dark eyes flashing. "It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police."
"The police—ah?"
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.
"Yes, yes. You comprehend me—I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself" She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
"Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?" murmured the Count politely.
"The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering. But they are wrong."
"Certainly they are wrong," agreed the Comte easily.
"You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do."
The Comte looked at her curiously.
"You know who killed Madame Kettering? Is that what you would say, Mademoiselle?"
Mirelle nodded vehemently.
"Yes."
"Who was it?" asked the Comte sharply.
"Her husband." She bent nearer to the Comte, speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement. "It was her husband who killed her."
The Comte leant back in his chair. His face was a mask.
"Let me ask you, Mademoiselle—how do you know this?"
"How do I know it?" Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. "He boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only the death of his
