ome back to the question of motive; his love for you or his hatred
of the Spaniard might be a motive, but if we can prove that there was no
such love and no such hatred, then we shall have rendered him a great
service and enormously improved his chances of getting out of prison. Do
you follow me?"

"Perfectly. But how can we prove it?"

The detective leaned closer and said impressively: "If these things are
true, it ought to be set forth in Kittredge's letters to you."

It was another chance shot, and Coquenil watched the effect anxiously.

"His letters to me!" she cried with a start of dismay, while M. Paul nodded
complacently. "He never wrote me letters--that is, not many, and--whatever
there were, I--I destroyed."

Coquenil eyed her keenly and shook his head. "A woman like you would never
write to a man oftener than he wrote to her, and Kittredge had a thick
bundle of your letters. It was only Saturday night that he burned them,
along with that photograph of you in the lace dress."

It seemed to Pussy that a cold hand was closing over her heart; it was
ghastly, it was positively uncanny the things this man had found out. She
looked at him in frightened appeal, and then, with a gesture of half
surrender: "For Heaven's sake, how much more do you know about me?"

"I know that you have a bundle of Kittredge's letters here, possibly in
that desk." He pointed to a charming piece of old mahogany inlaid with
ivory. He had made this last deduction by following her eyes through these
last tortured minutes.

"It isn't true; I--I tell you I destroyed the letters." And he knew she was
lying.

M. Paul glanced at his watch and then said quietly: "Would you mind asking
if some one is waiting for me outside?"

So thoroughly was the agitated lady under the spell of Coquenil's power
that she now attached extraordinary importance to his slightest word or
act. It seemed to her, as she pressed the bell, that she was precipitating
some nameless catastrophe.

"Is anyone waiting for this gentleman?" she asked, all in a tremble, when
the servant appeared.

"Yes, madam, two men are waiting," replied the valet.

She noticed, with a shiver, that he said two men, not two gentlemen.

"That's all," nodded Coquenil; "I'll let you know when I want them." And
when the valet had withdrawn: "They have come from the prefecture in regard
to these letters."

Pussy rose and her face was deathly white. "You mean they are policemen? My
house