I have confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot seemed deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming Françoise with reproaches for not having told him of Mrs. Renauld’s change of sleeping quarters.  
I caught him by the shoulder, to attract his attention, and make myself heard.
 
“But you must have known,” I expostulated. “You were taken up to see her this afternoon.”
 
Poirot to attend to me for a brief moment.
 
“She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle room—her boudoir,” he explained.
 
“But, monsieur,” cried Françoise, “Madame changed her room almost immediately after the crime! The associations—they were too !”
 
“Then why was I not told,” vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and working himself into a first-class passion. “I demand you—why—was—I—not—told? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and Denise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly caused the death of your mistress. But for this child—”
 
He broke off, and, across the room to where the girl was bending over ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervour—slightly to my .
 
I was aroused from my condition of mental fog by a sharp command from Poirot to fetch the doctor immediately on Mrs. Renauld’s behalf. After that, I might summon the police. And he added, to complete my dudgeon:
 
“It will hardly be worth your while to return here. I shall be too busy to attend to you, and of Mademoiselle here I make a garde-malad.”
 
I with what dignity I could command. Having done my errands, I returned to the hotel. I understood next to nothing of what had occurred. The events of the night seemed fantastic and impossible. Nobody would answer my questions. Nobody had seemed to hear them. Angrily, I flung myself into bed, and slept the sleep of the bewildered and .
 
I awoke to find the sun pouring in through the open windows and Poirot, neat and smiling, sitting beside the bed.
 
“Enfin you wake! But it is that you are a famous , Hastings! Do you know that it is nearly eleven o’clock?”
 
I and put a hand to my head.
 
“I must have been dreaming,” I said. “Do you know, I actually dreamt that we found Marthe Daubreuil’s body in Mrs. Renauld’s room, and that you declared her to have murdered Mr. Renauld?”
 
“You were not dreaming. All that is quite true.”
 
“But Bella Duveen killed Mr. Renauld?”
 
“Oh, no, Hastings, she did not! She said she did—yes—but that was to save the man she loved from the guillotine.”
 
“What?”
 
“Remember Renauld’s story. They both arrived on the scene at the same instant, and each took the other to be the perpetrator of the crime. The girl stares at him in horror, and then with a cry rushes away. But, when she hears that the crime has been brought home to him, she cannot bear it, and comes forward to accuse herself and save him from certain death.”
 
Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers together in familiar style.
 
“The case was not quite satisfactory to me,” he observed . “All along I was strongly under the impression that we were with a cold-blooded and premeditated crime committed by some one who had been (very cleverly) with using M. Renauld’s own plans for throwing the police off the track. The great criminal (as you may remember my remarking to you once) is always simple.”
 
I nodded.
 
“Now, to support this theory, the criminal must have been cognizant of Mr. Renauld’s plans. That leads us to Madame Renauld. But facts fail to support any theory of her . Is there any one else who might have known of them? Yes. From Marthe Daubreuil’s own lips we have the admission that she overheard M. Renauld’s quarrel with the tramp. If she could overhear that, there is no reason why she should not have heard everything else, especially if M. and Madame Renauld were imprudent enough to discuss their plans sitting on the bench. Remember how easily you overheard Marthe’s conversation with Jack Renauld from that spot.”
 
“But what possible could Marthe have for murdering Mr. Renauld?” I argued.
 
“What motive? Money! M. Renauld was a millionaire several times over, and at his death (or so she and Jack believed) half that vast fortune would pass to his son. Let us reconstruct the scene from the standpoint of Marthe Daubreuil.
 
“Marthe Daubreuil overhears what passes between Renauld and his wife. So far he has been a nice little source of income to the Daubreuil mother and daughter, but now he proposes to escape from their . At first, possibly, her idea is to prevent that escape. But a bolder idea takes its place, and one that fails to the daughter of Jeanne Beroldy! At present M. Renauld stands inexorably in the way of her marriage with Jack. If the latter defies his father, he will be a pauper—which is not at all to the mind of Mademoiselle Marthe. In fact, I doubt if she has ever cared a straw for Jack Renauld. She can simulate emotion, but in reality she is of the same cold, calculating type as her mother. I doubt, too, whether she was really very sure of her hold over the boy’s affections. She had dazzled and captivated him, but separated from her, as his father could so easily manage to separate him, she might lose him. But with M. Renauld dead, and Jack the heir to half his millions, the marriage can take place at once, and at a stroke she will wealth—not the beggarly thousands that have been extracted from him so far. And her clever brain takes in the of the thing. It is all so easy. M. Renauld is planning all the circumstances of his death—she has only to step in at the right moment and turn the into a grim reality. And here comes in the second point which led me infallibly to Marthe Daubreuil—the ! Jack Renauld had three souvenirs made. One he gave to his mother, one to Bella Duveen; was it not highly probable that he had given the third one to Marthe Daubreuil?
 
“So then, to sum up, there were four points of note against Marthe Daubreuil:
 
“(1) Marthe Daubreuil could have overheard M. Renauld’s plans.
 
“(2) Marthe Daubreuil had a direct interest in causing M. Renauld’s death.
 
“(3) Marthe Daubreuil was the daughter of the notorious Madame Beroldy who in my opinion was morally and virtually the murderess of her husband, although it may have been Georges Conneau’s hand which struck the actual blow.
 
“(4) Marthe Daubreuil was the only person, besides Jack Renauld, likely to have the third dagger in her possession.”
 
Poirot paused and cleared his throat.
 
“Of course, when I learned of the existence of the other girl, Bella Duveen, I realized that it was quite possible that she might have killed M. Renauld. The solution did not commend itself to me, because, as I out to you, Hastings, an expert, such as I am, likes to meet a foeman of his steel. Still one must take crimes as one finds them, not as one would like them to be. It did not seem very likely that Bella Duveen would be wandering about carrying a souvenir paper-knife in her hand, but of course she might have had some idea all the time of revenging herself on Jack Renauld. When she actually came forward and confessed to the murder, it seemed that all was over. And yet—I was not satisfied, mon ami. I was not satisfied. …
 
“I went over the case again minutely, and I came to the same conclusion as before. If it was not Bella Duveen, the only other person who could have committed the crime was Marthe Daubreuil. But I had not one single proof against her!
 
“And then you showed me that letter from Mademoiselle Dulcie, and I saw a chance of settling the matter once for all. The original dagger was stolen by Dulcie Duveen and thrown into the sea—since, as she thought, it belonged to her sister. But if, by any chance, it was not her sister’s, but the one given by Jack to Marthe Daubreuil—why then, Bella Duveen’s dagger would be still intact! I said no word to you, Hastings (it was no time for romance) but I sought out Mademoiselle Dulcie, told her as much as I deemed needful, and set her to search amongst the effects of her sister. Imagine my , when she sought me out (according to my instructions) as Miss Robinson with the precious souvenir in her possession!
 
“In the meantime I had taken steps to force Mademoiselle Marthe into the open. By my orders, Mrs. Renauld her son, and declared her intention of making a will on the morrow which should cut him off from ever enjoying even a portion of his father’s fortune. It was a desperate step, but a necessary one, and Madame Renauld was fully prepared to take the risk—though unfortunately she also never thought of mentioning her change of room. I suppose she took it for granted that I knew. All happened as I thought. Marthe Daubreuil made a last bold bid for the Renauld millions—and failed!”
 
“What absolutely bewilders me,” I said, “is how she ever got into the house without our seeing h............