“Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.”
“But mademoiselle—”
“I’m coming too, I tell you.”
Poirot realized that it was futile to argue further. He gave in.
“Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability nothing will happen.”
The girl made no reply.
Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close, oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused.
“I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld. Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside. Madame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.”
We unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the side of the house, I drew Poirot’s attention to a window on the first floor. Thrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.
“Ah!” said Poirot. “I figure to myself that that is the room where we shall find Jack Renauld.”
Madame Daubreuil opened the door to us. She explained that Jack was much the same, but perhaps we would like to see for ourselves. She led us upstairs and into the bedroom. Marthe Daubreuil was embroidering by a table with a lamp on it. She put her finger to her lips as we entered.
Jack Renauld was sleeping an uneasy fitful sleep, his head turning from side to side, and his face still unduly flushed.
“Is the doctor coming again?” asked Poirot in a whisper.
“Not unless we send. He is sleeping—that is the great thing. Maman made him a tisane.”
She sat down again with her embroidery as we left the room. Madame Daubreuil accompanied us down the stairs. Since I had learned of her past history, I viewed this woman with increased interest. She stood there with
