Kittredge examined the boots carefully and then said frankly to the judge:  “I thank they are mine.”

“You wore them to the Ansonia on the night of the crime?”

“I think so.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“Not absolutely sure, because I have three pairs exactly alike.  I always keep three pairs going at the same time; they last longer that way.”

“I will tell you, then, that this is the pair you had on when you were arrested.”

“Then it’s the pair I wore to the Ansonia.”

“You didn’t change your boots after leaving the Ansonia?”

“No.”

“Kittredge,” said the judge severely, “the man who shot Martinez escaped by the alleyway and left his footprints on the soft earth.  We have made plaster casts of them.  There they are; our experts have examined them and find that they correspond in every particular with the soles of these boots.  What do you say to this?”

Lloyd listened in a daze.  “I don’t see how it’s possible,” he answered.

“You still deny having been in the alleyway?”

“Absolutely.”

“I pass to another point,” resumed Hauteville, who was now striding back and forth with quick turns and sudden stops, his favorite manner of attack.  “You say you had no quarrel with Martinez?”

A shade of anxiety crossed Lloyd’s face, and he looked appealingly at his counsel, who nodded with a consequential smack of the lips.

“Is that true?” repeated the judge.

“Why—­er—­yes.”

“You never threatened Martinez with violence?  Careful!”

“No, sir,” declared Kittredge stubbornly.

Hauteville turned to his desk, and opening a leather portfolio, drew forth a paper and held it before Kittredge’s eyes.

“Do you recognize this writing?”

“It’s—­it’s my writing,” murmured Lloyd, and his heart sank.  How had the judge got this letter?  And had he the others?

“You remember this letter?  You remember what you wrote about Martinez?”

“Yes.”

“Then there was a quarrel and you did threaten him?”

“I advise my client not to answer that question,” interposed the lawyer, and the American was silent.

“As you please,” said Hauteville, and he went on grimly:  “Kittredge, you have so far refused to speak of the lady to whom you wrote this letter.  Now you must speak of her.  It is evident she is the person who called for you in the cab.  Do you deny that?”

“I prefer not to answer.”

“She was your mistress?  Do you deny that?”

“Yes, I deny that,” cried the American, not waiting for Pleindeaux’s prompting.

“Ah!” shrugged the judge, and turning to his secretary:  “Ask the lady to come in.”

Then, in a moment of sickening misery, Kittredge saw the door open and a black figure enter, a black figure with an ashen-white face and frightened eyes.  It was Pussy Wilmott, treading the hard way of the transgressor with her hair done most becomingly, and breathing a delicate violet fragrance.