“You—­you flatter me!  What am I, pray, a marquis or a duke?” chaffed the other, but the trembling dial belied his gayety, and even from the side Coquenil could see that the man’s face was as tense and pallid as the sheet before him.

“As I said, the key to this murder,” pursued the magistrate, “is the secret that Martinez held.  Without that nothing can be understood and no justice can be done.  The whole aim of this investigation has been to get the secret and we have got it! Groener, you have delivered yourself into our hands, you have written this secret for us in words of terror and we have read them, we know what Martinez knew when you took his life, we know the story of the medal that he wore on his breast.  Do you know the story?”

“I tell you I know nothing about this man or his medal,” flung back the prisoner.

“No?  Then you will be glad to hear the story.  It was a medal of solid gold, awarded Martinez by the city of Paris for conspicuous bravery in saving lives at the terrible Charity Bazaar fire.  You have heard of the Charity Bazaar fire, Groener?”

“Yes, I—­I have heard of it.”

“But perhaps you never heard the details or, if you did, you may have forgotten them. Have you forgotten the details of the Charity Bazaar fire?”

Charity Bazaar fire!  Three times, with increasing emphasis, the magistrate had spoken those sinister words, yet the dial gave no sign, the red column throbbed on steadily.

“I am not interested in the subject,” answered the accused.

“Ah, but you are, or you ought to be.  It was such a shocking affair.  Hundreds burned to death, think of that!  Cowardly men trampling women and children!  Our noblest families plunged into grief and bereavement!  Princesses burned to death!  Duchesses burned to death!  Beautiful women burned to death! Rich women burned to death! Think of it, Groener, and—­” he signaled the operator, “and look at it!”

As he spoke the awful tragedy began in one of those extraordinary moving pictures that the French make after a catastrophe, giving to the imitation even greater terrors than were in the genuine happening.  Here before them now leaped redder and fiercer flames than ever crackled through the real Charity Bazaar; here were women and children perishing in more savage torture than the actual victims endured; here were horrors piled on horrors, exaggerated horrors, manufactured horrors, until the spectacle became unendurable, until one all but heard the screams and breathed the sickening odor of burning human flesh.

Coquenil had seen this picture in one of the boulevard theaters and, straightway, after the precious nine-second clew of the word test, he had sent Papa Tignol off for it posthaste, during the supper intermission.  If the mere word “Charity Bazaar” had struck this man dumb with fear what would the thing itself do, the revolting, ghastly thing?