“I don’t suppose you will contradict the lady,” said Hauteville, turning to Kittredge.  “I take your silence as consent, and, after all, the lady’s confession is sufficient.  You were her lover.  And the evidence shows that you committed a crime based on passionate jealousy and hatred of a rival.  You knew that Martinez was to dine with your mistress in a private room; you arranged to be at the same restaurant, at the same hour, and by a cunning and intricate plan, you succeeded in killing the man you hated.  We have found the weapon of this murder, and it belongs to you; we have found a letter written by you full of violent threats against the murdered man; we have found footprints made by the assassin, and they absolutely fit your boots; in short, we have the fact of the murder, the motive for the murder, and the evidence that you committed the murder.  What have you to say for yourself?”

Kittredge thought a moment, and then said quietly:  “The fact of the murder you have, of course; the evidence against me you seem to have, although it is false evidence; but——­”

“How do you mean false evidence?  Do you deny threatening Martinez with violence?”

“I threatened to punch his head; that is very different from killing him.”

“And the pistol?  And the footprints?”

“I don’t know, I can’t explain it, but—­I know I am innocent.  You say I had a motive for this crime.  You’re mistaken, I had no motive.”

“Passion and jealousy have stood as motives for murder from the beginning of time.”

“There was no passion and no jealousy,” answered Lloyd steadily.

“Are you mocking me?” cried the judge.  “What is there in these letters,” he touched the packet before him, “but passion and jealousy?  Didn’t you give up your position in America for this woman?”

“Yes, but——­”

“Didn’t you follow her to Europe in the steerage because of your infatuation?  Didn’t you bear sufferings and privations to be near her?  Shall I go over the details of what you did, as I have them here, in order to refresh your memory?”

“No,” said Kittredge hoarsely, and his eye was beginning to flame, “my memory needs no refreshing; I know what I did, I know what I endured.  There was passion enough and jealousy enough, but that was a year ago.  If I had found her then dining with a man in a private room, I don’t know what I might have done.  Perhaps I should have killed both of them and myself, too, for I was mad then; but my madness left me.  You seem to know a great deal about passion, sir; did you ever hear that it can change into loathing?”

“You mean—­” began the judge with a puzzled look, while Mrs. Wilmott recoiled in dismay.

“I mean that I am fighting for my life, and now that she has admitted this thing,” he eyed the woman scornfully, “I am free to tell the truth, all of it.”

“That is what we want,” said Hauteville.