“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.
“Is this so, monsieur.”