The judge sat silent, playing with his lead pencil, then he folded a sheet of paper and proceeded to mark it with a series of rough geometrical patterns, afterwards going over them again, shading them carefully.  Finally he looked up and said quietly to the guard:  “Take off his handcuffs.”

The guard obeyed.

“Now take off his coat.”

This was done also, the prisoner offering no resistance.

“Now his shirt,” and the shirt was taken off.

“Now his boots and trousers.”

All this was done, and a few moments later the accused stood in his socks and underclothing.  And still he made no protest.

Here M. Paul whispered to Hauteville, who nodded in assent.

“Certainly.  Take off his garters and pull up his drawers.  I want his legs bare below the knees.”

“It’s an outrage!” cried Groener, for the first time showing feeling.

“Silence, sir!” glared the magistrate.

“You’ll be bare above the knees in the morning when your measurements are taken.”  Then to the guard:  “Do what I said.”

Again the guard obeyed, and Coquenil stood by in eager watchfulness as the prisoner’s lower legs were uncovered.

“Ah!” he cried in triumph, “I knew it, I was sure of it!  There!” he pointed to an egg-shaped wound on the right calf, two red semicircles plainly imprinted in the white flesh.  “It’s the first time I ever marked a man with my teeth and—­it’s a jolly good thing I did.”

“How about this, Groener?” questioned the judge.  “Do you admit having had a struggle with Paul Coquenil one night on the street?”

“No.”

“What made that mark on your leg?”

“I—­I was bitten by a dog.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t shoot the dog,” flashed the detective.

“What do you mean?” retorted the other.

Coquenil bent close, black wrath burning in his deep-set eyes, and spoke three words that came to him by lightning intuition, three simple words that, nevertheless, seemed to smite the prisoner with sudden fear:  “Oh, nothing, Raoul!”

So evident was the prisoner’s emotion that Hauteville turned for an explanation to the detective, who said something under his breath.

“Very strange!  Very important!” reflected the magistrate.  Then to the accused:  “In the morning we’ll have that wound studied by experts who will tell us whether it was made by a dog or a man.  Now I want you to put on the things that were in that bag.”

For the first time a sense of his humiliation seemed to possess the prisoner.  He clinched his hands fiercely and a wave of uncontrollable anger swept over him.

“No,” he cried hoarsely, “I won’t do it, I’ll never do it!”

Both the judge and Coquenil gave satisfied nods at this sign of a breakdown, but they rejoiced too soon, for by a marvelous effort of the will, the man recovered his self-mastery and calm.