though seeking to divine his decision. But apparently she could read
nothing there, and with an imperious gesture she exclaimed:

"You will do what I ask now that I have exposed my secret--my shame to
you--and told everything? You will save Madame Holymead from being
persecuted by these police agents?"

"I must ask you a few questions first."

The contrast between the detective's quiet English tones and the
Frenchwoman's impetuous appeal was accentuated by the methodical way in
which Crewe slowly jotted down an entry in his open notebook. Her dark
eyes sparkled in an agony of impatience as she watched him.

"Ask them quick, monsieur, for I burn in the suspense."

"In the first place, then, have you any--"

"Hold, monsieur! I know what you would ask! You would say if I have any
proofs? Stupid that I am to forget things so important. I have brought
you the proofs."

She fumbled at the clasp of her hand-bag, as she spoke, and before she
had finished speaking she had torn it open and emptied its contents on
the table in front of Crewe--a dainty handkerchief and a revolver.

"See, monsieur!" she cried; "here is the handkerchief of which I told
you. It is that which the judge seized when I tried to stop the blood
flowing in his breast--look at the corner and you will see that a little
bit has been torn off by his almost dead hand. And the revolver--it is
that which I picked up on the floor near him. I have had it locked up
ever since."

Crewe examined both articles closely. The revolver was a small,
nickel-plated weapon with silver chasing, with the murdered man's
initials engraved in the handle. It had five chambers, and one of the
cartridges had been discharged. The other four chambers were still
loaded. Crewe carefully extracted the cartridges, and examined them
closely. One of them he held up to the light in order to inspect it
more minutely.

"Did you do this?" he asked: "Have you been trying to fire off the
revolver?"

"No, no, monsieur," she exclaimed quickly. "I would not fire it, I do not
understand it. I have been careful not to touch the little thing that
sets it going."

"The trigger," said Crewe. He again studied the cartridge that had
attracted his attention. It had missed fire, for on the cap was a dint
where the hammer had struck it. He placed the four cartridges on the
table and turning his attention to the handkerchief examined it minutely.
It was one of those filmy scraps of muslin and lace