“Indeed, I am quite ready.  If there has been any unpleasantness, it has surely not been of my making, but rather of that little man there.”  The General pointed to M. Flocon rather contemptuously, and nearly started a fresh disturbance.

“Well, well, let us say no more of that, and proceed to business.  I understand,” said the Judge, after fingering a few pages of the dispositions in front of him, “that you are a friend of the Contessa di Castagneto?  Indeed, she has told us so herself.”

“It was very good of her to call me her friend.  I am proud to hear she so considers me.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Four or five months.  Since the beginning of the last winter season in Rome.”

“Did you frequent her house?”

“If you mean, was I permitted to call on her on friendly terms, yes.”

“Did you know all her friends?”

“How can I answer that?  I know whom I met there from time to time.”

“Exactly.  Did you often meet among them a Signor—­Quadling?”

“Quadling—­Quadling?  I cannot say that I have.  The name is familiar somehow, but I cannot recall the man.”

“Have you never heard of the Roman bankers, Correse & Quadling?”

“Ah, of course.  Although I have had no dealing with them.  Certainly I have never met Mr. Quadling.”

“Not at the Countess’s?”

“Never—­of that I am quite sure.”

“And yet we have had positive evidence that he was a constant visitor there.”

“It is perfectly incomprehensible to me.  Not only have I never met him, but I have never heard the Countess mention his name.”

“It will surprise you, then, to be told that he called at her apartment in the Via Margutta on the very evening of her departure from Rome.  Called, was admitted, was closeted with her for more than an hour.”

“I am surprised, astounded.  I called there myself about four in the afternoon to offer my services for the journey, and I too stayed till after five.  I can hardly believe it.”

“I have more surprises for you, General.  What will you think when I tell you that this very Quadling—­this friend, acquaintance, call him what you please, but at least intimate enough to pay her a visit on the eve of a long journey—­was the man found murdered in the sleeping-car?”

“Can it be possible?  Are you sure?” cried Sir Charles, almost starting from his chair.  “And what do you deduce from all this?  What do you imply?  An accusation against that lady?  Absurd!”

“I respect your chivalrous desire to stand up for a lady who calls you her friend, but we are officials first, and sentiment cannot be permitted to influence us.  We have good reasons for suspecting that lady.  I tell you that frankly, and trust to you as a soldier and man of honour not to abuse the confidence reposed in you.”

“May I not know those reasons?”

“Because she was in the car—­the only woman, you understand—­between Laroche and Paris.”