“Duveen?” Mrs. Renauld repeated, thoughtfully. “No, for the moment, I cannot say I do.” “You have never heard your husband mention any one of that name?” “Never.” “Do you know any one whose Christian name is Bella?” He watched Mrs. Renauld narrowly as he spoke, seeking to surprise any signs of anger or consciousness, but she merely shook her head in quite a natural manner. He continued his questions. “Are you aware that your husband had a visitor last night?” Now he saw the red mount slightly in her cheeks, but she replied composedly. “No, who was that?” “A lady.” “Indeed?” But for the moment the magistrate was content to say no more. It seemed unlikely that Madame Daubreuil had any connection with the crime, and he was anxious not to upset Mrs. Renauld more than necessary. He made a sign to the commissary, and the latter replied with a nod. Then rising, he went across the room, and returned with the glass jar we had seen in the outhouse in his hand. From this, he took the dagger. “Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?” She gave a little cry. “Yes, that is my little dagger.” Then—she saw the stained point, and she drew back, her eyes widening with horror. “Is that—blood?” “Yes, madame. Your husband was killed with this weapon.” He removed it hastily from sight. “You are quite sure about it’s being the one that was on your dressing-table last night?” “Oh, yes. It was a present from my son. He was in the Air Force during the War. He gave his age as older than it was.” There was a touch of the proud mother in her voice. “This was made from a streamline aeroplane wire, and was given to me by my son as a souvenir of the War.” “I see, madame. That brings us to another matter. Your son, where is he now? It is necessary that he should be telegraphed to without delay.” “Jack? He is on his way to Buenos Ayres.” “What?” “Yes. My husband telegraphed to him yesterday. He had sent him on business to Paris, but yesterday he discovered that it would be necessary for him to proceed without delay to South America. There was a boat leaving Cherbourg for Buenos Ayres last night, and he wired him to catch it.” “Have you any knowledge of what the business in Buenos Ayres was?” “No, monsieur, I know nothing of its nature, but Buenos Ayres is not my son’s final destination. He was going overland from there to Santiago.” And, in unison, the magistrate and the commissary exclaimed: “Santiago! Again Santiago!” It was at this moment, when we were all stunned by the mention of that word, that Poirot approached Mrs. Renauld. He had been standing by the window like a man lost in a dream, and I doubt if he had fully taken in what had passed. He paused by the lady’s side with a bow. “_Pardon___, madame, but may I examine your wrists.”