But the magistrate was speaking excitedly.
“Young M. Renauld must be communicated with at once by wireless. It is vital that we should know anything he can tell us about this trip to Santiago.” He hesitated. “I hoped he might have been near at hand, so that we could have saved you pain, madame.” He paused.
“You mean,” she said in a low voice, “the identification of my husband’s body?”
The magistrate bowed his head.
“I am a strong woman, monsieur. I can bear all that is required of me. I am ready—now.”
“Oh, tomorrow will be quite soon enough, I assure you.”
“I prefer to get it over,” she said in a low tone, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “If you will be so good as to give me your arm, doctor?”
The doctor hastened forward, a cloak was thrown over Mrs. Renauld’s shoulders, and a slow procession went down the stairs. M. Bex hurried on ahead to open the door of the shed. In a minute or two Mrs. Renauld appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but resolute. Behind her, M. Hautet was clacking commiserations and apologies like an animated hen.
She raised her hand to her face.
“A moment, messieurs, while I steel myself.”
She took her hand away and looked down at the dead man. Then the marvelous self-control which had upheld her so far deserted her.
“Paul!” she cried. “Husband! Oh, God!” And pitching forward, she fell unconscious to the ground.
Instantly Poirot was beside her. He raised the lid of her eye, felt her pulse. When he had satisfied himself that she had really fainted, he drew aside. He caught me by the arm.
“I am an imbecile, my friend! If ever there was love and grief in a woman’s voice, I heard it then. My little idea was all wrong. Eh bien! I must start again!”
41
