o not myself believe that the Countess was a prime mover,
or, indeed, more than an accessory. She was drawn into it, perhaps
involved, how or why we cannot know, but possibly by fortuitous
circumstances that put an unavoidable pressure upon her; a
consenting party, but under protest. That is my view of the lady."

M. Flocon shook his head. Prepossessions with him were tenacious,
and he had made up his mind about the Countess's guilt.

"When you again interrogate her, M. le Juge, by the light of your
present knowledge, I believe you will think otherwise. She will
confess,--you will make her, your skill is unrivalled,--and you
will then admit, M. le Juge, that I was right in my suspicions."

"Ah, well, produce her! We shall see," said the Judge, somewhat
mollified by M. Flocon's fulsome flattery.

"I will bring her to your chamber of instruction within an hour,
M. le Juge," said the detective, very confidently.

But he was doomed to disappointment in this as he was in other
respects.

CHAPTER XV

Let us go back a little in point of time, and follow the movements
of Sir Charles Collingham.

It was barely 11 A.M. when he left the Lyons Station with his
brother, the Reverend Silas, and the military attache, Colonel
Papillon. They paused for a moment outside the station while the
baggage was being got together.

"See, Silas," said the General, pointing to the clock, "you will
have plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Calais for London, but
you must hurry up and drive straight across Paris to the Nord. I
suppose he can go, Jack?"

"Certainly, as he has promised to return if called upon."

And Mr. Collingham promptly took advantage of the permission.

"But you, General, what are your plans?" went on the attache.

"I shall go to the club first, get a room, dress, and all that.
Then call at the Hotel Madagascar. There is a lady there,--one of
our party, in fact,--and I should like to ask after her. She may
be glad of my services."

"English? Is there anything we can do for her?"

"Yes, she is an Englishwoman, but the widow of an Italian--the
Contessa di Castagneto."

"Oh, but I know her!" said Papillon. "I remember her in Rome two
or three years ago. A deuced pretty woman, very much admired, but
she was in deep mourning then, and went out very little. I wished
she had gone out more. There were lots of men ready to fall at her
feet."

"You were in Rome, then, some time back? Did you ever come across
a ma