Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing.” M. Hautet exchanged a glance with the _greffier___, as the scratching of the latter’s pen recorded the answer. “Renauld,” continued the magistrate, “do you recognize this?” He took something from the table by his side, and held it out to the prisoner. I shuddered as I recognized the aeroplane dagger. “Pardon,” cried Maître Grosíer. “I demand to speak to my client before he answers that question.” But Jack Renauld had no consideration for the feelings of the wretched Grosíer. He waved him aside, and replied quietly: “Certainly I recognize it. It is a present given by me to my mother, as a souvenir of the War.” “Is there, as far as you know, any duplicate of that dagger in existence?” Again Maître Grosíer burst out, and again Jack overrode him. “Not that I know of. The setting was my own design.” Even the magistrate almost gasped at the boldness of the reply. It did, in very truth, seem as though Jack was rushing on his fate. I realized, of course, the vital necessity he was under of concealing, for Bella’s sake, the fact that there was a duplicate dagger in the case. So long as there was supposed to be only one weapon, no suspicion was likely to attach to the girl who had had the second paper-knife in her possession. He was valiantly shielding the woman he had once loved—but at what a cost to himself! I began to realize the magnitude of the task I had so lightly set Poirot. It would not be easy to secure the acquittal of Jack Renauld, by anything short of the truth. M. Hautet spoke again, with a peculiarly biting inflection: “Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing table on the night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will doubtless astonish you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that Madame Renauld was mistaken, and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had taken it with you to Paris. Doubtless you will contradict me—” I saw the lad’s handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he interrupted M. Hautet in a hoarse voice: “I shall not contradict you. It is possible.” It was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosíer rose to his feet, protesting: “My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish it put on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he says.” The magistrate quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to arise in his own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He leaned forward, and gazed at the prisoner searchingly. “Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given me I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?” Jack’s pale face flushed. He looked steadily back. “M. Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.” But the magistrate’s brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a short, unpleasant laugh.