“Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the _Anzora?___ _Ah! voilà une femme___, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: ‘It does not matter—_now___.’ And no one noticed—no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part, and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son’s sake, no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband’s mistress—for a hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt with the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband’s past life. ‘Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.’ It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the _soupçon___ of sad mockery. At once M. Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally!” Poirot lost himself in contemplation. “One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead piping?” “You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two feet long was quite as good as a clue of two inches?” “Well, Giraud will sing small now,” I observed hastily, to lead the conversation away from my own shortcomings. “As I said before, will he? If he has arrived at the right person by the wrong method, he will not permit that to worry him.” “But surely—” I paused as I saw the new trend of things. “You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed M. Renauld? Some one who was near the Villa just before twelve o’clock that night, some one who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!” I started, I had not realized that point. “Of course,” I said. “The second dagger we found in the tramp was Mrs. Renauld’s. There _were___ two, then.”