“Certainly, Monsieur Poirot.”
Despite her acquiescence, her eyes looked troubled and afraid.
“Mademoiselle, do you remember running after me on the road the day that I came to your house with the examining magistrate? You asked me if any one were suspected of the crime.”
“And you told me two Chilians.” Her voice sounded rather breathless, and her left hand stole to her breast.
“Will you ask me the same question again, mademoiselle?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. If you were to ask me that question again, I should give you a different answer. Some one is suspected—but not a Chilian.”
“Who?” The word came faintly between her parted lips.
“M. Jack Renauld.”
“What?” It was a cry. “Jack? Impossible. Who dares to suspect him?”