temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.”
“Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?”
“Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—ma foi! they might have been heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!”
“Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?”
“Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!”
Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly.
“And the dispute, what was it about?”
“Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!”
The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity.
“And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.”
“One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?”
“They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.”
“Quelle idée,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared.
“You will go out and join them?”
“No, I shall await their return in the salon. It is cool
