In another minute we were face to face with the mysterious Madame Daubreuil. She was not nearly so tall as her daughter, and the rounded curves of her figure had all the grace of full maturity. Her hair, again unlike her daughter’s, was dark, and parted in the middle in the madonna style. Her eyes, half hidden by the drooping lids, were blue. There was a dimple in the round chin, and the half parted lips seemed always to hover on the verge of a mysterious smile. There was something almost exaggeratedly feminine about her, at once yielding and seductive. Though very well preserved, she was certainly no longer young, but her charm was of the quality which is independent of age. Standing there, in her black dress with the fresh white collar and cuffs, her hands clasped together, she looked subtly appealing and helpless. “You wished to see me, monsieur?” she asked. “Yes, madame.” M. Hautet cleared his throat. “I am investigating the death of M. Renauld. You have heard of it, no doubt?” She bowed her head without speaking. Her expression did not change. “We came to ask you whether you can—er—throw any light upon the circumstances surrounding it?” “I?” The surprise of her tone was excellent. “Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl. Madame Daubreuil turned to her. “Marthe, dear—” But the girl shook her head. “No, _maman___, I will not go. I am not a child. I am twenty-two. I shall not go.” Madame Daubreuil turned back to the examining magistrate. “You see, monsieur.” “I should prefer not to speak before Mademoiselle Daubreuil.” “As my daughter says, she is not a child.” For a moment the magistrate hesitated, baffled. “Very well, madame,” he said at last. “Have it your own way. We have reason to believe that you were in the habit of visiting the dead man at his Villa in the evenings. Is that so?” The colour rose in the lady’s pale cheeks, but she replied quietly: “I deny your right to ask me such a question!” “Madame, we are investigating a murder.” “Well, what of it? I had nothing to do with the murder.” “Madame, we do not say that for a moment. But you knew the dead man well. Did he ever confide in you as to any danger that threatened him?” “Never.” “Did he ever mention his life in Santiago, and any enemies he may have made there?” “No.” “Then you can give us no help at all?” “I fear not. I really do not see why you should come to me. Cannot his wife tell you what you want to know?” Her voice held a slender inflection of irony. “Madame Renauld has told us all she can.” “Ah!” said Madame Daubreuil. “I wonder—” “You wonder what, madame?” “Nothing.” The examining magistrate looked at her. He was aware that he was fighting a duel, and that he had no mean antagonist. “You persist in your statement that M. Renauld confided nothing in you?” “Why should you think it likely that he should confide in me?”