“The tramp.”
“Have we any evidence to show that Madame Renauld loved the tramp?”
“No, but—”
“Very well then. Do not cling to theories where facts no longer support them. Ask yourself instead who Madame Renauld did love.”
I shook my head perplexed.
“Mais, oui, you know perfectly. Who did Madame Renauld love so dearly that when she saw his dead body, she fell down in a swoon?”
I stared dumbfounded.
“Her husband?” I gasped.
Poirot nodded.
“Her husband—or Georges Conneau, whichever you like to call him.”