“You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?”
“I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of my holidays in that country, so I really know far less of South America than might be supposed. You see, the war broke out when I was seventeen.”
“You served in the English Flying Corps, did you not?”
“Yes, M. le juge.”
M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the city of Santiago, or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business interests.
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in.
“I should like to put a few questions on my own account, M. le juge.”
“By all means, M. Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
“Were you on good terms with your father, M. Renauld?”
“Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily.
“You assert that positively?”
“Yes.”
“No little disputes, eh?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Every one may have a difference of opinion now and then.”
“Quite so, quite so. But if any one were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?”
I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His
