d red, and his eyes flashed.

"I know all that you did on that evening," continued the magistrate,
"because justice, as I have already told you, is ignorant of nothing
that it is important for it to know."

Then, looking straight into Albert's eyes, he continued slowly: "I have
seen Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlange."

On hearing that name, the prisoner's features, contracted by a firm
resolve not to give way, relaxed.

It seemed as though he experienced an immense sensation of delight, like
a man who escapes almost by a miracle from an imminent danger which he
had despaired of avoiding. However, he made no reply.

"Mademoiselle d'Arlange," continued the magistrate, "has told me where
you were on Tuesday evening."

Albert still hesitated.

"I am not setting a trap for you," added M. Daburon; "I give you my word
of honour. She has told me all, you understand?"

This time Albert decided to speak.

His explanations corresponded exactly with Claire's; not one detail
more. Henceforth, doubt was impossible.

Mademoiselle d'Arlange had not been imposed upon. Either Albert was
innocent, or she was his accomplice.

Could she knowingly be the accomplice of such an odious crime? No; she
could not even be suspected of it.

But who then was the assassin?

For, when a crime has been committed, justice demands a culprit.

"You see, sir," said the magistrate severely to Albert, "you did deceive
me. You risked your life, sir, and, what is also very serious, you
exposed me, you exposed justice, to commit a most deplorable mistake.
Why did you not tell me the truth at once?"

"Mademoiselle d'Arlange, sir," replied Albert, "in according me a
meeting, trusted in my honour."

"And you would have died sooner than mention that interview?"
interrupted M. Daburon with a touch of irony. "That is all very fine,
sir, and worthy of the days of chivalry!"

"I am not the hero that you suppose, sir," replied the prisoner simply.
"If I told you that I did not count on Claire, I should be telling a
falsehood. I was waiting for her. I knew that, on learning of my arrest,
she would brave everything to save me. But her friends might have hid it
from her; and that was what I feared. In that event, I do not think,
so far as one can answer for oneself, that I should have mentioned her
name."

There was no appearance of bravado. What Albert said, he thought and
felt. M. Daburon regretted his irony.

"Sir," he said kindly, "you must return t