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“
Courage
!
”
cried
Poirot
,
clapping
him
on
the
back
.
“
Without
doubt
,
Madame
Renauld
will
be
able
to
tell
us
all
about
this
mysterious
person
named
Duveen
.
”
The
commissary
’
s
face
cleared
.
“
That
is
true
.
Let
us
proceed
.
”
As
we
turned
to
leave
the
room
,
Poirot
remarked
casually
:
“
It
was
here
that
M
.
Renauld
received
his
guest
last
night
,
eh
?
”
“
It
was
—
but
how
did
you
know
?
”
“
By
this
.
I
found
it
on
the
back
of
the
leather
chair
.
”
And
he
held
up
between
his
finger
and
thumb
a
long
black
hair
—
a
woman
’
s
hair
!
M
.
Bex
took
us
out
by
the
back
of
the
house
to
where
there
was
a
small
shed
leaning
against
the
house
.
He
produced
a
key
from
his
pocket
and
unlocked
it
.
“
The
body
is
here
.
We
moved
it
from
the
scene
of
the
crime
just
before
you
arrived
,
as
the
photographers
had
done
with
it
.
”
He
opened
the
door
and
we
passed
in
.
The
murdered
man
lay
on
the
ground
,
with
a
sheet
over
him
.
M
.
Bex
dexterously
whipped
off
the
covering
.
Renauld
was
a
man
of
medium
height
,
slender
and
lithe
in
figure
.
He
looked
about
fifty
years
of
age
,
and
his
dark
hair
was
plentifully
streaked
with
grey
.
He
was
clean
shaven
with
a
long
thin
nose
,
and
eyes
set
rather
close
together
,
and
his
skin
was
deeply
bronzed
,
as
that
of
a
man
who
had
spent
most
of
his
life
beneath
tropical
skies
.
His
lips
were
drawn
back
from
his
teeth
and
an
expression
of
absolute
amazement
and
terror
was
stamped
on
the
livid
features
.
“
One
can
see
by
his
face
that
he
was
stabbed
in
the
back
,
”
remarked
Poirot
.
