“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently. “See you not? In his letter M. Renauld speaks of sending the car for me to Calais.” “Perhaps he meant a hired car,” I suggested. “Doubtless that is so. But why hire a car when you have one of your own. Why choose yesterday to send away the chauffeur on a holiday—suddenly, at a moment’s notice? Was it that for some reason he wanted him out of the way before we arrived?” 4 The Letter Signed “Bella” Françoise had left the room. The magistrate was drumming thoughtfully on the table. “M. Bex,” he said at length, “here we have directly conflicting testimony. Which are we to believe, Françoise or Denise?” “Denise,” said the commissary decidedly. “It was she who let the visitor in. Françoise is old and obstinate, and has evidently taken a dislike to Madame Daubreuil. Besides, our own knowledge tends to show that Renauld was entangled with another woman.” “_Tiens!___” cried M. Hautet. “We have forgotten to inform M. Poirot of that.” He searched amongst the papers on the table, and finally handed the one he was in search of to my friend. “This letter, M. Poirot, we found in the pocket of the dead man’s overcoat.” Poirot took it and unfolded it. It was somewhat worn and crumbled, and was written in English in a rather unformed hand: “_My dearest one:___” Why have you not written for so long? You do love me still, don’t you? Your letters lately have been so different, cold and strange, and now this long silence. It makes me afraid. If you were to stop loving me! But that’s impossible—what a silly kid I am—always imagining things! But if you _did___ stop loving me, I don’t know what I should do—kill myself perhaps! I couldn’t live without you. Sometimes I fancy another woman is coming between us. Let her look out, that’s all—and you too! I’d as soon kill you as let her have you! I mean it. “But there, I’m writing high-flown nonsense. You love me, and I love you—yes, love you, love you, love you! “Your own adoring “BELLA.” There was no address or date. Poirot handed it back with a grave face. “And the assumption is, M. le juge—?” The examining magistrate shrugged his shoulders. “Obviously M. Renauld was entangled with this Englishwoman—Bella. He comes over here, meets Madame Daubreuil, and starts an intrigue with her. He cools off to the other, and she instantly suspects something. This letter contains a distinct threat. M. Poirot, at first sight the case seemed simplicity itself. Jealousy! The fact that M. Renauld was stabbed in the back seemed to point distinctly to its being a woman’s crime.” Poirot nodded. “The stab in the back, yes—but not the grave! That was laborious work, hard work—no woman dug that grave, monsieur. That was a man’s doing.” The commissary exclaimed excitedly: “Yes, yes, you are right. We did not think of that.”