r"; Charles
Guillaumet was interested in racing. Also, he became interested in a
certain Mdlle. Jehane. Madame, quick to see, insisted on an instant
departure.

The evening of the day of their departure she missed her husband, and
found he had taken the car. Where should he have gone? Back to the inn,
of course, only half-an-hour's run from Paris. She hired another car and
followed him, driving it herself. It was not a pleasant journey. The
first car she discovered forsaken, about half-a-mile distant from the
inn. Her own car she left beside it, and trudged the remaining distance
on foot.

The rest was easy.

Finding no sign of Guillaumet in front of the house, she stole round to
the back. There she found a door in the wall of the courtyard--a door
that led into the lane. That door was slightly ajar. She slipped in and
crouched down in the shadow.

Yes, there they were, her husband and Jehane; the latter was laughing,
luring him on--and she was young; oh, so young!

The woman watched, fascinated.

Charles bade Jehane good-bye, promising to come again. He kissed her
tenderly, passed through the gate; his steps were heard muffled along
the lane.

Jehane blew him a kiss, and then fastened the little door.

A distant clock boomed out eleven strokes, and a pair of hands stole
round the girl's throat, burying themselves deep, deep in the white
flesh.

* * * * *

"And the husband, was he an accessory after the fact?" inquired the Boy.

"Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, said
nothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn't proved."

The Host moved uneasily in his chair.

"Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never been
cleared up?" he asked. "Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder from
his window, and fixed it on the canvas?"

The little French Judge shook his head.

"Did I not tell you that his window faced front?" he replied. "No, that
point has not yet been explained. It is beyond us!"

He made a sweeping gesture, knocking over his liqueur glass; it fell
with a crash on the parquet floor.

The Bore woke with a start.

"And did they marry?" he queried.

"Who should marry?"

"That artist-chap and the girl--what was her name?--Jehane."

"Monsieur," quoth the little French Judge very gently and ironically, "I
grieve to state that was impossible, Jehane being dead."

The Boy at the corner of the table stood up and