“Oh, well then, I agree! You speak of my manner to you being insulting. _Eh bien___, once or twice, _your___ manner has annoyed _me___.” “I am enchanted to hear it,” said Poirot. “Good morning, M. Giraud. Come, Hastings.” I said no word as we walked along the street. My heart was heavy. Poirot had displayed his intentions only too plainly. I doubted more than ever my powers of saving Bella from the consequences of her act. This unlucky encounter with Giraud had roused Poirot and put him on his mettle. Suddenly I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turned to face Gabriel Stonor. We stopped and greeted him, and he proposed strolling with us back to our hotel. “And what are you doing here, M. Stonor?” inquired Poirot. “One must stand by one’s friends,” replied the other dryly. “Especially when they are unjustly accused.” “Then you do not believe that Jack Renauld committed the crime?” I asked eagerly. “Certainly I don’t. I know the lad. I admit that there have been one or two things in this business that have staggered me completely, but none the less, in spite of his fool way of taking it, I’ll never believe that Jack Renauld is a murderer.” My heart warmed to the secretary. His words seemed to lift a secret weight from my heart. “I have no doubt that many people feel as you do,” I exclaimed. “There is really absurdly little evidence against him. I should say that there was no doubt of his acquittal—no doubt whatever.” But Stonor hardly responded as I could have wished. “I’d give a lot to think as you do,” he said gravely. He turned to Poirot. “What’s your opinion, monsieur?” “I think that things look very black against him,” said Poirot quietly. “You believe him guilty?” said Stonor sharply. “No. But I think he will find it hard to prove his innocence.” “He’s behaving so damned queerly,” muttered Stonor. “Of course I realize that there’s a lot more in this affair than meets the eye. Giraud’s not wise to that because he’s an outsider, but the whole thing has been damned odd. As to that, least said soonest mended. If Mrs. Renauld wants to hush anything up, I’ll take my cue from her. It’s her show, and I’ve too much respect for her judgment to shove my oar in, but I can’t get behind this attitude of Jack’s. Any one would think he _wanted___ to be thought guilty.” “But it’s absurd,” I cried, bursting in. “For one thing, the dagger—” I paused, uncertain as to how much Poirot would wish me to reveal. I continued, choosing my words carefully, “We know that the dagger could not have been in Jack Renauld’s possession that evening. Mrs. Renauld knows that.” “True,” said Stonor. “When she recovers, she will doubtless say all this and more. Well, I must be leaving you.” “One moment.” Poirot’s hand arrested his departure. “Can you arrange for word to be sent to me at once should Madame Renauld recover consciousness?” “Certainly. That’s easily done.”