“Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact I have a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological—heredity, _mon ami___, heredity! Like father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau.” His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself. “What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?” I asked. For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked: “What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?” “About five, I believe.” “That will do very well. We shall just have time.” “You are going to England?” “Yes, my friend.” “Why?” “To find a possible—witness.” “Who?” With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied: “Miss Bella Duveen.” “But how will you find her—what do you know about her?” “I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name _is___ Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly familiar to M. Stonor, though evidently not in connection with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with M. Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque. I think I shall find her all right—especially with the help of _this___.” And he brought out the photograph I had seen him take from Jack Renauld’s drawer. “With love from Bella,” was scrawled across the corner, but it was not that which held my eyes fascinated. The likeness was not first rate—but for all that it was unmistakable to me. I felt a cold sinking, as though some unutterable calamity had befallen me. It was the face of Cinderella. 22 I Find Love For a moment or two I sat as though frozen, the photograph still in my hand. Then, summoning all my courage to appear unmoved, I handed it back. At the same time, I stole a quick glance at Poirot. Had he noticed anything? But to my relief he did not seem to be observing me. Anything unusual in my manner had certainly escaped him. He rose briskly to his feet. “We have no time to lose. We must make our departure with all despatch. All is well—the sea it will be calm!” In the bustle of departure, I had no time for thinking, but once on board the boat, secure from Poirot’s observation (he, as usual, was “practising the method most excellent of Laverguier”) I pulled myself together, and attacked the facts dispassionately. How much did Poirot know? Was he aware that my acquaintance of the train and Bella Duveen were one and the same? Why had he gone to the Hôtel du Phare? On my behalf as I had believed? Or had I only fatuously thought so, and was this visit undertaken with a deeper and more sinister purpose?