“Not that I can remember. But, for all that, there _was___ a mystery about him. I’ve never heard him speak of his boyhood for instance, or of any incident prior to his arrival in South America. He was a French Canadian by birth, I believe, but I’ve never heard him speak of his life in Canada. He could shut up like a clam if he liked.” “So, as far as you know, he had no enemies, and you can give us no clue as to any secret to obtain possession of which he might have been murdered?” “That’s so.” “M. Stonor, have you ever heard the name of Duveen in connection with M. Renauld?” “Duveen. Duveen.” He tried the name over thoughtfully. “I don’t think I have. And yet it seems familiar.” “Do you know a lady, a friend of M. Renauld’s whose Christian name is Bella?” Again Mr. Stonor shook his head. “Bella Duveen? Is that the full name? It’s curious! I’m sure I know it. But for the moment I can’t remember in what connection.” The magistrate coughed. “You understand, M. Stonor—the case is like this. _There must be no reservations.___ You might, perhaps, through a feeling of consideration for Madame Renauld—for whom, I gather, you have a great esteem and affection, you might—_enfin!___” said M. Hautet getting rather tied up in his sentence, “there must absolutely be no reservations.” Stonor stared at him, a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes. “I don’t quite get you,” he said gently. “Where does Mrs. Renauld come in? I’ve an immense respect and affection for that lady; she’s a very wonderful and unusual type, but I don’t quite see how my reservations, or otherwise, could affect her?” “Not if this Bella Duveen should prove to have been something more than a friend to her husband?” “Ah!” said Stonor. “I get you now. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you’re wrong. The old man never so much as looked at a petticoat. He just adored his own wife. They were the most devoted couple I know.” M. Hautet shook his head gently. “M. Stonor, we hold absolute proof—a love letter written by this Bella to M. Renauld, accusing him of having tired of her. Moreover, we have further proof that, at the time of his death, he was carrying on an intrigue with a Frenchwoman, a Madame Daubreuil, who rents the adjoining Villa. And this is the man who, according to you, never looked at a petticoat!” The secretary’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on, M. le juge. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Paul Renauld. What you’ve just been saying is utterly impossible. There’s some other explanation.” The magistrate shrugged his shoulders. “What other explanation could there be?” “What leads you to think it was a love affair?” “Madame Daubreuil was in the habit of visiting him here in the evenings. Also, since M. Renauld came to the Villa Geneviève, Madame Daubreuil has paid large sums of money into the bank in notes. In all, the amount totals four thousand pounds of your English money.”