Poirot interrupted with a quick question.
“You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”
“I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for my mother to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.
“Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.
“After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened, and her reply soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we had only to be steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at last. Our affection for each other must be tried and proved, and when my parents realized that it was no light infatuation on my part they would doubtless relent toward us. Of course, to her, I had not dwelt on my father’s principal objection to the match. I soon saw that I should do my cause no good by violence. My father wrote me several letters to Paris, affectionate in tone, and which did not refer to our disagreement or its cause, and I replied in the same strain.”
“You can produce those letters, eh?” said Giraud.
“I did not keep them.”
“No matter,” said the detective.
Renauld looked at him for a moment, but the magistrate was continuing his questions.
“To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen, M. Renauld?”
“Duveen?” said Jack. “Duveen?” He leaned forward and slowly picked up the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. “Duveen? No, I can’t say I am.”
“Will you read this letter, M. Renauld, and tell me if you have any idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father.”
Jack Renauld took the letter and read it through, the color mounting in his face as he did so.
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