passing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let cette dame out—”
The magistrate interrupted sharply: “Cette dame? What lady do you mean?”
“Why, the lady who came to see him.”
“Had a lady been to see him that evening?”
“But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.”
“Who was she? Did you know her?”
A rather cunning look spread over the woman’s face.
“How should I know who it was?” she grumbled. “I did not let her in last night.”
“Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit M. Renauld in the evenings.”
“The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.”
The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment.
“Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?”
“That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one, celle-là!” The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
“Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.”
“Voila,” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.”
“Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”
“How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was
milord anglais—trés riche—and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one—and trés chic, for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt of it, she has had her history! She is no longer young, but ma foi! I who speak to you have
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