“Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.” But Denise had her own theory. “Without doubt it was the Mafia he had on his track! Two masked men—who else could it be? A terrible society that!” “It is, of course, possible,” said the magistrate smoothly. “Now, my girl, was it you who admitted Madame Daubreuil to the house last night?” “Not _last___ night, monsieur, the night before.” “But Françoise has just told us that Madame Daubreuil was here last night?” “No, monsieur. A lady _did___ come to see M. Renauld last night, but it was not Madame Daubreuil.” Surprised, the magistrate insisted, but the girl held firm. She knew Madame Daubreuil perfectly by sight. This lady was dark also, but shorter, and much younger. Nothing could shake her statement. “Had you ever seen this lady before?” “Never, monsieur.” And then the girl added diffidently: “But I think she was English.” “English?” “Yes, monsieur. She asked for M. Renauld in quite good French, but the accent—one can always tell it, _n’est-ce pas?___ Besides when they came out of the study they were speaking in English.” “Did you hear what they said? Could you understand it, I mean?” “Me, I speak the English very well,” said Denise with pride. “The lady was speaking too fast for me to catch what she said, but I heard Monsieur’s last words as he opened the door for her.” She paused, and then repeated carefully and laboriously: “‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go nauw!’” “Yes, yes, but for God’s sake go now!” repeated the magistrate. He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she had not made a mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit. Françoise, however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame Daubreuil had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make herself interesting, _voilà tout!___ So she had cooked up this fine tale about a strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English too! Probably Monsieur had never spoken that sentence in English at all, and even if he had, it proved nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used that language when talking to M. and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the French very badly.” The magistrate did not insist. Instead he inquired about the chauffeur, and learned that only yesterday, M. Renauld had declared that he was not likely to use the car, and that Masters might just as well take a holiday. A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s eyes. “What is it?” I whispered. He shook his head impatiently, and asked a question: “Pardon, M. Bex, but without doubt M. Renauld could drive the car himself?” The commissary looked over at Françoise, and the old woman replied promptly: “No, Monsieur did not drive himself.” Poirot’s frown deepened.