witness
if not as a prisoner. And who knows that her truth will not be
suspected? She will be asked whether she really had no knowledge
of the project to murder Bertha, and whether she did not encourage
it. Bertha was her rival; it is natural to suppose that she
hated her. If I were the judge I should not hesitate to include
Laurence in the indictment."

"With our aid she will prove victoriously that she was ignorant of
all, and has been outrageously deceived."

"May be; but will she be any the less dishonored and forever lost?
Must she not, in that case, appear in public, answer the judge's
questions, and narrate the story of her shame and misfortunes?
Must not she say where, when, and how she fell, and repeat the
villain's words to her? Can you imagine that of her own free will
she compelled herself to announce her suicide at the risk of
killing her parents with grief? No. Then she must explain what
menaces forced her to do this, which surely was not her own idea.
And worse than all, she will be compelled to confess her love for
Tremorel."

"No," answered the detective. "Let us not exaggerate anything.
You know as well as I do that justice is most considerate with the
innocent victims of affairs of this sort."

"Consideration? Eh! Could justice protect her, even if it would,
from the publicity in which trials are conducted? You might touch
the magistrates' hearts; but there are fifty journalists who, since
this crime, have been cutting their pens and getting their paper
ready. Do you think that, to please us, they would suppress the
scandalous proceedings which I am anxious to avoid, and which the
noble name of the murderer would make a great sensation? Does not
this case unite every feature which gives success to judicial
dramas? Oh, there's nothing wanting, neither unworthy passion,
nor poison, nor vengeance, nor murder. Laurence represents in it
the romantic and sentimental element; she--my darling girl--will
become a heroine of the assizes; it is she who will attract the
readers of the Police Gazette; the reporters will tell when she
blushes and when she weeps; they will rival each other in describing
her toilet and bearing. Then there will be the photographers
besieging her, and if she refuses to sit, portraits of some hussy
of the street will be sold as hers. She will yearn to hide herself
--but where? Can a few locks and bars shelter her from eager
curiosity? She will become famous. What shame and miser