“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.