“Why?”

“Can you not understand, sir?  I was resigned, but not comforted.  I was learning to get accustomed to the terrible blow.  Would not one seek solitude in the great crisis of one’s life?”

“The prosecution pretends that you wished to be left alone, that you might go to La Jonchere.  During the day, you said, ’She can not resist me.’  Of whom were you speaking?”

“Of some one to whom I had written the evening before, and who had replied to me.  I spoke the words, with her letter still in my hands.”

“This letter was, then, from a woman?”

“Yes.”

“What have you done with it?”

“I have burnt it.”

“This precaution leads one to suppose that you considered the letter compromising.”

“Not at all, sir; it treated entirely of private matters.”

M. Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mademoiselle d’Arlange.  Should he nevertheless ask the question, and again hear pronounced the name of Claire, which always aroused such painful emotions within him?  He ventured to do so, leaning over his papers, so that the prisoner could not detect his emotion.

“From whom did this letter come?” he asked.

“From one whom I can not name.”

“Sir,” said the magistrate severely, “I will not conceal from you that your position is greatly compromised.  Do not aggravate it by this culpable reticence.  You are here to tell everything, sir.”

“My own affairs, yes, not those of others.”

Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone.  He was giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the prying and irritating mode of the examination, which scarcely gave him time to breathe.  The magistrate’s questions fell upon him more thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer upon the red-hot iron which he is anxious to beat into shape before it cools.

The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled M. Daburon a great deal.  He was further extremely surprised to find the discernment of the old detective at fault; just as though Tabaret were infallible.  Tabaret had predicted an unexceptionable alibi; and this alibi was not forthcoming.  Why?  Had this subtle villain something better than that?  What artful defence had he to fall back upon?  Doubtless he kept in reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps irresistible.

“Gently,” thought the magistrate.  “I have not got him yet.”  Then he quickly added aloud:  “Continue.  After dinner what did you do?”

“I went out for a walk.”

“Not immediately.  The bottle emptied, you smoked a cigar in the dining-room, which was so unusual as to be noticed.  What kind of cigars do you usually smoke?”

“Trabucos.”

“Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from contact with the tobacco?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Albert, much surprised at this series of questions.

“At what time did you go out?”