M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred in the city of Santiago, or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business interests. As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in. “I should like to put a few questions on my own account, M. le juge.” “By all means, M. Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly. Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table. “Were you on good terms with your father, M. Renauld?” “Certainly I was,” returned the lad haughtily. “You assert that positively?” “Yes.” “No little disputes, eh?” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Every one may have a difference of opinion now and then.” “Quite so, quite so. But if any one were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?” I could not but admire the ingenuity of Giraud. His boast “I know everything” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by the question. “We—we did have an argument,” he admitted. “Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument did you use this phrase: ‘When you are dead, I can do as I please?’” “I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t know.” “In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead yet!’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’” The boy made no answer. His hands fiddled nervously with the things on the table in front of him. “I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud sharply. With an angry exclamation, the boy swept a heavy paper-knife on to the floor. “What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and defiant. Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said: “That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, M. le juge.” “Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?” “I decline to state.” M. Hautet sat up in his chair. “M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?” Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot. “I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.” “You know?” “Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.” Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.