Hauteville measured the prisoner for a moment in grim silence, then, throwing into his voice and manner all the impressiveness of his office and his stern personality he said:  “And why did you start from your seat and tremble nervously and wait nine and four fifths seconds before you were able to answer ‘salad’ to the word ’potato’?”

Groener stared stolidly at the judge and did not speak.

“Shall I tell you why?  It was because your heart was pounding, your head throbbing, your whole mental machinery was clogged and numbed by the shock of the word before, by the terror that went through you when you answered ‘worsted work’ to ’Charity Bazaar.’”

The prisoner bounded to his feet with a hoarse cry:  “My God, you have no right to torture me like this!” His face was deathly white, his eyes were staring.

“We’ve got him going now,” muttered Coquenil.

“Sit down!” ordered the judge.  “You can stop this examination very easily by telling the truth.”

The prisoner dropped back weakly on his chair and sat with eyes closed and head fallen forward.  He did not speak.

“Do you hear, Groener?” continued Hauteville.  “You can save yourself a great deal of trouble by confessing your part in this crime.  Look here!  Answer me!”

With an effort the man straightened up and met the judge’s eyes.  His face was drawn as with physical pain.

“I—­I feel faint,” he murmured.  “Could you—­give me a little brandy?”

“Here,” said Coquenil, producing a flask.  “Let him have a drop of this.”

The guard put the flask to the prisoner’s lips and Groener took several swallows.

“Thanks!” he whispered.

“I told you it wouldn’t be amusing,” said the magistrate grimly.  “Come now, it’s one thing or the other, either you confess or we go ahead.”

“I have nothing to confess, I know nothing about this crime—­nothing.”

“Then what was the matter with you just now?”

With a flash of his former insolence the prisoner answered:  “Look at that clock and you’ll see what was the matter.  It’s after ten, you’ve had me here for five hours and—­I’ve had no food since noon.  It doesn’t make a man a murderer because he’s hungry, does it?”

The plea seemed reasonable and the prisoner’s distress genuine, but, somehow, Coquenil was skeptical; he himself had eaten nothing since midday, he had been too busy and absorbed, and he was none the worse for it; besides, he remembered what a hearty luncheon the wood carver had eaten and he could not quite believe in this sudden exhaustion.  Several times, furthermore, he fancied he had caught Groener’s eye fixed anxiously on the clock.  Was it possible the fellow was trying to gain time?  But why?  How could that serve him?  What could he be waiting for?

As the detective puzzled over this there shot through his mind an idea for a move against Groener’s resistance, so simple, yet promising such dramatic effectiveness that he turned quickly to Hauteville and said:  “I think it might be as well to let him have some supper.”