After a pause for dramatic effect the judge said impressively:  “Madam, you may be surprised to hear that M. Kittredge returned to France on the same steamer that carried you.”

“No, no,” she declared, “I saw all the passengers, and he was not among them.”

“He was not among the first-cabin passengers.”

“You mean to say he went in the second cabin?  I don’t believe it.”

“No,” answered Hauteville with a grim smile, “he didn’t go in the second cabin, he went in the steerage!”

“In the steerage!” she murmured aghast.

“And during the five or six months here in Paris, while he was dancing attendance on you, he was practically without resources.”

“I know better,” she insisted; “he took me out all the time and spent money freely.”

The judge shook his head.  “He spent on you what he got by pawning his jewelry, by gambling, and sometimes by not eating.  We have the facts.”

“Mon Dieu!” she shuddered.  “And I never knew it!  I never suspected it!”

“This is to make it quite clear that he loved you as very few women have been loved.  Now I want to know why you quarreled with him six months ago?”

“I didn’t quarrel with him,” she answered faintly.

“You know what I mean.  What caused the trouble between you?”

“I—­I don’t know.”

“Madam, I am trying to be patient, I wish to spare your feelings in every possible way, but I must have the truth.  Was the trouble caused by this other woman?”

“No, it came before he met her.”

“Ah!  Which one of you was responsible for it?”

“I don’t know; really, I don’t know,” she insisted with a weary gesture.

“Then I must do what I can to make you know,” he replied impatiently, and reaching forward, he pressed the electric bell.

“Bring back the prisoner,” he ordered, as the guard appeared, and a moment later Kittredge was again in his place beside Maitre Pleindeaux, with the woman a few feet distant.

“Now,” began Hauteville, addressing both Lloyd and Mrs. Wilmott, “I come to an important point.  I have here a packet of letters written by you, Kittredge, to this lady.  You have already identified the handwriting as your own; and you, madam, will not deny that these letters were addressed to you.  You admit that, do you not?”

“Yes,” answered Pussy weakly.

The judge turned over the letters and selected one from which he read a passage full of passion.  “Would any man write words like that to a woman unless he were her lover?  Do you think he would?” He turned to Mrs. Wilmott, who sat silent, her eyes on the floor.  “What do you say, Kittredge?”

Lloyd met the judge’s eyes unflinchingly, but he did not answer.

Again Hauteville turned over the letters and selected another one.

“Listen to this, both of you.”  And he read a long passage from a letter overwhelmingly compromising.  There were references to the woman’s physical charm, to the beauty of her body, to the deliciousness of her caresses—­it was a letter that could only have been written by a man in a transport of passion.  Kittredge grew white as he listened, and Mrs. Wilmott burned with shame.