sist on coming with us tonight. I only pray that she may be in time. Ah!”
A cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night as the girl disappeared through the right-hand window; then in Cinderella’s clear tones came the words:
“No, you don’t! I’ve got you—and my wrists are just like steel.”
At the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by Françoise. Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the passage to where the other maids were grouped round the further door.
“It’s locked on the inside, monsieur.”
There was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the key turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale, beckoned us in.
“She is safe?” demanded Poirot.
“Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.”
Mrs. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping for breath.
“Nearly strangled me,” she murmured painfully. The girl picked up something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It was a rolled up ladder of silk rope, very fine but quite strong.
“A getaway,” said Poirot. “By the window, whilst we were battering at the door. Where is—the other?”
The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure wrapped in some dark material a fold of which hid the face.
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“I think so.”
“Head must have struck the marble fender.”
“But who is it?” I cried.
“The murderer of M. Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of Madame Renauld.”
Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!
