At that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came down the steps.
'Ah, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you,' said the magistrate. 'It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil. Without doubt she will be very much upset by Monsieur Renauld's death, and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are weak, don't we?'
We said no more, but fell into line. Poirot walked with the examining magistrate, and the commissary and I followed a few paces behind.
'There is no doubt that Françoise's story is substantially correct,' he remarked to me in a confidential tone. 'I have been telephoning headquarters. It seems that three times in the last six weeks-that is to say since the arrival of Monsieur Renauld at Merlinville-Madame Daubreuil has paid a large sum in notes into her banking account. Altogether the sum totals two hundred thousand francs.'
'Dear me; I said, considering, 'that must be something like four thousand pounds?'
'Precisely. Yes, there can be no doubt that he was absolutely infatuated. But it remains to be seen whether he confided his secret to her. The examining magistrate is hopeful, but I hardly share his views.'
During this conversation we were walking down the lane towards the fork in the road where our car had halted earlier in the afternoon, and in another moment I realized that the Villa Marguerite, the home of the mysterious Madame Daubreuil, was the small house from which the beautiful girl had emerged.
'She has lived here for many years,' said the commissary nodding his head towards the house. 'Very quietly, very unobtrusively. She seems to have no friends or relations other than the acquaintances she had made in Merlinville. She never refers to the past, nor to her husband. One does not even know if he is alive or dead. There is a mystery about her, you comprehend.'
I nodded, my interest growing.
'And-the daughter?' I ventured.
'A truly beautiful young girl-modest, devout, all that she should be. One pities her, for, though she may know nothing of the past, a man who wants to ask her hand in marriage must necessarily inform himself, and then-' The commissary shrugged his shoulders cynically.
'But it would not be her fault!' I cried, with rising indignation.
'No. But what will you? A man is particular about his wife's antecedents.'
I was prevented from further argument by our arrival at the door. M. Hautet rang the bell. A few minutes elapsed, and then we heard a footfall within, and the door was opened.
On the threshold stood my young goddess of that afternoon.
When she saw us, the colour left her cheeks, leaving her deathly white, and her eyes widened with apprehension. There was no doubt about it, she was afraid!
'Mademoiselle Daubreuil,' said M. Hautet, sweeping off his hat, 'we regret infinitely to disturb you, but the exigencies of the Law, you comprehend? My compliments to madame your mother, and will she have the goodness to grant me a few moments' interview?'
For a moment the girl stood motionless. Her left hand was pressed to her side, as though to still the sudden unconquerable agitation of her heart. But she mastered herself, and said in a low voice: 'I will go and see. Please come inside.'
She entered a room on the left of the hall, and we heard the low murmur of her voice. And then another voice, much the same in timbre, but with a slightly harder inflection behind its mellow roundness, said: 'But certainly. Ask them to enter.'
In another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame Daubreuil.
She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her figure had all the grace of full maturity.
Her hair, again unlike her daughter's, was dark, and parted in the middle in the Madonna style. Her eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. Though very well preserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the quality which is independent of age.
'You wished to see me, monsieur?' she asked.
'Yes, madame.' M. Hautet cleared his throat. 'I am investigating the death of Monsieur Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?'
She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change.
'We came to ask you whether you can-er-throw any light upon the circumstances surrounding it?'
'I?' The surprise of her tone was excellent.
'Yes, madame. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his villa in the evenings. Is that so?'
The colour rose in the lady's pale cheeks, but she replied quietly: 'I deny your right to ask me such a question!'
'Madame, we are investigating a murder.'
'Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder;'
'Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?'
'Never.'
'Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have made there?'
'No.'
'Then you can give us no help at all?'
'I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know?' Her voice held a slender inflection of irony.
'Mrs. Renauld has told us all she can.'
'Ah!' said Madame Daubreuil. 'I wonder-'
'You wonder what madame?'
'Nothing.'
The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist.
'You persist in your statement that Monsieur Renauld confided nothing to you?'
'Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?'
'Because, madame,' said M. Hautet, with calculated brutality, 'a man tells to his mistress what he does not always tell to his wife.'
'Ah!' She sprang forward. Her eyes flashed fire. 'Monsieur, you insult me! And before my daughter! I can tell you nothing. Have the goodness to leave my house!'
The honours undoubtedly rested with the lady. We left the Villa Marguerite like a shamefaced pack of schoolboys.
The magistrate muttered angry ejaculations to himself.
Poirot seemed lost in thought. Suddenly he came out of his reverie with a start, and inquired of M. Hautet if there was a good hotel near at hand.
'There is a small place, the Hotel des Bains, on this side of the town. A few hundred yards down the road. It will be handy for your investigations. We shall see you in the morning, then, I presume?'
'Yes, I thank you, Monsieur Hautet.'
With mutual civilities we parted company, Poirot and I going towards Merlinville, and the others returning to the Villa Geneviève.
'The French police system is very marvellous,' said Poirot, looking after them. 'The information they possess about everyone's life, down to the most commonplace detail, is extraordinary. Though he has only been here a little over six weeks, they are perfectly well acquainted with Monsieur Renauld's tastes and pursuits, and at a moment's notice they can produce information as to Madame Daubreuil's banking account, and the sums that have lately been paid in! Undoubtedly the dossier is a great institution. But what is that?' He turned sharply.
A figure was running hatless down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.
'I beg your pardon,' she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. 'I-I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that Monsieur Renauld called in a detective before he died,
