We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an eloquent sympathy. Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M. Hautet.
“You wished to ask me something, M. le juge.”
“With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth, or upbringing?”
She shook her head.
“My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came from the North West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the present and the future.”
“Was there any mystery in his past life?”
Mrs. Renauld smiled a little, and shook her head.
“Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.”
M. Hautet also smiled.
“True, we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one thing more—” he hesitated.
Stonor broke in impetuously:
“They’ve got an extraordinary idea into their heads Mrs. Renauld. They actually fancy that Mr. Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame Daubreuil who, it seems, lives next door.”
The scarlet colour flamed into Mrs. Renauld’s cheeks. She flung her head up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in astonishment, but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently: “We regret to cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to believe that Madame Daubreuil was your husband’s mistress?”
With a sob of anguish, Mrs. Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head, and said brokenly:
“She may have been.”
Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement on Stonor’s face. He was thoroughly taken aback.
11. Jack Renauld
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 mere boy who now burst in among us with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs. Renauld with an impetuosity that took no heed of the presence of others.
“Mother!”
“Jack!” 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 magistrate took it and read it aloud.
“ ‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark 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 mooted 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 Corps, did you not?”
“Yes, M. le juge.”
M. Hautet nodded his head, and proceeded with his inquiries along the, by now, well-known lines. In response, Jack Renauld declared definitely that he knew nothing of any enmity his father might have incurred 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 judge.”
“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 haughtily.
“You assert that positively?”
“Yes.”
“No little disputes, eh?”
Jack shrugged 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 ingenuity 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?’