ops, his favorite manner of attack.
"You say you had no quarrel with Martinez?"

A shade of anxiety crossed Lloyd's face, and he looked appealingly at his
counsel, who nodded with a consequential smack of the lips.

"Is that true?" repeated the judge.

"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 Maitre 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