“Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”
“Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s body.”
The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied.
“But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us here.”
The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back.
Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.
“M. le juge! M. le juge!”
“But yes. What is it?”
“The dagger! It is gone!”
“Comment—gone?”