re the only rules of
conduct, and her husband's opinion was a matter of the smallest possible
consequence. Besides, he would probably never know it!

Mrs. Wilmott, very languid and stunning, amidst her luxurious surroundings,
received M. Paul with the patronizing indifference that bored rich women
extend to tradespeople. But presently when he explained that he was a
detective and began to question her about the Ansonia affair, she rose with
a haughty gesture that was meant to banish him in confusion from her
presence. Coquenil, however, did not "banish" so easily. He had dealt with
haughty ladies before.

"My dear madam, please sit down," he said quietly. "I must ask you to
explain how it happens that a number of five-pound notes, given to you by
your husband some days ago, were found on the body of this murdered man."

"How do I know?" she replied sharply. "I spent the notes in shops; I'm not
responsible for what became of them. Besides, I am dining out to-night,
and! I must dress. I really don't see any point to this conversation."

"No," he smiled, and the keenness of his glance: pierced her like a blade.
"The point is, my dear lady, that I want you to tell me what you were doing
with this billiard player when he was shot last Saturday night."

"It's false; I never knew the man," she cried. "It's an outrage for you
to--to intrude on a lady and--and insult her."

"You used to back his game at the Olympia," continued Coquenil coolly.

"What of it? I'm fond of billiards. Is that a crime?"

"You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the _vestiaire_ at the
Ansonia," pursued M. Paul.

"It isn't true!"

"Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the
bag."

She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered: "It--it was?"

Coquenil nodded. "Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag
and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces from his cab
through dark streets, but I picked up the pieces."

"You--you did?" she stammered.

"Yes. _Now what were you doing with Martinez in that room?_"

For some moments she did not answer but studied him with frightened,
puzzled eyes. Then suddenly her whole manner changed.

"Excuse me," she smiled, "I didn't get your name?"

"M. Coquenil," he said.

"Won't you sit over here? This chair is more comfortable. That's right.
Now, I will tell you _exactly_ what happened." And, settling herself near
him, Pussy Wilmott en