face, but as we came out of the salon, he looked up sharply. At the same moment there was the sound of a footfall on the staircase. Mrs. Renauld was descending it. At the sight of her son, standing between the two myrmidons of the law, she stopped as though petrified.
“Jack,” she faltered. “Jack, what is this?”
“They have arrested me, mother.”
“What?”
She uttered a piercing cry, and before anyone could get to her swayed and fell heavily. We both ran to her and lifted her up. In a minute Poirot stood up again.
“She has cut her head badly, on the corner of the stairs. I fancy there is slight concussion also. If Giraud wants a statement from her, he will have to wait. She will probably be unconscious for at least a week.”
Denise and Francoise had run to their mistress, and leaving her in their charge Poirot left the house. He walked with his head bent down, frowning thoughtfully at the ground. For some time I did not speak, but at last I ventured to put a question to him.
“Do you believe then, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, that Jack Renauld may not be guilty?”
Poirot did not answer at once, but after a long wait he said gravely, “I do not know, Hastings. There is just a chance of it. Of course Giraud is all wrong—wrong from beginning to end. If Jack Renauld is guilty, it is in spite of Giraud’s arguments, not because of them. And the gravest indictment against him is known only to me.”
“What is that?” I asked, impressed.
“If you would use your gray cells, and see the whole case clearly as I do, you too would perceive it, my friend.”
This was what I called one of Poirot’s irritating answers. He went on, without waiting for me to speak.
“Let us walk this way to the sea. We will sit on that little mound there, overlooking the beach, and review the case. You shall know all that I know, but I would prefer that you should come at the truth by your own efforts—not by my leading you by the hand.”
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