although he tried to make his voice confident, I could see the terror in his eyes. Then they hustled him out of the door, the tall man saying: ‘One sound—and you are a dead man, remember.’
“After that,” continued Mrs. Renauld, “I must have fainted. The next thing I recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists, and giving me brandy.”
“Madame Renauld,” said the magistrate, “had you any idea what it was for which the assassins were searching?”
“None whatever, monsieur.”
“Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?”
“Yes. I had seen the change in him.”
“How long ago was that?”
Mrs. Renauld reflected.
“Ten days perhaps.”
“Not longer?”
“Possibly. I only noticed it then.”
“Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?”
“Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he was suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to conceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.”
“Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?”
“A detective?” exclaimed Mrs. Renauld, very much surprised.
“Yes, this gentleman—M. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot bowed. “He arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.” And taking the letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady.
She read it with apparently genuine astonishment.
“I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.”
“Now, madame, I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any incident in your husband’s past life in
