We were up at the Villa betimes next morning. The man on guard at the gate did not bar our way this time. Instead, he respectfully saluted us, and we passed on to the house. The maid Léonie was just coming down the stairs, and seemed not averse to the prospect of a little conversation. Poirot inquired after the health of Mrs. Renauld. Léonie shook her head. “She is terribly upset, _la pauvre dame!___ She will eat nothing—but nothing! And she is as pale as a ghost. It is heartrending to see her. Ah, _par exemple___, it is not I who would grieve like that for a man who had deceived me with another woman!” Poirot nodded sympathetically. “What you say is very just, but what will you? The heart of a woman who loves will forgive many blows. Still, undoubtedly there must have been many scenes of recrimination between them in the last few months?” Again Léonie shook her head. “Never, monsieur. Never have I heard Madame utter a word of protest—of reproach, even! She had the temper and disposition of an angel—quite different to Monsieur.” “Monsieur Renauld had not the temper of an angel?” “Far from it. When he enraged himself, the whole house knew of it. The day that he quarrelled with M. Jack—_ma foi!___ they might have been heard in the market place, they shouted so loud!” “Indeed,” said Poirot. “And when did this quarrel take place?” “Oh! it was just before M. Jack went to Paris. Almost he missed his train. He came out of the library, and caught up his bag which he had left in the hall. The automobile, it was being repaired, and he had to run for the station. I was dusting the salon, and I saw him pass, and his face was white—white—with two burning spots of red. Ah, but he was angry!” Léonie was enjoying her narrative thoroughly. “And the dispute, what was it about?” “Ah, that I do not know,” confessed Léonie. “It is true that they shouted, but their voices were so loud and high, and they spoke so fast, that only one well acquainted with English could have comprehended. But Monsieur, he was like a thundercloud all day! Impossible to please him!” The sound of a door shutting upstairs cut short Léonie’s loquacity. “And Françoise who awaits me!” she exclaimed, awakening to a tardy remembrance of her duties. “That old one, she always scolds.” “One moment, mademoiselle. The examining magistrate, where is he?” “They have gone out to look at the automobile in the garage. Monsieur the commissary had some idea that it might have been used on the night of the murder.” “_Quelle idée___,” murmured Poirot, as the girl disappeared. “You will go out and join them?” “No, I shall await their return in the _salon___. It is cool there on this hot morning.” This placid way of taking things did not quite commend itself to me. “If you don’t mind—” I said, and hesitated. “Not in the least. You wish to investigate on your own account, eh?” “Well, I’d rather like to have a look at Giraud, if he’s anywhere about, and see what he’s up to.”