I have set down the Beroldy case in full. Of course all the details did not present themselves to my memory as I have recounted them here. Nevertheless, I recalled the case fairly . It had attracted a great deal of interest at the time, and had been reported by the English papers, so that it did not need much effort of memory on my part to the salient details.  
Just for the moment, in my excitement, it seemed to clear up the whole matter. I admit that I am , and Poirot my custom of jumping to conclusions, but I think I had some excuse in this instance. The way in which this discovery Poirot’s point of view struck me at once.
 
“Poirot,” I said, “I congratulate you. I see everything now.”
 
“If that is indeed the truth, I congratulate you, mon ami. For as a rule you are not famous for seeing—eh, is it not so?”
 
I felt a little annoyed.
 
“Come now, don’t rub it in. You’ve been so confoundedly mysterious all along with your hints and your details that any one might fail to see what you were driving at.”
 
Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he looked up.
 
“And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you see?”
 
“Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil—Beroldy, who murdered Mr. Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.”
 
“Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly ? That in actual fact she was guilty of in her husband’s murder?”
 
I opened my eyes wide.
 
“But of course! Don’t you?”
 
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a chair, and then said thoughtfully.
 
“Yes, that is my opinion. But there is no ‘of course’ about it, my friend. speaking, Madame Beroldy is innocent.”
 
“Of that crime, perhaps. But not of this.”
 
Poirot sat down again, and regarded me, his thoughtful air more marked than ever.
 
“So it is definitely your opinion, Hastings, that Madame Daubreuil murdered M. Renauld?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Why?”
 
He shot the question at me with such suddenness that I was taken aback.
 
“Why?” I . “Why? Oh, because—” I came to a stop.
 
Poirot nodded his head at me.
 
“You see, you come to a stumbling-block at once. Why should Madame Daubreuil (I shall call her that for clearness sake) murder M. Renauld? We can find no shadow of a . She does not benefit by his death; considered as either mistress or she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder without a motive. The first crime was different, there we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband’s shoes.”
 
“Money is not the only motive for murder,” I objected.
 
“True,” agreed Poirot . “There are two others, the crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea which implies some form of mental on the part of the murderer. Homicidal , and religious belong to that class. We can rule it out here.”
 
“But what about the crime passionnel? Can you rule that out? If Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, if she found that his affection was cooling, or if her was aroused in any way, might she not have struck him down in a moment of anger?”
 
Poirot shook his head.
 
“If—I say if, you note—Madame Daubreuil was Renauld’s mistress, he had not had time to tire of her. And in any case you mistake her character. She is a woman who can simulate great emotional stress. She is a magnificent actress. But, looked at dispassionately, her life disproves her appearance. Throughout, if we examine it, she had been cold-blooded and calculating in her and actions. It was not to link her life with that of her young lover that she at her husband’s murder. The rich American, for whom she probably did not care a button, was her objective. If she committed a crime, she would always do so for gain. Here there was no gain. Besides, how do you account for the digging of the grave? That was a man’s work.”
 
“She might have had an accomplice,” I suggested, to my belief.
 
“I pass to another objection. You have spoken of the similarity between the two crimes. Wherein does that lie, my friend?”
 
I stared at him in .
 
“Why, Poirot, it was you who remarked on that! The story of the masked men, the ‘secret,’ the papers!”
 
Poirot smiled a little.
 
“Do not be so indignant, I beg of you. I nothing. The similarity of the two stories links the two cases together . But reflect now on something very curious. It is not Madame Daubreuil who tells us this tale—if it were all would indeed be plain sailing—it is Madame Renauld. Is she then in league with the other?”
 
“I can’t believe that,” I said slowly. “If it is so, she must be the most actress the world has ever known.”
 
“Ta-ta-ta,” said Poirot impatiently. “Again you have the sentiment, and not the ! If it is necessary for a criminal to be a consummate actress, then by all means assume her to be one. But is it necessary? I do not believe Madame Renauld to be in league with Madame Daubreuil for several reasons, some of which I have already to you. The others are self-evident. Therefore, that possibility eliminated, we draw very near to the truth which is, as always, very curious and interesting.”
 
“Poirot,” I cried, “what more do you know?”
 
“Mon ami, you must make your own . You have ‘access to the facts!’ Concentrate your grey cells. Reason—not like Giraud—but like Hercule Poirot.”
 
“But are you sure?”
 
“My friend, in many ways I have been an ............