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 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 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?’”
“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 fiddled nervously with the things on
the table in front of him.
“I must request an answer, please, M. Renauld,” said Giraud sharply.
With an angry exclamation, 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 defiant.
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.”