“Well, I was employed in trying to find the firm Jack Renauld employed to convert his souvenirs. It was not very difficult. Eh bien, Hastings, they made to his order not two paper-knives, but three.”
“So that—?”
“So that, after giving one to his mother, and one to Bella Duvcen, there was a third which he doubtless retained for his own use. No, Hastings, I fear the dagger question will not help us to save him from the guillotine.”
“It won’t come to that,” I cried, stung.
Poirot shook his head uncertainly.
“You will save him,” I cried positively.
Poirot glanced at me dryly.
“Have you not rendered it impossible, mon ami?"
“Some other way,” I muttered.
“Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”
And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.
His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.
“There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”
The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great agitation:
Dear M. Poirot:
If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. 1 have no one to turn to, and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help us.
Marthe Daubreuil.
I handed it back, moved.
“You will go?”
“At once. We will command an auto.”
Half an hour later saw us at the Villa Marguerite. Marthe was at the door to meet us, and led Poirot in, clinging with both hands to one of his.
“Ah, you have come—it is good of you. I have been in
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