his death. Your mother was an accessory after the fact. Doubtless, in view of the fact that she acted as a mother, the courts will extend an indulgence to her that they will not accord to you. And rightly so! Your crime was a horrible one—to be held in abhorrence by gods and men!” M. Hautet was enjoying himself, working up his period, steeped in the solemnity of the moment, and his own role as representative of justice. “You killed—and you must pay the consequences of your action. I speak to you, not as a man, but as Justice, eternal Justice, which—”
M. Hautet was interrupted—to his intense annoyance. The door was pushed open.
“M. le juge, M. le juge,” stammered the attendant, “there is a lady who says—who says—”
“Who says what?” cried the incensed magistrate. “This is highly irregular. I forbid it—I absolutely forbid it.”
But a slender figure pushed the stammering gendarme aside. Dressed all in black, with a long veil that hid her face, she advanced into the room.
My heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts were in vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take this step so unfalteringly.
She raised her veil—and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas, this girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without the fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the photograph in Jack Renauld’s room.
“You are the Juge d’Instruction, M. Hautet?” she queried.
“Yes, but I forbid—”
“My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of Mr. Renauld.”
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