The sergent de ville appeared at the doorway.
“Monsieur?”
“Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago?”
“She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.”
“Good. I only want one at a time, though.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld.
“Here is Madame.”
Giraud came forward with a curt bow.
“This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?”
And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her manner.
But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition.
“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?”
“No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.”
“Very well, madame. That is all, then.”
She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man, in a completely natural manner.
Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or
