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 leant 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 colour mounting in his face as he did so.
“Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones were evident.
“Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”
“Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards his mother. The magistrate understood.
“As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”
“I have no idea whatsoever.”
M. Hautet sighed.
“A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to lead us anywhere.”
“It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.
“And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the beginning to be such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs. Renauld’s eye, and blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, turning over the papers on the table. “Let me see, where were we? Oh,
