“We came to ask you whether you can—er—throw any light upon the circumstances surrounding it?”
“I?” The surprise of her tone was excellent.
“Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl.
Madame Daubreuil turned to her.
“Marthe, dear—”
But the girl shook her head.
“No, maman, I will not go. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I shall not go”
Madame Daubreuil turned back to the examining magistrate.
“You see, monsieur.”
“I should prefer not to speak before Mademoiselle Daubreuil.”
“As my daughter says, she is not a child.”
For a moment the magistrate hesitated, baffled.
“Very well, madame,” he said at last. “Have it your own way. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his villa in the evenings. Is that so?”
The color rose in the lady’s pale cheeks, but she replied quietly, "I deny your right to ask me such a question!”
“Madame, we are investigating a murder.”
“Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder.”
“Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?”
“Never.”
“Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have made there?”
“No.”
“Then you can give us no help at all?”
“I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know?” Her voice held a slender inflection of irony.
“Madame Renauld has told us all she can.”
“Ah!” said Madame Daubreuil. “I wonder—”
“You wonder what, madame?”
55
