There was a further revelation to come. Poirot had acquainted Mrs. Renauld with the fact that he knew her secret, and had represented to her that Jack should not be left in ignorance of his father’s past. “To hide the truth, never does it avail, madame! Be brave and tell him everything.” With a heavy heart Mrs. Renauld consented, and her son learned that the father he had loved had been in actual fact a fugitive from justice. A halting question was promptly answered by Poirot. “Reassure yourself, M. Jack. The world knows nothing. As far as I can see, there is no obligation for me to take the police into my confidence. Throughout the case I have acted, not for them, but for your father. Justice overtook him at last, but no one need ever know that he and Georges Conneau were one and the same.” There were, of course, various points in the case that remained puzzling to the police, but Poirot explained things in so plausible a fashion that all query about them was gradually stilled. Shortly after we got back to London, I noticed a magnificent model of a foxhound adorning Poirot’s mantelpiece. In answer to my inquiring glance, Poirot nodded. “_Mais, oui!___ I got my 500 francs! Is he not a splendid fellow? I call him Giraud!” A few days later Jack Renauld came to see us with a resolute expression on his face. “M. Poirot, I’ve come to say good-bye. I’m sailing for South America almost immediately. My father had large interests over the continent, and I mean to start a new life out there.” “You go alone, M. Jack?” “My mother comes with me—and I shall keep Stonor on as my secretary. He likes out of-the-way parts of the world.” “No one else goes with you?” Jack flushed. “You mean—?” “A girl who loves you very dearly—who has been willing to lay down her life for you.” “How could I ask her?” muttered the boy. “After all that has happened, could I go to her and—oh, what sort of a lame story could I tell?” “_Les femmes___—they have a wonderful genius for manufacturing crutches for stories like that.” “Yes, but—I’ve been such a damned fool!” “So have all of us, at one time and another,” observed Poirot philosophically. But Jack’s face had hardened. “There’s something else. I’m my father’s son. Would any one marry me, knowing that?” “You are your father’s son, you say. Hastings here will tell you that I believe in heredity—” “Well, then—” “Wait. I know a woman, a woman of courage and endurance, capable of great love, of supreme self-sacrifice—” The boy looked up. His eyes softened. “My mother!” “Yes. You are your mother’s son as well as your father’s. Go then to Mademoiselle Bella. Tell her everything. Keep nothing back—and see what she will say!” Jack looked irresolute.