The Trinity of Death
In Tranter's car, its owner and Monsieur Dupont started, at half-past one, on their return from the crooked house.
The storm had passed, and the air was fresh and cool. It was possibly the atmospheric clearance which accounted for the fact, that, however, fatigued he had been, or appeared to be, at the end of his conversation with the inspector, Monsieur Dupont was now particularly wide-awake and alert.
"Dieu!" he cried, "what a terrible crime! Almost to tear that woman to pieces—to crush her—to rend her! And what a woman! Ma foi, what a woman!"
There was a pause. Monsieur Dupont accepted and lit a cigar from Tranter's case.
"My friend," he said quietly, "I wish to be quite fair to you."
"Fair to me?" Tranter echoed, surprised.
"Something happened to-night which you doubtless believe to be unknown to every one except yourself."
Tranter turned to him quickly.
"I have not the habit," Monsieur Dupont continued, "of listening to private conversations between other people. It is only on very rare occasions that I have done so. I did so to-night."