When brought to the Ansonia and shown the two rooms of the tragedy, Kittredge was perfectly calm and denied any knowledge of the affair; he had never seen these holes through the wall, he had never been in the alleyway, he was absolutely innocent.  Maitre Pleindeaux nodded in approval.  At the morgue, however, Lloyd showed a certain emotion when a door was opened suddenly and he was pushed into a room where he saw Martinez sitting on a chair and looking at him, Martinez with his shattered eye replaced by a glass one, and his dead face painted to a horrid semblance of life.  This is one of the theatrical tricks of modern procedure, and the American was not prepared for it.

“My God!” he muttered, “he looks alive.”

Nothing was accomplished, however, by the questioning here, nothing was extorted from the prisoner; he had known Martinez, he had never liked him particularly, but he had never wished to do him harm, and he had certainly not killed him.  That was all Kittredge would say, however the questions were turned, and he declared repeatedly that he had had no quarrel with Martinez.  All of which was carefully noted down.

[Illustration:  “A door was opened suddenly and he was pushed into a room.”]

While his nerves were still tingling with the gruesomeness of all this, Lloyd was brought to Judge Hauteville’s room in the Palais de Justice.  He was told to sit down on a chair beside Maitre Pleindeaux.  A patient secretary sat at his desk, a formidable guard stood before the door with a saber sword in his belt.  Then the examination began.

So far Kittredge had heard the voice of justice only in mild and polite questioning, now he was to hear the ring of it in accusation, in rapid, massed accusation that was to make him feel the crushing power of the state and the hopelessness of any puny lying.

“Kittredge,” began the judge, “you have denied all knowledge of this crime.  Look at this pistol and tell me if you have ever seen it before.”  He offered the pistol to Lloyd’s manacled hands.  Maitre Pleindeaux took it with a frown of surprise.

“Excuse me, your honor,” he bowed, “I would like to speak to my client before he answers that question.”

But Kittredge waved him aside.  “What’s the use,” he said.  “That is my pistol; I know it; there’s no doubt about it.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Hauteville.  “It is also the pistol that killed Martinez.  It was thrown from private room Number Seven at the Ansonia.  A woman saw it thrown, and it was picked up in a neighboring courtyard.  One ball was missing, and that ball was found in the body.”

“There’s some mistake,” objected Pleindeaux with professional asperity, at the same time flashing a wrathful look at Lloyd that said plainly:  “You see what you have done!”

“Now,” continued the judge, “you say you have never been in the alleyway that we showed you at the Ansonia.  Look at these boots.  Do you recognize them?”