“And it’s not your cousin,” declared the prisoner.  Then he faced the judge.  “Is it reasonable that I could have lived with this girl for years in so intimate a way and been wearing a disguise all the time?  It’s absurd.  She has good eyes, she would have detected this wig and false beard.  Did you ever suspect that your cousin wore a wig or a false beard?” he asked Alice.

“No,” she replied, “I never did.”

“Ah!  And the voice?  Did you ever hear your cousin speak with my voice?”

“No, never.”

“You see,” he triumphed to the magistrate.  “She can’t identify me as her cousin, for the excellent reason that I’m not her cousin.  You can’t change a man’s personality by making him wear another man’s clothes and false hair.  I tell you I’m not Groener.”

“Who are you then?” demanded the judge.

“I’m not obliged to say who I am, and you have no business to ask unless you can show that I have committed a crime, which you haven’t done yet.  Ask my fat friend in the corner if that isn’t the law.”

Maitre Cure nodded gravely in response to this appeal.  “The prisoner is correct,” he said.

Here Coquenil whispered to the judge.

“Certainly,” nodded the latter, and, turning to Alice, who sat wondering and trembling through this agitated scene, he said:  “Thank you, mademoiselle, you may go.”

The girl rose and, bowing gratefully and sweetly, left the room, followed by M. Paul.

“Groener, you say that we have not yet shown you guilty of any crime.  Be patient and we will overcome that objection.  Where were you about midnight on the night of the 4th of July?”

“I can’t say offhand,” answered the other.

“Try to remember.”

“Why should I?”

“You refuse?  Then I will stimulate your memory,” and again he touched the bell.

Coquenil entered, followed by the shrimp photographer, who was evidently much depressed.

“Do you recognize this man?” questioned Hauteville, studying the prisoner closely.

“No,” came the answer with a careless shrug.

The shrimp turned to the prisoner and, at the sight of him, started forward accusingly.

“That is the man,” he cried, “that is the man who choked me.”

“One moment,” said the magistrate.  “What is your name?”

“Alexander Godin,” piped the photographer.

“You live at the Hotel des Etrangers on the Rue Racine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are engaged to a young dressmaker who has a room near yours on the sixth floor?”

“I was engaged to her,” said Alexander sorrowfully, “but there’s a medical student on the same floor and——­”

“No matter.  You were suspicious of this young person.  And on the night of July 4th you attacked a man passing along the balcony.  Is that correct?”

The photographer put forth his thin hands, palms upward in mild protest.  “To say that I attacked him is—­is a manner of speaking.  The fact is he—­he—­” Alexander stroked his neck ruefully.