“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous.”
“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced toward her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”
With a cry she started backward, white to the lips.
“It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Anyone who says I do lies! Ah! mon Dieu, what shall I do?”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.”
“Anything you wish, monsieur.”
“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”
Drawing nearer, a little of the color creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.
“I do not know him.”
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head.
“You are letting her go?” I asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.”
“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.”
Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body.
“Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly.
I considered the face carefully.
“No,” I said at last. "I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.”
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Same here.”
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He
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