

Yes, monsieur was perfectly right; he had,
indeed, a famous carriage; they were wrong
who called it a cabriolet—it was far more
convenient, much more roomy, infinitely more
solid. Certainly that carriage was at the
disposition of monsieur and madame—
rnadame was to be of the journey also?
Good!—and the baggage. As for that, the
carriage could take any quantity without
doubt—but——

Here Monsieur Jerome paused, and was
constrained to admit that a difficulty existed.
Of the three horses he possessed, two
were already on distant journeys, and the
third—the unfortunate beast— was dead lame.
Nothing in the whole course of his life had
ever put him out so much before. It was for
the purpose of speaking to the veterinary
surgeon on the subject of that horse's lameness
—there was no other motive—that he
had just run over to the Good Sportsman.
What was to be done?

Monsieur Pierre, who seemed to be a sort
of good genius to the Jerome family, threw
in a second suggestion. Might not his friend
contrive to borrow a horse ? There was
Poirot the miller; he had one that was
superb, an animal unacquainted with fatigue;
that horse, if it could be obtained, would
remove all cause of anxiety.

Monsieur Jerome admitted that the qualities
of the horse in question were such as
Monsieur Pierre had described. He had
himself been thinking of another noble
quadruped— the mare belonging to Madame
Morel, the marchande de bois; but, perhaps,
the miller's horse would be the better one—
at all events, it was closer at hand. In any
case, monsieur and madame might rest
contented a horse should be found; in less than
half an hour he would present himself with
his equipage at the door of monsieur's hotel.

The next question was, the price to be paid
for the hire of Monsieur Jerome's conveyance
After a little haggling—based on the
part of Monsieur Jerome upon the usual
grounds, exaggerated distance, mountains, and
so forth—the terms were settled, including a
pour-boire for skilful driving, yet to be
demonstrated—and an agreement was made,
it being now eleven in the forenoon, that we
should be safely deposited in Boulogne before
the clock struck ten that night.

On the faith of these assurances we hurried
back to the hotel, a little flustered by the
apprehension of not being quite ready, paid
our bill, had the luggage brought down into
the courtyard, and waited for Monsieur
Jerome's arrival. There was no need to have
been in a hurry, for the promised half-hour
went by, and another was added to it, without
the slightest indication of his appearance.
We began to be impatient, sent out twice to the
market-place to see if the carriage was coming,
discussed the probabilities of the case with an
unoccupied waiter who, when he had heard
my story, gave it as his opinion that Monsieur
Jerome would not come at all, and was in the
act of recommending a heavy berline that
stood in a corner which, with post-horses——

He, too, was cut short by a noise: a noise
of excessive rumbling, mingled with urgent
vociferation, and presently a vehicle entered
the court-yard, which proved to be the one I
expected; Monsieur Jerome driving, Monsieur
Pierre by his side, and both gesticulating
with much vehemence.

When I make use of the word expected, I
do not exactly state a fact. To say the
truth, the carriage of Monsieur Jerome was
not of the kind which I had pictured to
myself, neither was the animal that drew it.
With respect to the former, on one or two
points Monsieur Jerome was certainly right.
It WAS infinitely more solid than any cabriolet
that ever was built; more roomy, too, there
could be no doubt of it; the fact of its being
more convenient remained to be seen. There
are some things which command respect on
the score of antiquity, but it may be
questioned whether a travelling-carriage
belongs to that category. If so, Monsieur
Jerome's conveyance put in a strong claim
for veneration. Its age was proclaimed by
its creaks and blurs and patches; its wrinkled
hood was stony white with dust; its heavy
wheels and faded body were clogged and
smeared with mire. No English word can
clearly describe its form, so a French one
must suffice—I can call it nothing but a
veritable coucou. As to the horse, I might
name fifty things which it was not, leaving
it to be inferred, from accumulated negatives,
what it really was. One saw at a glance, for
instance, that it was not a splendid, scarcely
a high, stepper; its action was neither grand
nor superior; it did not appear fast; I should
have declined to warrant it sound; easy to
drive seemed more than doubtful; quiet in
harness— well, that was just possible. Of its
antecedents I was left in ignorance, as
Monsieur Jerome refrained from stating whether
his horse came out of the mill or the woodcart.
Enough for him to crack his whip and
exclaim:

"Voilà, monsieur!" with an air of intense
satisfaction.

That satisfaction was not shared by the
partner of my journey and bosom. She
regarded Monsieur Jerome's turn-out with a
look of so much astonishment and dismay