“No, the judge told them to come.  I hoped I might be able to spare you the annoyance of a search.”

“A search?” she cried, and realizing her helplessness, she sank down on a sofa and began to cry.  “It will disgrace me, it will break up my home, it will ruin my life!” She could hear the gossips of the American Colony rolling this choice morsel under their tongues, Pussy Wilmott’s house had been searched by the police for letters from her lover!

Then, suddenly, clutching at a last straw of hope, she yielded or seemed to yield.  “As long as a search must be made,” she said with a sort of half-defiant dignity, “I prefer to have you make it, and not these men.”

“I think that is wise,” bowed M. Paul.

“In which room will you begin?”

“In this room.”

“I give you my word there are no letters here, but, as you don’t believe me, why—­do what you like.”

“I would like to look in that desk,” said the detective.

“Very well—­look!”

Coquenil went to the desk and examined it carefully.  There were two drawers in a raised part at the back, there was a long, wide drawer in front, and over this a space like a drawer under a large inlaid cover, hinged at the back.  He searched everywhere here, but found no sign of the expected letters.

“I must have been mistaken,” he muttered, and he continued his search in other parts of the room, Pussy hovering about with changing expressions that reminded M. Paul of children’s faces when they play the game of “hot or cold.”

“Well,” he said, with an air of disappointment, “I find nothing here.  Suppose we try another room.”

“Certainly,” she agreed, and her face brightened in such evident relief that he turned to her suddenly and said almost regretfully, as a generous adversary might speak to one whom he hopelessly outclasses:  “Madam, I hear you are fond of gambling.  You should study the game of poker, which teaches us to hide our feelings.  Now then,” he walked back quickly to the desk, “I want you to open this secret drawer.”

He spoke with a sudden sternness that quite disconcerted poor Pussy.  She stood before him frozen with fear, unable to lie any more, unable even to speak.  A big tear of weakness and humiliation gathered and rolled down her cheek, and then, still silent, she took a hairpin from her hair, inserted one leg of it into a tiny hole quite lost in the ornamental work at the back of the desk, pushed against a hidden spring, and presto! a small secret drawer shot forward.  In this drawer lay a packet of letters tied with a ribbon.

“Are these his letters?” he asked.

In utter misery she nodded but did not speak.

“Thanks,” he said.  “May I take them?”

She put forward her hands helplessly.

“I’m sorry, but, as I said before, a murder isn’t a pleasant thing.”  And he took the packet from the drawer.