“You have been a long time in service at the Villa Geneviève?” “Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the Villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English milor. Never did I imagine—” The magistrate cut her short. “Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the front door, whose business was it to fasten it at night?” “Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.” “And last night?” “I fastened it as usual.” “You are sure of that?” “I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.” “What time would that be?” “The same time as usual, half-past ten, monsieur.” “What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?” “Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.” “Then, if any one unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been M. Renauld himself?” Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders. “What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let _cette dame___ out—” The magistrate interrupted sharply: “_Cette dame?___ What lady do you mean?” “Why, the lady who came to see him.” “Had a lady been to see him that evening?” “But yes, monsieur—and many other evenings as well.” “Who was she? Did you know her?” A rather cunning look spread over the woman’s face. “How should I know who it was?” she grumbled. “I did not let her in last night.” “Aha!” roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. “You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit M. Renauld in the evenings.” “The police—the police,” grumbled Françoise. “Never did I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.” The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment. “Madame Daubreuil—from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?” “That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one, _cellela!___” The old woman tossed her head scornfully. “Madame Daubreuil,” murmured the commissary. “Impossible.” “_Voilà,___” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.” “Not at all,” said the examining magistrate soothingly. “We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were—” he paused delicately. “Eh? It was that without doubt?”