“I suppose that’s true,” admitted Pussy dolefully.

“So we come back to the question of motive; his love for you or his hatred of the Spaniard might be a motive, but if we can prove that there was no such love and no such hatred, then we shall have rendered him a great service and enormously improved his chances of getting out of prison.  Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly.  But how can we prove it?”

The detective leaned closer and said impressively:  “If these things are true, it ought to be set forth in Kittredge’s letters to you.”

It was another chance shot, and Coquenil watched the effect anxiously.

“His letters to me!” she cried with a start of dismay, while M. Paul nodded complacently.  “He never wrote me letters—­that is, not many, and—­whatever there were, I—­I destroyed.”

Coquenil eyed her keenly and shook his head.  “A woman like you would never write to a man oftener than he wrote to her, and Kittredge had a thick bundle of your letters.  It was only Saturday night that he burned them, along with that photograph of you in the lace dress.”

It seemed to Pussy that a cold hand was closing over her heart; it was ghastly, it was positively uncanny the things this man had found out.  She looked at him in frightened appeal, and then, with a gesture of half surrender:  “For Heaven’s sake, how much more do you know about me?”

“I know that you have a bundle of Kittredge’s letters here, possibly in that desk.”  He pointed to a charming piece of old mahogany inlaid with ivory.  He had made this last deduction by following her eyes through these last tortured minutes.

“It isn’t true; I—­I tell you I destroyed the letters.”  And he knew she was lying.

M. Paul glanced at his watch and then said quietly:  “Would you mind asking if some one is waiting for me outside?”

So thoroughly was the agitated lady under the spell of Coquenil’s power that she now attached extraordinary importance to his slightest word or act.  It seemed to her, as she pressed the bell, that she was precipitating some nameless catastrophe.

“Is anyone waiting for this gentleman?” she asked, all in a tremble, when the servant appeared.

“Yes, madam, two men are waiting,” replied the valet.

She noticed, with a shiver, that he said two men, not two gentlemen.

“That’s all,” nodded Coquenil; “I’ll let you know when I want them.”  And when the valet had withdrawn:  “They have come from the prefecture in regard to these letters.”

Pussy rose and her face was deathly white.  “You mean they are policemen?  My house is full of policemen?”

“Be calm, my dear lady, there are only two in the house and two outside.”

“Oh, the shame of it, the scandal of it!” she wailed.

“A murder isn’t a pleasant thing at the best and—­as I said, they have come for the letters.”

“You told them to come?”