A few moments later the prisoner entered, walking with hands manacled, at the side of an imposing garde de Paris.  He still wore his smart clothes, and was as coldly self-possessed as at the moment of his arrest.  He seemed to regard both handcuffs and guard as petty details unworthy of his attention, and he eyed the judge and Coquenil with almost patronizing scrutiny.

“Sit there,” said Hauteville, pointing to a chair, and the newcomer obeyed indifferently.

The clerk settled himself at his desk and prepared to write.

“What is your name?” began the judge.

“I don’t care to give my name,” answered the other.

“Why not?”

“That’s my affair.”

“Is your name Adolf Groener?”

“No.”

“Are you a wood carver?”

“No.”

“Have you recently been disguised as a wood carver?”

“No.”

He spoke the three negatives with a listless, rather bored air.

“Groener, you are lying and I’ll prove it shortly.  Tell me, first, if you have money to employ a lawyer?”

“Possibly, but I wish no lawyer.”

“That is not the question.  You are under suspicion of having committed a crime and——­”

“What crime?” asked the prisoner sharply.

“Murder,” said the judge; then impressively, after a pause:  “We have reason to think that you shot the billiard player, Martinez.”

Both judge and detective watched the man closely as this name was spoken, but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.

“Martinez?” echoed the prisoner indifferently.  “I never heard of him.”

“Ah!  You’ll hear enough of him before you get through,” nodded Hauteville grimly.  “The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel during examination.  So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?”

“No,” answered the accused.

“Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense.  Ask Maitre Cure to come in,” he directed the clerk.

“It’s quite useless,” shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, “I will have nothing to do with Maitre Cure.”

“I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone.”

“Ta, ta, ta!  I’ll take what tone I please.  And I’ll answer your questions as I please or—­or not at all.”

At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maitre Cure, a florid-faced, brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera impresario.  He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an interested spectator.

Then the magistrate resumed sternly:  “You were arrested, sir, this afternoon in the company of a woman.  Do you know who she is?”

“I do.  She is a lady of my acquaintance.”

“A lady whom you met at Madam Cecile’s?”

“Why not?”