Chapter X
Gabriel Stonor
THE man who entered the room was a striking figure. Very tall, with a well-knit athletic frame, and a deeply bronzed face and neck, he dominated the assembly. Even Giraud seemed anemic beside him. When I knew him better I realized that Gabriel Stonor was quite an unusual personality. English by birth, he had knocked about all over the world. He had shot big game in Africa, ranched in California, and traded in the South Sea Islands. He had been secretary to a New York railway magnate, and had spent a year encamped in the desert with a friendly tribe of Arabs.
His unerring eye picked out M. Hautet.
“The examining magistrate in charge of the case? Pleased to meet you, M. le juge. This is a terrible business. How’s Mrs. Renauld? Is she bearing up fairly well? 1t must have been an awful shock to her.”
“Terrible, terrible,” said M. Hautet. “Permit me to introduce M. Bex—our commissary of police, M. Giraud of the Sûreté. This gentleman is M. Hercule Poirot. M. Renauld sent for him, but he arrived too late to do anything to avert the tragedy. A friend of M. Poirot’s, Captain Hastings.”
Stonor looked at Poirot with some interest.
“Sent for you, did he?”
“You did not know, then, that M. Renauld contemplated calling in a detective?” interposed M. Bex.
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