“I really don’t know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I realized I’d better get away as fast as I could. It didn’t occur to me that they would suspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give evidence against her. I walked to St. Beauvais as I told you, and got a car from there back to Cherbourg.” A knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he delivered to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat. “Mrs. Renauld has regained consciousness,” he said. “Ah!” Poirot sprang to his feet. “Let us all go to Merlinville at once!” A hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jack’s instance, agreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen. Poirot, Jack Renauld and I set off in the Renauld car. The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of the Villa Marguerite, Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot. “How would it be if you went on first—to break the news to my mother that I am free—” “While you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?” finished Poirot, with a twinkle. “But yes, by all means, I was about to propose such an arrangement myself.” Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself out, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa Geneviève. “Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?” “Ah! yes, truly. Not so long ago, either. But what a lot of things have happened since then—especially for you, _mon ami!___” “Poirot, what have you done about finding Bel—I mean Dulcie?” “Calm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.” “You’re being a precious long time about it,” I grumbled. Poirot changed the subject. “Then the beginning, now the end,” he moralized, as we rang the bell. “And, considered as a case, the end is profoundly unsatisfactory.” “Yes, indeed,” I sighed. “You are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such as a detective delights in. The _mise en scène___ designed by Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the _dénouement___—ah, no! A man killed by accident in a girl’s fit of anger—ah, indeed, what order or method is there in that?” And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise. Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the _salon___. It was some time before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave. “_Vous voilà___, Hastings! _Sacré tonnerre___, but there are squalls ahead!” “What do you mean?” I cried.