What the next development of the conversation would have been, I cannot say, for at that moment the door was thrown violently open, and a tall young man strode into the room.  
Just for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had come to life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with grey, and that, in point of fact, it was a boy who now burst in among us with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs. Renauld with an impetuosity that took no of the presence of others.
 
“Mother!”
 
“!” With a cry she folded him in her arms. “My dearest! But what brings you here? You were to sail on the Anzora from Cherbourg two days ago?” Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of others, she turned with a certain dignity, “My son, messieurs.”
 
“Aha!” said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man’s bow. “So you did not sail on the Anzora?”
 
“No, monsieur. As I was about to explain, the Anzora was detained twenty-four hours through engine trouble. I should have sailed last night instead of the night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper, I saw in it an account of the—the awful tragedy that had befallen us—” His voice broke and the tears came into his eyes. “My poor father—my poor, poor, father.”
 
Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs. Renauld repeated: “So you did not sail?” And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she murmured as though to herself, “After all, it does not matter—now.”
 
“Sit down, M. Renauld, I beg of you,” said M. Hautet, indicating a chair. “My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us just the information we need to clear up this mystery.”
 
“I am at your disposal, M. le juge. Ask me any questions you please.”
 
“To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at your father’s request?”
 
“Quite so, M. le juge. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed without delay to Buenos Ayres, and from thence via the Andes to Valparaiso and on to Santiago.”
 
“Ah. And the object of this journey?”
 
“I have no idea, M. le juge.”
 
“What?”
 
“No. See, here is the telegram.”
 
The took it and read it aloud.
 
“ ‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg Anzora sailing tonight Buenos Ayres. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await you Buenos Ayres. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.’ And there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?”
 
Jack Renauld shook his head.
 
“That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in South America. But he had never any suggestion of sending me out.”
 
“You have, of course, been a good deal in South America, M. Renauld?”
 
“I was there as a child. But I was educated in England, and spent most of my holidays in that country, so I really know far less of South America than might be supposed. You see, the war broke out when I was seventeen.”
 
“You served in the English Flying , did you not?”
 
“Yes, M. le juge.”
 
M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have in the city of Santiago, or elsewhere in the South American continent, that he had noticed no change in his father’s manner of late, and that he had never heard him refer to a secret. He had regarded the mission to South America as connected with business interests.
 
As M. Hautet paused for a minute, the quiet voice of Giraud broke in.
 
“I should like to put a few questions on my own account, M. le juge.”
 
“By all means, M. Giraud, if you wish,” said the magistrate coldly.
 
Giraud edged his chair a little nearer to the table.
 
“Were you on good terms with your father, M. Renauld?”
 
“Certainly I was,” returned the lad .
 
“You assert that ?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“No little disputes, eh?”
 
Jack his shoulders. “Every one may have a difference of opinion now and then.”
 
“Quite so, quite so. But if any one were to assert that you had a violent quarrel with your father on the eve of your departure for Paris, that person, without doubt, would be lying?”
 
I could not but admire the of Giraud. His boast “I know everything” had been no idle one. Jack Renauld was clearly disconcerted by the question.
 
“We—we did have an argument,” he admitted.
 
“Ah, an argument! In the course of that argument did you use this phrase: ‘When you are dead, I can do as I please?’ ”
 
“I may have done,” muttered the other. “I don’t know.”
 
“In response to that, did your father say: ‘But I am not dead yet!’ To which you responded: ‘I wish you were!’ ”
 
The boy made no answer. His hands with the things on the table in front of him.
 
“I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.
 
With an angry , the boy swept a heavy paper-knife on to the floor.
 
“What does it matter? You might as well know. Yes, I did quarrel with my father. I dare say I said all those things—I was so angry I cannot even remember what I said! I was furious—I could almost have killed him at that moment—there, make the most of that!” He leant back in his chair, flushed and .
 
Giraud smiled, then, moving his chair back a little, said:
 
“That is all. You would, without doubt, prefer to continue the interrogatory, M. le juge.”
 
“Ah, yes, exactly,” said M. Hautet. “And what was the subject of your quarrel?”
 
“I decline to state.”
 
M. Hautet sat up in his chair.
 
“M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered. “What was the subject of the quarrel?”
 
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face and . But another voice , and calm, the voice of Hercule Poirot.
 
“I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.”
 
“You know?”
 
“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe Daubreuil.”
 
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
 
“Is this so, monsieur.”
 
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
 
“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry her. When I informed my father of the fact, he flew at once into a violent rage. Naturally I could not stand hearing the girl I loved insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”
 
M. Hautet looked across at Mrs. Renauld.
 
“You were aware of this—attachment, madame.”
 
“I feared it,” she replied simply.
 
“Mother,” cried the boy. “You too! Marthe is as good as she is beautiful. What can you have against her?”
 
“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”
 
Her rancour against the older woman showed plainly in her voice, and I could well understand that it must have been a bitter blow to her when her only son showed signs of falling in love with the daughter of her rival.
 
Mrs. Renauld continued, addressing the magistrate:
 
“I ought, perhaps, to have spoken to my husband on the subject, but I hoped that it was only a boy and girl which would blow over all the quicker if no notice was taken of it. I blame myself now for my silence, but my husband, as I told you, had seemed so anxious and care-worn, different altogether from his normal self, that I was chiefly concerned not to give him any additional worry.”
 
M. Hautet nodded.
 
“When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle Daubreuil,” he resumed, “he was surprised?”
 
“He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me to dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to such a marriage. , I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in slighting terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and daughter. I answered that I was marrying Marthe, and not her antecedents, but he shouted me down with a refusal to discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be given up. The and high-handedness of it all maddened me—especially since he himself always seemed to go out of his way to be to the Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked to the house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded me that I was dependent on him, and it must have been in answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after his death—”
 
Poirot interrupted with a quick question.
 
“You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”
 
“I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in trust for my mother to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.
 
“Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.
 
“After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened, and her reply me still further. She ............