M. Hautet shook his head gently.

“M. Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella to M. Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining Villa. And this is the man who, according to you, never looked at a petticoat!”

The secretary’s eyes narrowed.

“Hold on, M. le juge. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is utterly impossible. There’s some other explanation.”

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.

“What other explanation could there be?”

“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”

“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings. Also, since M. Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”

“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I transmitted him those sums at his request. But it wasn’t an intrigue.”

“Eh! _mon Dieu!___ What else could it be?”

“_Blackmail___,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”

“Ah! Voilà une idée!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.

“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being bled—and at a good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil knew enough of it to put the screws on.”

“It is possible,” the commissary cried excitedly. “Decidedly, it is possible.”

“Possible?” roared Stonor. “It’s certain! Tell me, have you asked Mrs. Renauld about this love affair stunt of yours?”

“No, monsieur. We did not wish to occasion her any distress if it could reasonably be avoided.”

“Distress? Why, she’d laugh in your face. I tell you, she and Renauld were a couple in a hundred.”

“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did M. Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his will?”

“I know all about it—took it to the lawyer for him after he’d drawn it out. I can give you the name of his solicitors if you want to see it. They’ve got it there. Quite simple. Half in trust to his wife for her lifetime, the other half to his son. A few legacies. I rather think he left me a thousand.”

“When was this will drawn up?”

“Oh, about a year and a half ago.”

“Would it surprise you very much, M. Stonor, to hear that M. Renauld had made another will, less than a fortnight ago?”

Stonor was obviously very much surprised.

“I’d no idea of it. What’s it like?”

“The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is no mention of his son.”

Mr. Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

“I call that rather rough on the lad. His mother adores him, of course, but to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his father’s part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes to prove what I told you, that Renauld and his wife were on first rate terms.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said M. Hautet. “It is possible we shall have to revise our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to Santiago, and are expecting a reply from there any minute. In all possibility, everything will then be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand, if your suggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give us valuable information.”

Poirot interjected a remark:

“M. Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with M. Renauld?”

“Over a year?”

“Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?”

“I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to Mr. Renauld, he had been for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.”

“In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?”

“Absolutely.”

Poirot seemed somewhat crest-fallen.

Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.

“My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her upstairs.”

Marchaud saluted and disappeared.

We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.

M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M. Hautet.

“You wished to ask me something, M. le juge.”

“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth, or upbringing?”

She shook her head.

“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came from the North West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the present and the future.”

“Was there any mystery in his past life?”

Mrs. Renauld smiled a little, and shook her head.

“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.”