“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but women are very unexpected.” “Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of the window. Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside. “Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.” “I know, I know,” said Jack Renauld. “I must go up to her at once.” “But no, I tell you. It is better not.” “But Marthe and I—” “In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but you would be wise to be guided by me.” A voice on the stairs behind made us all start. “I thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.” We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed. “Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s orders!” But Mrs. Renauld came on. “Mother,” cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back. “I am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.” “Mother,” cried the lad, stupefied. For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself. “Your father’s blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your father’s bitterest enemy!” And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs. We were all dumbfounded—totally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance. “He is overdone,” murmured Poirot to Marthe. “Where can we take him?” “But home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!” We got the lad to the Villa, where he dropped limply on to a chair in a semi-dazed condition. Poirot felt his head and hands. “He has fever. The long strain begins to tell. And now this shock on top of it. Get him to bed, and Hastings and I will summon a doctor.” A doctor was soon procured. After examining the patient, he gave it as his opinion that it was simply a case of nerve strain. With perfect rest and quiet, the lad might be almost restored by the next day, but, if excited, there was a chance of brain fever. It would be advisable for some one to sit up all night with him.