A figure was running, hatless, down the road after us. It was Marthe Daubreuil.
“I beg your pardon,” she cried breathlessly, as she reached us. “I—I should not do this, I know. You must not tell my mother. But is it true, what the people say, that M. Renauld called in a detective before he died, and—that you are he?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.” said Poirot gently. “It is quite true. But how did you learn it?”
“Françoise told our Amélie,” explained Marthe, with a blush.
Poirot made a grimace.
“The secrecy, it is impossible in an affair of this kind! Not that it matters. Well, mademoiselle, what is it you want to know?”
The girl hesitated. She seemed longing, yet fearing, to speak. At last, almost in a whisper, she asked, “Is—anyone suspected?”
Poirot eyed her keenly.
Then he replied evasively, “Suspicion is in the air at present, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, I know—but—anyone in particular?”
“Why do you want to know?”
The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words about her earlier in the day recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious eyes”!
“M. Renauld was always very kind to me,” she replied at last. “It is natural that I should be interested.”
“I see,” said Pairot. “Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.”
“Two?”
I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.
“Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chileans from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!”
The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.
“I must run back now. Maman will miss me.”
57
