pected—but not a Chilian.”
“Who?” The word came faintly between her parted lips.
“M. Jack Renauld.”
“What?” It was a cry. “Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?”
“Giraud.”
“Giraud!” The girl’s face was ashy. “I am afraid of that man. He is cruel. He will—he will—” She broke off. There was courage gathering in her face, and determination. I realized in that moment that she was a fighter. Poirot, too, watched her intently.
“You know, of course, that he was here on the night of the murder?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied mechanically. “He told me.”
“It was unwise to have tried to conceal the fact,” ventured Poirot.
“Yes, yes,” she replied impatiently. “But we cannot waste time on regrets. We must find something to save him. He is innocent, of course, but that will not help him with a man like Giraud who has his reputation to think of. He must arrest some one, and that some one will be Jack.”
“The facts will tell against him,” said Poirot. “You realize that?”
She faced him squarely, and used the words I had heard her say in her mother’s drawing-room.
“I am not a child, monsieur. I can be brave and look facts in the face. He is innocent, and we must save him.”
She spoke with a kind of desperate energy, then was silent, frowning as she thought.
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot observing her keenly, “is there not something that you are keeping back that you could tell us?”
She nodded perplexedly.
“Yes, there is something, but I hardly know whether you will believe it—it seems so absurd.”
