“M. Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella to M. Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining Villa. And this is the man who, according to you, never looked at a petticoat!”
The secretary’s eyes narrowed.
“Hold on, M. le juge. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is utterly impossible. There’s some other explanation.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“What leads you to think it was a love affair?”
“Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings. Also, since M. Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Stonor quietly. “I transmitted him those sums at his request. But it wasn’t an intrigue.”
“Eh! mon Dieu! What else could it be?”
“Blackmail,” said Stonor sharply, bringing down his hand with a slam on the table. “That’s what it was.”
“Ah! Voilà une idée!” cried the magistrate, shaken in spite of himself.
“Blackmail,” repeated Stonor. “The old man was being bled—and at a good rate too. Four thousand in a couple of months. Whew! I told you just now there was a mystery about Renauld. Evidently this Madame Daubreuil knew enough of it to put the screws on.”
“It is possible,” the commissary cried excitedly. “Decidedly, it is possible.”
“Possible?” roared Stonor. “It’s certain! Tell me, have you asked Mrs. Renauld about this love affair stunt of yours?”
