“When you informed your father of your intentions towards Mademoiselle
Daubreuil,” he resumed, “he was surprised?”
“He seemed completely taken aback. Then he ordered me peremptorily to
dismiss any such idea from my mind. He would never give his consent to
such a marriage. Nettled, I demanded what he had against Mademoiselle
Daubreuil. To that he could give no satisfactory reply, but spoke in
slighting terms of the mystery surrounding the lives of the mother and
daughter. I answered that I was marrying Marthe, and not her
antecedents, but he shouted me down with a peremptory refusal to
discuss the matter in any way. The whole thing must be given up. The
injustice and high-handedness of it all maddened me—especially since he
himself always seemed to go out of his way to be attentive to the
Daubreuils and was always suggesting that they should be asked to the
house. I lost my head, and we quarrelled in earnest. My father reminded
me that I was entirely dependent on him, and it must have been in
answer to that that I made the remark about doing as I pleased after
his death—”
Poirot interrupted with a quick question.
“You were aware, then, of the terms of your father’s will?”
“I knew that he had left half his fortune to me, the other half in
trust for my mother to come to me at her death,” replied the lad.
“Proceed with your story,” said the magistrate.
“After that we shouted at each other in sheer rage, until I suddenly
realized that I was in danger of missing my train to Paris. I had to
run for the station, still in a white heat of fury. However, once well
away, I calmed down. I wrote to Marthe, telling her what had happened,
and her reply soothed me still further. She pointed out to me that we
had only to be steadfast, and any opposition was bound to give way at
last. Our affection for each other must be tried and proved, and when
my parents realized that it was no light infatuation on my part they
would doubtless relent towards us. Of course, to her, I had not dwelt
on my father’s principal objection to the match. I soon saw that I
should do my cause no good by violence. My father wrote me several
letters to Paris, affectionate in tone, and which did not refer to our
disagreement or its cause, and I replied in the same strain.”
“You can produce those letters, eh?” said Giraud.
“I did not keep them.”
“No matter,” said the detective.
Renauld looked at him for a moment, but the magistrate was continuing
his questions.
“To pass to another matter, are you acquainted with the name of Duveen,
M. Renauld?”
“Duveen?” said Jack. “Duveen?” He leant forward, and slowly picked up
the paper-knife he had swept from the table. As he lifted his head, his
eyes met the watching ones of Giraud. “Duveen? No, I can’t say I am.”
“Will you read this letter, M. Renauld? And tell me if you have any
idea as to who the person was who addressed it to your father?”
Jack Renauld took the letter, and read it through, the colour mounting
in his face as he did so.
“Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones were
evident.
“Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”
“Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance towards
his mother. The magistrate understood.
“As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”
“I have no idea whatsoever.”