and
censured. She was known to be the daughter of a California millionaire who
had left her a fortune, of which the last shred was long ago dispersed.
Before marrying Wilmott she had divorced two husbands, had traveled all
over the world, had hunted tigers in India and canoed the breakers, native
style, in Hawaii; she had lived like a cowboy on the Texas plains, where,
it was said, she had worn men's clothes; she could swim and shoot and swear
and love; she was altogether selfish, altogether delightful, altogether
impossible; in short, she was a law unto herself, and her brilliant
personality so far overshadowed Addison that, although he had the money and
most of the right in their frequent quarrels, no one ever spoke of him
except as "Pussy Wilmott's husband."

In spite of her willfulness and caprices Mrs. Wilmott was full of generous
impulses and loyal to her friends. She was certainly not a snob, as witness
the fact that she had openly snubbed a certain grand duke, not for his
immoralities, which she declared afterwards were nobody's business, but
because of his insufferable stupidity. She rather liked a sinner, but she
couldn't stand a fool!

Such was the information M. Paul had been able to gather from swift and
special police sources when he presented himself at the Wilmott _hotel_,
about luncheon time on Monday. Addison was just starting with some friends
for a run down to Fontainebleau in his new Panhard, and he listened
impatiently to Coquenil's explanation that he had come in regard to some
English bank notes recently paid to Mr. Wilmott, and possibly clever
forgeries.

"Really!" exclaimed Addison.

Coquenil hoped that Mr. Wilmott would give him the notes in question in
exchange for genuine ones. This would help the investigation.

"Of course, my dear sir," said the American, "but I haven't the notes, they
were spent long ago."

Coquenil was sorry to hear this--he wondered if Mr. Wilmott could remember
where the notes were spent. After an intellectual effort Addison remembered
that he had changed one into French money at Henry's and had paid two or
three to a shirt maker on the Rue de la Paix, and the rest--he reflected
again, and then said positively: "Why, yes, I gave five or six of them, I
think there were six, I'm sure there were, because--" He stopped with a new
idea.

"You remember whom you paid them to?" questioned the detective.

"I didn't pay them to anyone," replied Wilmott, "I gave them to