“M. Renauld, it is not permitted to trifle with the law!” he thundered.
“What was the subject of the quarrel?”
Young Renauld remained silent, his boyish face sullen and overcast. But
another voice spoke, imperturbable and calm, the voice of Hercule
Poirot.
“I will inform you, if you like, M. le juge.”
“You know?”
“Certainly I know. The subject of the quarrel was Mademoiselle Marthe
Daubreuil.”
Renauld sprang round, startled. The magistrate leaned forward.
“Is this so, monsieur.”
Jack Renauld bowed his head.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I love Mademoiselle Daubreuil, and I wish to marry
her. When I informed my father of the fact, he flew at once into a
violent rage. Naturally I could not stand hearing the girl I loved
insulted, and I, too, lost my temper.”