“M. Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with M. Renauld?”
“Over a year?”
“Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?”
“I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to Mr. Renauld, he had been for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.”
“In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?”
“Absolutely.”
Poirot seemed somewhat crest-fallen.
Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.
“My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her upstairs.”
Marchaud saluted and disappeared.
We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M. Hautet.
“You wished to ask me something, M. le juge.”
“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth, or upbringing?”
She shook her head.
“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came from the North West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the present and the future.”
“Was there any mystery in his past life?”
Mrs. Renauld smiled a little, and shook her head.
“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.”
