“My dear madam, please sit down,” he said quietly.  “I must ask you to explain how it happens that a number of five-pound notes, given to you by your husband some days ago, were found on the body of this murdered man.”

“How do I know?” she replied sharply.  “I spent the notes in shops; I’m not responsible for what became of them.  Besides, I am dining out to-night, and!  I must dress.  I really don’t see any point to this conversation.”

“No,” he smiled, and the keenness of his glance:  pierced her like a blade.  “The point is, my dear lady, that I want you to tell me what you were doing with this billiard player when he was shot last Saturday night.”

“It’s false; I never knew the man,” she cried.  “It’s an outrage for you to—­to intrude on a lady and—­and insult her.”

“You used to back his game at the Olympia,” continued Coquenil coolly.

“What of it?  I’m fond of billiards.  Is that a crime?”

“You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the vestiaire at the Ansonia,” pursued M. Paul.

“It isn’t true!”

“Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the bag.”

She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered:  “It—­it was?”

Coquenil nodded.  “Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces from his cab through dark streets, but I picked up the pieces.”

“You—­you did?” she stammered.

“Yes. Now what were you doing with Martinez in that room?”

For some moments she did not answer but studied him with frightened, puzzled eyes.  Then suddenly her whole manner changed.

“Excuse me,” she smiled, “I didn’t get your name?”

“M.  Coquenil,” he said.

“Won’t you sit over here?  This chair is more comfortable.  That’s right.  Now, I will tell you exactly what happened.”  And, settling herself near him, Pussy Wilmott entered bravely upon the hardest half hour of her life.  After all, he was a man and she would do the best she could!

“You see, M. Coquelin—­I beg your pardon, M. Coquenil.  The names are alike, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said the other dryly.

“Well,” she went on quite charmingly, “I have done some foolish things in my life, but this is the most foolish.  I did give Martinez the five-pound notes.  You see, he was to play a match this week with a Russian and he offered to lay the money for me.  He said he could get good odds and he was sure to win.”

“But the dinner?  The private room?”

She shrugged her shoulders.  “I went there for a perfectly proper reason.  I needed some one to help me and I—­I couldn’t ask a man who knew me so——­”

“Then Martinez didn’t know you?”

“Of course not.  He was foolish enough to think himself in love with me and—­well, I found it convenient and—­amusing to—­utilize him.”