“Well, it was the longest time before I could get anything out of him.  You see, it was quite a shock for Addison getting all this together, caught with the woman and then the murder on top of it; I had to cry and scold and get him whisky before he could pull himself together, but he finally did and made a clean breast of everything.”

“‘Pussy,’ he said, ’you’re all right, you’re a plucky little woman, and I’m a bad lot, but I’m not as bad as that.  I wasn’t in that room, I didn’t go to the Ansonia to-night, and I swear to God I don’t know any more about this murder than you do.’

“Then he explained what had happened in his blundering way, stopping every minute or so to tell me what a saint I am, and the Lord knows that’s a joke, and the gist of it was that he had started for the Ansonia with this woman, but she had changed her mind in the cab and they had gone to the Cafe de Paris instead and spent the evening there.  I was pretty sure he was telling the truth, for Addison isn’t clever and I usually know when he’s lying, although I don’t tell him so; but this was such an awful thing that I couldn’t take chances, so I said:  ’Addison, put your things right on, we’re going to the Cafe de Paris.’  ‘What for?’ said he.  ’To settle this business,’ said I. And off we went and got there at half past one; but the waiters hadn’t gone, and they all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth, he had really been there all the evening with this woman.  And that,” she concluded triumphantly, “is how I know my husband is innocent.”

[Illustration:  “’They all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth.’”]

“Hm!” reflected Coquenil.  “I wonder why Anita changed her mind?”

“I’m not responsible for Anita,” answered Pussy with a dignified whisk of her shoulders.

“No, of course not, of course not,” he murmured absently; then, after a moment’s thought, he said gravely:  “I never really doubted your husband’s innocence, now I’m sure of it; unfortunately, this does not lessen your responsibility; you were in the room, you witnessed the crime; in fact, you were the only witness.”

“But I know nothing about it, nothing,” she protested.

“You know a great deal about this young man who is in prison.”

“I know he is innocent.”

Coquenil took off his glasses and rubbed them with characteristic deliberation.  “I hope you can prove it.”

“Of course I can prove it,” she declared.  “M.  Kittredge was arrested because he called for my things, but I asked him to do that.  I was in terrible trouble and—­he was an old friend and—­and I knew I could depend on him.  He had no reason to kill Martinez.  It’s absurd!”

“I’m afraid it’s not so absurd as you think.  You say he was an old friend, he must have been a very particular kind of an old friend for you to ask a favor of him that you knew and he knew would bring him under suspicion.  You did know that, didn’t you?”