"Why—er—yes."
"You never threatened Martinez with violence? Careful!"
"No, sir," declared Kittredge stubbornly.
Hauteville turned to his desk, and opening a leather portfolio, drew forth a paper and held it before Kittredge's eyes.
"Do you recognize this writing?"
"It's—it's my writing," murmured Lloyd, and his heart sank. How had the judge got this letter? And had he the others?
"You remember this letter? You remember what you wrote about Martinez?"
"Yes."
"Then there was a quarrel and you did threaten him?"
"I advise my client not to answer that question," interposed the lawyer, and the American was silent.
"As you please," said Hauteville, and he went on grimly: "Kittredge, you have so far refused to speak of the lady to whom you wrote this letter. Now you must speak of her. It is evident she is the person who called for you in the cab. Do you deny that?"
"I prefer not to answer."
"She was your mistress? Do you deny that?"
"Yes, I deny that," cried the American, not waiting for Pleindeaux's prompting.
"Ah!" shrugged the judge, and turning to his secretary: "Ask the lady to come in."
Then, in a moment of sickening misery, Kittredge saw the door open and a black figure enter, a black figure with an ashen-white face and frightened eyes. It was Pussy Wilmott, treading the hard way of the transgressor with her hair done most becomingly, and breathing a delicate violet fragrance.
"Take him into the outer room," directed the judge, "until I ring."
The guard opened the door and motioned to Maître Pleindeaux, who passed out first, followed by the prisoner and then by the guard himself. At the threshold Kittredge turned, and for a second his eyes met Pussy's eyes.
"Please sit down, madam," said the judge, and then for nearly half an hour he talked to her, questioned her, tortured her. He knew all that Coquenil knew about her life, and more; all about her two divorces and her various sentimental escapades. And he presented this knowledge with such startling effectiveness that before she had been five minutes in his presence poor Pussy felt that he could lay bare the innermost secrets of her being.
And, little by little, he dragged from her the story of her relations with Kittredge, going back to their first acquaintance. This was in New York about a year before, while she was there on business connected with some property deeded to her by her second husband, in regard to which there had been a lawsuit. Mr. Wilmott had not accompanied her on this trip, and, being much alone, as most of her friends were in the country, she had seen a good deal of M. Kittredge, who frequently spent the evenings with her at the Hotel Waldorf, where she was stopping. She had met him through mutual friends, for he was well connected socially in New York, and had soon grown fond of him. He had been perfectly delightful to her, and—well, things move rapidly in America, especially in hot weather, and before she realized it or could prevent it, he was seriously infatuated, and—the end of it was, when she returned to Paris he followed her on another steamer, an extremely foolish proceeding, as it involved his giving up a fine position and getting into trouble with his family.
"You say he had a fine position in New York?" questioned the judge. "In what?"
"In a large real-estate company."
"And he lived in a nice way? He had plenty of money?"
"For a young man, yes. He often took me to dinner and to the theater, and he was always sending me flowers."
"Did he ever give you presents?"
"Ye-es."
"What did he give you?"
"He gave me a gold bag that I happened to admire one day at Tiffany's."
"Was it solid gold?"
"Yes."
"And you accepted it?"
Pussy flushed under the judge's searching look. "I wouldn't have accepted it, but this happened just as I was sailing for France. He sent it to the steamer."
"Ah! Have you any idea how much M. Kittredge paid for that gold bag?"
"Yes, for I asked at Tiffany's here and they said the bag cost about four hundred dollars. When I saw M. Kittredge in Paris I told him he was a foolish boy to have spent all that money, but he was so sweet about it and said he was so glad to give me pleasure that I hadn't the heart to refuse it."
After a pause for dramatic effect the judge said impressively: "Madam, you may be surprised to hear that M. Kittredge returned to France on the same steamer that carried you."
"No, no," she declared, "I saw all the passengers, and he was not among them."
"He was not among the first-cabin passengers."
"You mean to say he went in the second cabin? I don't believe it."
"No," answered Hauteville with a grim smile, "he didn't go in the second cabin, he went in the steerage!"
"In the steerage!" she murmured aghast.
"And during the five or six months here in Paris, while he was dancing attendance on you, he was practically without resources."
"I know better," she insisted; "he took me out all the time and spent money freely."
The judge shook his head. "He spent on you what he got by pawning his jewelry, by gambling, and sometimes by not eating. We have the facts."
"Mon Dieu!" she shuddered. "And I never knew it! I never suspected it!"
"This is to make it quite clear that he loved you as very few women have been loved. Now I want to know why you quarreled with him six months ago?"
"I didn't quarrel with him," she answered faintly.
"You know what I mean. What caused the trouble between you?"
"I—I don't know."
"Madam, I am trying to be patient, I wish to spare your feelings in every possible way, but I must have the truth. Was the trouble caused by this other woman?"
"No, it came before he met her."
"Ah! Which one of you was responsible for it?"
"I don't know; really, I don't know," she insisted with a weary gesture.
"Then I must do what I can to make you know," he replied impatiently, and reaching forward, he pressed the electric bell.
"Bring back the prisoner," he ordered, as the guard appeared, and a moment later Kittredge was again in his place beside Maître Pleindeaux, with the woman a few feet distant.
"Now," began Hauteville, addressing both Lloyd and Mrs. Wilmott, "I come to an important point. I have here a packet of letters written by you, Kittredge, to this lady. You have already identified the handwriting as your own; and you, madam, will not deny that these letters were addressed to you. You admit that, do you not?"
"Yes," answered Pussy weakly.
The judge turned over the letters and selected one from which he read a passage full of passion. "Would any man write words like that to a woman unless he were her lover? Do you think he would?" He turned to Mrs. Wilmott, who sat silent, her eyes on the floor. "What do you say, Kittredge?"
Lloyd met the judge's eyes unflinchingly, but he did not answer.
Again Hauteville turned over the letters and selected another one.
"Listen to this, both of you." And he read a long passage from a letter overwhelmingly compromising. There were references to the woman's physical charm, to the beauty of her body, to the deliciousness of her caresses—it was a letter