“Eleven-fifty one way, and twelve-seventeen the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.”
“Of course," agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen.
“Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.”
He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld, “There is another question. Do you know anyone of the name of Duveen?”
“Duveen?" Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”
“You have never heard your husband mention anyone of that name?”
“Never.”
“Do you know anyone whose Christian name is Bella?”
He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions.
“Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?”
Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly, “No, who was that?”
“A lady.”
“Indeed?”
But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.
He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger.
“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”
She gave a little cry.
“Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then—she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that—blood?”
39
