“That point about the dagger is good, Poirot,” I urged as we went upstairs. “I couldn’t speak very plainly before Stonor.” “That was quite right of you. We might as well keep the knowledge to ourselves as long as we can. As to the dagger, your point hardly helps Jack Renauld. You remember that I was absent for an hour this morning, before we started from London?” “Yes?” “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 Duveen, 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. I 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 despair, not knowing what to do. They will not let me go to see him in prison even. I suffer horribly, I am nearly mad. Is it true what they say, that he does not deny the crime? But that is madness. It is impossible that he should have done it! Never for one minute will I believe it.” “Neither do I believe it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “But then why does he not speak? I do not understand.” “Perhaps because he is screening some one,” suggested Poirot, watching her. Marthe frowned. “Screening some one? Do you mean his mother? Ah, from the beginning I have suspected her. Who inherits all that vast fortune? She does. It is easy to wear widow’s weeds and play the hypocrite. And they say that when he was arrested she fell down—like _that___.” She made a dramatic gesture. “And without doubt, M. Stonor, the secretary, he helped her. They are thick as thieves, those two. It is true she is older than he—but what do men care—if a woman is rich!” There was a hint of bitterness in her tone. “Stonor was in England,” I put in.