“You remember whom you paid them to?” questioned the detective.

“I didn’t pay them to anyone,” replied Wilmott, “I gave them to my wife.”

“Ah!” said Coquenil, and presently he took his departure with polite assurances, whereupon the unsuspecting Addison tooted away complacently for Fontainebleau.

It was now about two o’clock, and the next three hours M. Paul spent with his sources of information studying the career of Pussy Wilmott from special points of view in preparation for a call upon the lady, which he proposed to make later in the afternoon.

He discovered two significant things:  first, that, whatever her actual conduct, Mrs. Wilmott had never openly compromised herself.  Love affairs she might have had, but no one could say when or where or with whom she had had them; and if, as seemed likely, she was the woman in this Ansonia case, then she had kept her relations with Kittredge in profoundest secrecy.

As offsetting this, however, Coquenil secured information that connected Mrs. Wilmott directly with Martinez.  It appeared that, among her other excitements, Pussy was passionately fond of gambling.  She was known to have won and lost large sums at Monte Carlo, and she was a regular follower of the fashionable races in Paris.  She had also been seen at the Olympia billiard academy, near the Grand Hotel, where Martinez and other experts played regularly before eager audiences, among whom betting on the games was the great attraction.  The detective found two bet markers who remembered distinctly that, on several occasions, a handsome woman, answering to the description of Mrs. Wilmott, had wagered five or ten louis on Martinez and had shown a decided admiration for his remarkable skill with the cue.

“He used to talk about this lady,” said one of the markers; “he called her his ‘belle Americaine,’ but I am sure he did not know her real name.”  The man smiled at Martinez’s inordinate vanity over his supposed fascination for women—­he was convinced that no member of the fair sex could resist his advances.

With so much in mind Coquenil started up the Champs Elysees about five o’clock.  He counted on finding Mrs. Wilmott home at tea time, and as he strolled along, turning the problem over in his mind, he found it conceivable that this eccentric lady, in a moment of ennui or for the novelty of the thing, might have consented to dine with Martinez in a private room.  It was certain no scruples would have deterred her if the adventure had seemed amusing, especially as Martinez had no idea who she was.  With her, excitement and a new sensation were the only rules of conduct, and her husband’s opinion was a matter of the smallest possible consequence.  Besides, he would probably never know it!

Mrs. Wilmott, very languid and stunning, amidst her luxurious surroundings, received M. Paul with the patronizing indifference that bored rich women extend to tradespeople.  But presently when he explained that he was a detective and began to question her about the Ansonia affair, she rose with a haughty gesture that was meant to banish him in confusion from her presence.  Coquenil, however, did not “banish” so easily.  He had dealt with haughty ladies before.