“And you can fix the time of this outrage?” “Yes, I distinctly remember hearing the clock on the mantelpiece strike two.” She nodded towards an eight-day travelling clock in a leather case which stood in the centre of the chimney-piece. Poirot rose from his seat, scrutinized the clock carefully, and nodded, satisfied. “And here too,” exclaimed M. Bex, “is a wrist watch, knocked off the dressing-table by the assassins, without doubt, and smashed to atoms. Little did they know it would testify against them.” Gently he picked away the fragments of broken glass. Suddenly his face changed to one of utter stupefaction. “_Mon Dieu!___” he ejaculated. “What is it?” “The hands of the watch point to seven o’clock!” “What?” cried the examining magistrate, astonished. But Poirot, deft as ever, took the broken trinket from the startled commissary, and held it to his ear. Then he smiled. “The glass is broken, yes, but the watch itself is still going.” The explanation of the mystery was greeted with a relieved smile. But the magistrate bethought him of another point. “But surely it is not seven o’clock now?” “No,” said Poirot gently, “it is a few minutes after five. Possibly the watch gains, is that so, madame?” Mrs. Renauld was frowning perplexedly. “It does gain,” she admitted, “but I’ve never known it to gain quite so much as that.” With a gesture of impatience, the magistrate left the matter of the watch and proceeded with his interrogatory. “Madame, the front door was found ajar. It seems almost certain that the murderers entered that way, yet it has not been forced at all. Can you suggest any explanation?” “Possibly my husband went out for a stroll the last thing, and forgot to latch it when he came in.” “Is that a likely thing to happen?” “Very. My husband was the most absent-minded of men.” There was a slight frown on her brow as she spoke, as though this trait in the dead man’s character had at times vexed her. “There is one inference I think we might draw,” remarked the commissary suddenly. “Since the men insisted on M. Renauld dressing himself, it looks as though the place they were taking him to, the place where ‘the secret’ was concealed, lay some distance away.” The magistrate nodded. “Yes, far, and yet not too far, since he spoke of being back by morning.” “What times does the last train leave the station of Merlinville?” asked Poirot. “Eleven-fifty one way, and 12:17 the other, but it is more probable that they had a motor waiting.” “Of course,” agreed Poirot, looking somewhat crestfallen. “Indeed, that might be one way of tracing them,” continued the magistrate, brightening. “A motor containing two foreigners is quite likely to have been noticed. That is an excellent point, M. Bex.” He smiled to himself, and then, becoming grave once more, he said to Mrs. Renauld: “There is another question. Do you know any one of the name of ‘Duveen’?”