M. Flocon shook his head.  Prepossessions with him were tenacious, and he had made up his mind about the Countess’s guilt.

“When you again interrogate her, M. le Juge, by the light of your present knowledge, I believe you will think otherwise.  She will confess,—­you will make her, your skill is unrivalled,—­and you will then admit, M. le Juge, that I was right in my suspicions.”

“Ah, well, produce her!  We shall see,” said the Judge, somewhat mollified by M. Flocon’s fulsome flattery.

“I will bring her to your chamber of instruction within an hour, M. le Juge,” said the detective, very confidently.

But he was doomed to disappointment in this as he was in other respects.

CHAPTER XV

Let us go back a little in point of time, and follow the movements of Sir Charles Collingham.

It was barely 11 A.M. when he left the Lyons Station with his brother, the Reverend Silas, and the military attache, Colonel Papillon.  They paused for a moment outside the station while the baggage was being got together.

“See, Silas,” said the General, pointing to the clock, “you will have plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Calais for London, but you must hurry up and drive straight across Paris to the Nord.  I suppose he can go, Jack?”

“Certainly, as he has promised to return if called upon.”

And Mr. Collingham promptly took advantage of the permission.

“But you, General, what are your plans?” went on the attache.

“I shall go to the club first, get a room, dress, and all that.  Then call at the Hotel Madagascar.  There is a lady there,—­one of our party, in fact,—­and I should like to ask after her.  She may be glad of my services.”

“English?  Is there anything we can do for her?”

“Yes, she is an Englishwoman, but the widow of an Italian—­the Contessa di Castagneto.”

“Oh, but I know her!” said Papillon.  “I remember her in Rome two or three years ago.  A deuced pretty woman, very much admired, but she was in deep mourning then, and went out very little.  I wished she had gone out more.  There were lots of men ready to fall at her feet.”

“You were in Rome, then, some time back?  Did you ever come across a man there, Quadling, the banker?”

“Of course I did.  Constantly.  He was a good deal about—­a rather free-living, self-indulgent sort of chap.  And now you mention his name, I recollect they said he was much smitten by this particular lady, the Contessa di Castagneto.”

“And did she encourage him?” “Lord! how can I tell?  Who shall say how a woman’s fancy falls?  It might have suited her too.  They said she was not in very good circumstances, and he was thought to be a rich man.  Of course we know better than that now.”

“Why now?”

“Haven’t you heard?  It was in the Figaro yesterday, and in all the Paris papers.  Quadling’s bank has gone to smash; he has bolted with all the ‘ready’ he could lay hands upon.”