“And this?”

“Prince Bismarck.”

“And this?”

“Queen Victoria.”

Here, suddenly, at the view of England’s peaceful sovereign, Groener seemed thrown into frightful agitation, not Groener as he sat on the chair, cold and self-contained, but Groener as revealed by the unsuspected dial.  Up and down in mad excitement leaped the red column with many little breaks and quiverings at the bottom of the beats and with tremendous up-shootings as if the frightened heart were trying to burst the tube with its spurting red jet.

The doctor put his mouth close to Coquenil’s ear and whispered:  “It’s the shock showing now, the shock that he held back after the body.”

Then he leaned over Groener’s shoulder and asked kindly:  “Do you feel your heart beating fast, my friend?”

“No,” murmured the prisoner, “my—­my heart is beating as usual.”

“You will certainly recognize the next picture,” pursued the judge.  “It shows a woman and a little girl!  There!  Do you know these faces, Groener?”

As he spoke there appeared the fake photograph that Coquenil had found in
Brussels, Alice at the age of twelve with the smooth young widow.

The prisoner shook his head.  “I don’t know them—­I never saw them.”

“Groener,” warned the magistrate, “there is no use keeping up this denial, you have betrayed yourself already.”

“No,” cried the prisoner with a supreme rally of his will power, “I have betrayed nothing—­nothing,” and, once more, while the doctor marveled, his pulse steadied and strengthened and grew normal.

“What a man!” muttered Coquenil.

“We know the facts,” went on Hauteville sternly, “we know why you killed Martinez and why you disguised yourself as a wood carver.”

The prisoner’s face lighted with a mocking smile.  “If you know all that, why waste time questioning me?”

“You’re a good actor, sir, but we shall strip off your mask and quiet your impudence.  Look at the girl in this false picture which you had cunningly made in Brussels.  Look at her!  Who is she?  There is the key to the mystery!  There is the reason for your killing Martinez! He knew the truth about this girl.”

Now the prisoner’s pulse was running wild, faster and faster, but with no more violent spurtings and leapings; the red column throbbed swiftly and faintly at the bottom of the tube as if the heart were weakening.

“A hundred and sixty to the minute,” whispered Duprat to the magistrate.  “It is dangerous to go on.”

Hauteville shrugged his shoulders.

“Martinez knew the truth,” he went on, “Martinez held your secret.  How had Martinez come upon it?  Who was Martinez?  A billiard player, a shallow fellow, vain of his conquests over silly women.  The last man in Paris, one would say, to interfere with your high purposes or penetrate the barriers of wealth and power that surrounded you.”