“Then I heard sounds of drawers being pulled out. There is a safe on the wall of my husband’s dressing-room in which he always keeps a fairly large amount of ready money. Léonie tells me this has been rifled and the money taken, but evidently what they were looking for was not there, for presently I heard the tall man, with an oath, command my husband to dress himself. Soon after that, I think some noise in the house must have disturbed them, for they hustled my husband out into my room only half dressed.” “_Pardon___,” interrupted Poirot, “but is there then no other egress from the dressing-room?” “No, monsieur, there is only the communicating door into my room. They hurried my husband through, the short man in front, and the tall man behind him with the dagger still in his hand. Paul tried to break away to come to me. I saw his agonized eyes. He turned to his captors. ‘I must speak to her,’ he said. Then, coming to the side of the bed, ‘It is all right, Eloise,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid. I shall return before morning.’ But, although he tried to make his voice confident, I could see the terror in his eyes. Then they hustled him out of the door, the tall man saying: ‘One sound—and you are a dead man, remember.’ “After that,” continued Mrs. Renauld, “I must have fainted. The next thing I recollect is Léonie rubbing my wrists, and giving me brandy.” “Madame Renauld,” said the magistrate, “had you any idea what it was for which the assassins were searching?” “None whatever, monsieur.” “Had you any knowledge that your husband feared something?” “Yes. I had seen the change in him.” “How long ago was that?” Mrs. Renauld reflected. “Ten days perhaps.” “Not longer?” “Possibly. I only noticed it then.” “Did you question your husband at all as to the cause?” “Once. He put me off evasively. Nevertheless, I was convinced that he was suffering some terrible anxiety. However, since he evidently wished to conceal the fact from me, I tried to pretend that I had noticed nothing.” “Were you aware that he had called in the services of a detective?” “A detective?” exclaimed Mrs. Renauld, very much surprised. “Yes, this gentleman—M. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot bowed. “He arrived today in response to a summons from your husband.” And taking the letter written by M. Renauld from his pocket he handed it to the lady. She read it with apparently genuine astonishment. “I had no idea of this. Evidently he was fully cognizant of the danger.” “Now, madame, I will beg of you to be frank with me. Is there any incident in your husband’s past life in South America which might throw light on his murder?” Mrs. Renauld reflected deeply, but at last shook her head. “I can think of none. Certainly my husband had many enemies, people he had got the better of in some way or another, but I can think of no one distinctive case. I do not say there is no such incident—only that I am not aware of it.” The examining magistrate stroked his beard disconsolately.