Madame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:
“Not that I know of.”
“He has not had an interview with Mrs. Renauld?”
“How should I know that, monsieur?”
“True,” said Poirot. “I thought you might have seen him coming or going, that is all. Good night, madame.”
“Why—” I began.
“No ‘whys,’ Hastings. There will be time for that later.”
We rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted window and the profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.
“He is being guarded at all events,” he muttered.
Arrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some bushes to the left of the drive, where, whilst enjoying a good view ourselves, we were completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total darkness, everybody was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost immediately under the window of Mrs. Renauld’s bedroom, which window, I noticed, was open. It seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot’s eyes were fixed.