a hue and cry; people rush to
and fro.

Then suddenly a shout; and a silence, a dreadful silence.

Something is carried slowly into the "Loup Noir." Something that was
found huddled up in the shadow of the wall that borders the courtyard.
Something with ugly purple patches on the white throat.

It is Jehane, and she is dead; strangled by a pair of hands that came
from behind.

The story of the picture is rapidly passed from mouth to mouth. People
look strangely at Lou Arnaud; they remember his loud, strained voice and
threatening gestures on the preceding night.

Finally he is arrested on the charge of murder.

* * * * *

I was the judge, gentlemen, on the occasion of the Arnaud trial.

The prisoner is questioned about the picture. He knows nothing; can tell
nothing of how it came there. His fellow-artists testify to its being
his work. From them also leaks out the tale of his brother Claude, of
the latter's infatuation and ruin. No need now to explain the quarrel in
the courtyard. The accused has good reason to hate the dead girl.

The Avocat for the defence does his best. The picture is produced in
court; it creates a sensation.

If only Lou Arnaud could complete it--could sketch in the owner of those
merciless hands. He is handed the charcoal; again and again he tries--in
vain.

The hands are not his own; but that is a small point in his favour. Why
should he have incriminated himself by drawing his own hands? But again,
why should he have drawn the picture at all?

There is nobody else on whom falls a shadow of suspicion. I sum up
impartially. The jury convict on circumstantial evidence, and I sentence
the prisoner to death.

A short time must elapse between the sentence and carrying it into
force. The Avocat for the defence obtains for the prisoner a slight
concession; he may have picture and charcoal in his cell. Perhaps he can
yet free himself from the web which has inmeshed him!

Arnaud tries to blot out thought by sketching in and erasing again
fanciful figures twisted into a peculiar position; he cannot adjust the
pose of the unknown murderer. So in despair he gives it up.

One morning, three days before the execution, the innkeeper comes to
visit him and finds him lying face downwards on the narrow pallet.
Despite his own grief, he is sorry for the young man; nor is he
convinced in his shrewd bourgeois mind of the latter's guilt.

"You _must_ draw in the seco