more, he said to Mrs. Renauld:
“There is another question. Do you know any one of the name of ‘Duveen’?”
“Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.”
“You have never heard your husband mention any one of that name?”
“Never.”
“Do you know any one whose Christian name is Bella?”
He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions.
“Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?”
Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly.
“No, who was that?”
“A lady.”
“Indeed?”
But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary.
He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger.
“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”
She gave a little cry.
“Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then—she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that—blood?”
“Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about it’s being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?”
“Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the
