A series of questions suggested itself to the minds of all those present.  The Prefect of Police put them as follows: 

“You were out, Madame, were you not, when the murders were committed?”

“Yes.”

“You were at the opera?”

“Yes; and I went on to a party at the house of one of my friends, Mme. d’Ersingen.”

“Did your chauffeur drive you?”

“To the opera, yes.  But I sent him back to his garage; and he came to fetch me at the party.”

“I see,” said M. Desmalions.  “But how did you go from the opera to Mme. d’Ersingen’s?”

For the first time, Mme. Fauville seemed to understand that she was the victim of a regular cross-examination; and her look and attitude betrayed a certain uneasiness.  She replied: 

“I took a motor cab.”

“In the street?”

“On the Place de l’Opera.”

“At twelve o’clock, therefore?”

“No, at half-past eleven:  I left before the opera was over.”

“You were in a hurry to get to your friend’s?”

“Yes ... or rather—­”

She stopped; her cheeks were scarlet; her lips and chin trembled; and she asked: 

“Why do you ask me all these questions?”

“They are necessary, Madame.  They may throw a light on what we want to know.  I beg you, therefore, to answer them.  At what time did you reach your friend’s house?”

“I hardly know.  I did not notice the time.”

“Did you go straight there?”

“Almost.”

“How do you mean, almost?”

“I had a little headache and told the driver to go up the Champs
Elysees and the Avenue du Bois—­very slowly—­and then down the Champs
Elysees again—­”

She was becoming more and more embarrassed.  Her voice grew indistinct. 
She lowered her head and was silent.

Certainly her silence contained no confession, and there was nothing entitling any one to believe that her dejection was other than a consequence of her grief.  But yet she seemed so weary as to give the impression that, feeling herself lost, she was giving up the fight.  And it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her yet further.

M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.

Mechanically he observed Perenna, who passed him a slip of paper, saying: 

“Mme. d’Ersingen’s telephone number.”

M. Desmalions murmured: 

“Yes, true, they may know—­”

And, taking down the receiver, he asked for number 325.04.  He was connected at once and continued: