“Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in me. And then, I wanted to see whether your—feelings would stand the test of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan, with you. I should not have left you long in your error.” I nodded. His tone was too affectionate for me to bear resentment. I looked down on the sheets of the letter. Suddenly I picked them up from the floor, and pushed them across to him. “Read that,” I said. “I’d like you to.” He read it through in silence, then he looked up at me. “What is it that worries you, Hastings?” This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty. “She doesn’t say—she doesn’t say—well, not whether she cares for me or not!” Poirot turned back the pages. “I think you are mistaken, Hastings.” “Where?” I cried, leaning forward eagerly. Poirot smiled. “She tells you that in every line of the letter, _mon ami___.” “But where am I to find her? There’s no address on the letter. There’s a French stamp, that’s all.” “Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as soon as I have five little minutes!” 27 Jack Renauld’s Story “Congratulations, M. Jack,” said Poirot, wringing the lad warmly by the hand. Young Renauld had come to us as soon as he was liberated—before starting for Merlinville to rejoin Marthe and his mother. Stonor accompanied him. His heartiness was in strong contrast to the lad’s wan looks. It was plain that the boy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Although delivered from the immediate peril that was hanging over him, the circumstances of his release were too painful to let him feel full relief. He smiled mournfully at Poirot, and said in a low voice: “I went through it to protect her, and now it’s all no use!” “You could hardly expect the girl to accept the price of your life,” remarked Stonor dryly. “She was bound to come forward when she saw you heading straight for the guillotine.” “_Eh ma foi!___ and you were heading for it too!” added Poirot, with a slight twinkle. “You would have had Maître Grosíer’s death from rage on your conscience if you had gone on.” “He was a well meaning ass, I suppose,” said Jack. “But he worried me horribly. You see, I couldn’t very well take him into my confidence. But, my God! what’s going to happen about Bella?” “If I were you,” said Poirot frankly, “I should not distress myself unduly. The French Courts are very lenient to youth and beauty, and the _crime passionnel___. A clever lawyer will make out a great case of extenuating circumstances. It will not be pleasant for you—”