“A getaway,” said Poirot. “By the window, while we were battering at the door. Where is—the other?”

The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the floor lay a figure wrapped in some dark material, a fold of which hid the face.

“Dead?

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Head must have struck the marble tender.”

“But who is it?” I cried.

“The murderer of M. Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of Madame Renauld.”

Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down and, lifting the fold of cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil!