The Red Book Magazine/Volume 37/Number 2/The Invincible Truth

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

 

“The point is,” she re-
plied, “there's a murder
at the cottage opposite.”

Another adventure
of Mr. Cray of the
U. S. A.

THE INVINCIBLE TRUTH

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Illustrated by
RAEBURN VAN BUREN

MR. CRAY, his legs dangling, was seated on a gray stone wall which bordered a portion of the Corniche road, smoking a very good cigar. He was at peace with himself and the world. About a hundred yards lower down, his chauffeur was engaged in tedious but necessary repairs to the limousine drawn up under the shadow of a eucalyptus tree. Mr. Cray was not in the least hurry to resume his journey. Motoring in these lofty altitudes made no great appeal to him. He was thoroughly contented here, basking in the warm sunlight, enjoying his cigar, and lazily speculating as to the doings of a mysterious crowd of people of whom he could catch glimpses every now and then, moving about behind the trees on the other side of the road.

A gate exactly opposite to him, leading into an orchard, was suddenly opened, and a young woman made her unexpected appearance. She was becomingly dressed, pretty although obviously addicted to the use of strange cosmetics, and she crossed the road toward him with a friendly smile. Mr. Cray, whose sole desire at that moment was for companionship, raised his hat.

“Good morning,” he ventured.

“Good morning,” she replied pleasantly. “I wonder if you have such a thing as an English match? I can't get these horrid French things to strike.”

Mr. Cray at once produced a well-filled box.

“Help yourself,” he invited generously. “Fill your own box if you've got one. There's very little in this quarter of the globe that isn't good enough for Joseph P. Cray, but the match proposition is about as bad a one as ever I've struck.”

The young lady accepted his offer without demur, lighted a cigarette and leaped nimbly on to the wall by his side.

“So your name is Joseph P. Cray?” she remarked affably “You're American, of course? My name is Daisy Lindel. Ever seen me?”

Mr. Cray shook his head regretfully.

“I can't say that I have,” he admitted. “I've a pretty good memory for faces like yours, too. Have you been in these parts long?”

She laughed gayly.

“I didn't mean seen me about. I meant on the films.”

“God bless my soul!” Mr. Cray exclaimed. “That's what all those people are doing on the other side of the wood, I suppose. Accounts for your make-up, too.”

The young lady nodded, taking out a pocket looking-glass and studying herself.

“I do look pretty beastly, don't I,” she observed, dabbing her face here and there with a handkerchief. “I'd have explained when I came up, but I thought you knew what we were doing.”

“That's all right,” Mr. Cray assured her. “Glad of your company. I can see you've a real pretty face under your make-up.”

“You Americans are so forward,” she murmured.

“We know good things when we see them,” Mr. Cray declared. “Doing a film, eh? Well, that's interesting. What's the story?”

“Too long to tell you,” she replied. “The point is, there's a murder at that cottage opposite, and the body's dragged out into that wood. They've been hauling a poor fellow about there until he declares he hasn't a sound bone in his body.”

“Pretty strenuous, that,” Mr. Cray remarked. “Kind of peaceful place for a murder.”

They both gazed at the little dwelling opposite. It was a long, one-story cottage half-covered with a flowering creeper, with a small garden in front and a gate leading into the orchard.

“Just the kind of place,” the girl murmured, “to make one feel really sentimental. One can imagine a perfect love story being lived there, so different from our sordid little flirtations and make-believes.”

She looked dreamily across the strip of dusty road, and sighed. Mr. Cray sighed, too.

“Love is such a wonderful thing,” she said softly.

“It sure is!” Mr. Cray agreed.

“Are you married?” she asked, withdrawing her eyes from the clematis-wreathed porch, and gazing into his clean-shaven, good-natured face.

Mr. Cray coughed.

“In a kind of way,” he admitted. “That is to say, my wife likes to live in Indiana.”

“Where is that?” she inquired.

“In the United States of America, halfway across the continent.”

She looked at him pityingly.

“And you have to come over here all alone!”

“Seems kinder hard luck, doesn't it?” he said cheerfully. “The fact is, I haven't been back home since the war. I was out in France with the 'Y' and when we got through I didn't feel I could face those new laws, sneaking up side-streets for your liquor, or taking a drink behind a screen at a druggist's. Most of my friends come across pretty regularly, so I've just stayed over on this side.”

“I see! Aren't you very lonely sometimes, Mr. Cray?”

He edged a little nearer.

“Sure!” he admitted. “I love company, too. Where are you folks staying?”

“At the Villa Hyacinth,” she told him. “There's a 'bus runs every hour into Monte, and we have two cars as well, but we really aren't as far out as we seem.”

“I'd like it if you could take a little dinner with me some night,” Mr. Cray suggested boldly.

“I'd like it, too,” she assented. “I haven't many friends in the company. The producer's very nice, but he has his wife staying over at Nice, and I can't bear the man I do most of my scenes with. Are you free this evening?”

“She made me do it!” he cried. “She threw her arms around his neck.”

“Sure!” Mr. Cray agreed. “I'll come for you if you say the word, or will you be at the Hôtel de Paris at eight o'clock?”

“Hôtel de Paris! How delightful!” she exclaimed. “You needn't trouble to fetch me, Mr. Cray, but I'd be glad if you'd take me home..... Here comes our photographer. He's going to take some 'stills' of the cottage.”

Mr. Cray nodded.

“Some one moving about inside,” he remarked, gazing at one of the windows.

The photographer arrived, exchanged greetings with the young lady, and adjusted his instrument on the other side of the was almost out of sight. He was still busy focussing when from the side door of the cottage a heavy-shouldered young man sudden appeared and with a couple of strides reached the middle of the road. He was neatly enough dressed in the blue smock and trousers of the peasant, but his whole appearance was dishevelled and passionate. His black hair was unkempt; his blue eyes were ablaze; his fists were clenched. He was like a man beside himself with anger. As he passed Mr. Cray and his companion, he broke into a little stream of furious words. Then he sprang on the wall and disappeared, running down the hillside. Mr. Cray glanced after him, a little puzzled.

“Did you get that?” he asked the girl. “He talked too fast for me.”

“I didn't understand a word,” the young lady confessed. “My French isn't any good, anyway.”

She looked after the disappearing figure.

“He was terribly impressive,” she observed. “I wish our camera man had been here.”

Mr. Cray nodded.

“He seemed kind o' flustered. I guess his déjeuner wasn't to his liking. These foreigners get so crazy over nothing.”

“Déjeuner!” the girl sighed. “Don't! I ate my sandwiches before eleven o'clock.”

Mr. Cray smiled. His car had just come into sight, slowly rounding the hill.

“I guess I can fix that,” he said. “I've a glass of white wine, and sandwiches enough for a crowd, in my automobile here.”

The girl gazed from Mr. Cray to the approaching automobile. There was a look of adoration in her face.

“You are an angel,” she declared. 'From the moment I saw you on the wall, I felt that you were meant to bring happiness into my life. You are sure there will be enough sandwiches?”

Mr. Cray smiled confidently.

“I guess you will say so when you see the basket,” he replied. “I'm taking a little trip alone today, but I expected a friend who had to go over to Nice at the last moment.”

“Heaven bless your friend!” the girl exclaimed fervently. “I am consumed with jealousy, but I will revenge myself by devouring her sandwiches.”

“You don't need to worry any over my friend,” Mr. Cray declared as he opened the door of the car and stretched out his hand for the luncheon basket. “Peter Gibson, his name is, of the Gibson Shoe Company, of Lynn. Some plant he owns, I can tell you.”

“I love him for his sex,” the young lady declared, accepting a sandwich from the very magnificent collection which Mr. Cray had spread out. “I should have hated you to have been faithless before we met.”

Mr. Cray produced a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, and a very agreeable little picnic followed. The photographer, having completed his “stills,” was summoned to join in the feast. The sandwiches were followed by cheese-biscuits, and delightful fruit. The photographer took his tactful leave, and Miss Daisy Lindel, who had already explained to her companion at great length the precise reason why she was not playing the lead in the present film, now proceeded to confide to him the cause of her family loss of fortune and her subsequent appearance upon the stage.

The woman threw open the door of the little living-room. Then Mr. Cray saw that they were in the presence of tragedy.

“The thought of this sort of thing,” she declared, biting sorrowfully into a pear, “would have broken my father's heart. However, I'm happy enough. Work is good for us all, and I couldn't sit down and be the only one of my family to do nothing.”

These sidelights upon the young lady's family history, and their agreeable little picnic, were suddenly broken into by a further untoward happening connected with the cottage opposite. The front door was thrown open, and a woman ran screaming into the road. Her hands were high above her head; her face seemed distorted with horror. She ran toward the two, shouting and gesticulating, pointing first to the cottage and then down the hill, across the field. Mr. Cray slipped off the wall.

“I can't get all she says,” he told his companion, “but it seems that some one has been hurt in the cottage, and she is accusing the young man of having done it. I'd better go and see what's wrong. Jean, you rascal, come here.”

The chauffeur made his appearance from behind the tree where he had been consuming his lunch. In something less than thirty seconds he and the woman were in the midst of an impassioned duet, and all three were on their way to the cottage. The young lady sat upon the wall and waited. Down the road came a peasant in a brown linen suit, riding a bicycle.

“It is François!” the woman shouted, waving to him. “Come to me, little one! A terrible thing has happened!”

They waited for François, a giant of over six feet, who dismounted from his bicycle and listened, with ejaculations like pistol-shots, to a repetition of the woman's story. Then they all went into the cottage. The woman threw open the door of the little living-room. Then Mr. Cray saw that they were in the presence of tragedy.

The room, almost painfully neat, was devoid of any signs of a struggle. The white stone floor was spotlessly clean. Strings of onions, a few birds and a rabbit, hung from a beam in the ceiling. There were antimacassars upon the oak chairs, a neat array of crockery upon the dresser. Seated in a chair was an old man with a long gray beard. From the left side of his body beneath his unbuttoned waistcoat protruded the hilt of a knife. There was a splash or two of blood upon the floor beneath and upon the side of the chair. He was without a doubt dead. As they saw him, the woman fainted, but came to again almost immediately, to join in the fierce chorus of questions and commentary. Mr. Cray lifted the man's wrist and felt it for a moment. Then he turned away, left the cottage and walked back into the sunlight. The girl slipped from the wall and came toward him.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“What seems to have been a murder,” Mr Cray answered gravely. “There is an old man there quite dead. I think the woman is trying to say that he was stabbed by his son, the boy who ran past us across the field and into the wood.”

“How horrible!” the girl exclaimed, turning suddenly pale. “In that cottage, too, where everything looks so peaceful! Why, it must have been done while we were sitting here talking. And that boy, too! He had such a fine face.”

“I guess they're a queer lot, some of the country folk round here,” Mr. Cray observed. “If I were you, young lady, I'd just get back to the others now. I guess I'd better go on to the village and get a doctor. Hôtel de Paris tonight at eight o'clock.”

“Lovely!” the girl murmured.

They crossed the road together. Mr. Cray held open the gate which led into the wood.

“It's too bad this should have happened,” he said. “Kind of broke up our little time together.”

She was still pale, but was rapidly recovering herself.

“Anyhow,” she declared, “it has been the happiest half-hour I have had since we've been out here.”

She made her way up through the trees with a parting wave of the hand. Mr. Cray turned back and entered the cottage.

He was like a man beside himself ..... As he passed, he broke into furious words.

AT a few minutes before eight that evening Miss Daisy Lindel descended from the omnibus which had brought her from the villa, and entered the Hôtel de Paris. Mr. Cray was waiting for her, and together they made their way into the restaurant, where her new friend was received with the deep respect which his urbane manner and his discreet but lavish tips earned for him in whatever restaurant he chose to patronize. The head waiter himself, a very magnificent personage, conducted them to their well-chosen table. Half a dozen underlings of various grades and offices showed breathless interest in Mr. Cray's deliberately chosen dinner. A gasp of mingled relief and approval escaped from them when the menu was finally laid aside, the last word spoken and Mr. Cray devoted his attention to his companion.

“I am so glad you recognized me without my make-up,” she said.

“I should have recognized you anywhere,” her host assured her. “What did the rest of the company think about your coming out to dine with me?”

The girl looked up and smiled at him.

“I told an awful fib,” she confessed simply. “I told them that I knew you in London.”

“Well, well!' Mr. Cray murmured consolingly. “A little fib like that doesn't do anybody any harm. From now on the date of our acquaintance is fixed—Savoy Hotel, theatrical party last September. Now I guess we are well on the way to being old friends.”

She laughed, and became very soon entirely at her ease. She wore a black gown of guileful simplicity; her brilliant hair was becomingly arranged; her eyes were bright and her smile pleasant. Nevertheless there were odd moments when, notwithstanding her obvious content with her surroundings and with her companion, her face clouded over and her eyes wandered away into space.

“Something on your mind?” Mr. Cray inquired presently.

She nodded.

“It is that boy's face,” she confessed. “I can see him now, coming out of the cottage and crossing the road toward us. He was like a madman—the way he jumped the wall and ran down the hillside, muttering to himself. Yet it wasn't a bad face .... Tell me what happened?”

“Well, I did what I could,” Mr. Cray said thoughtfully. “I went along in the automobile as far as the nearest village, and brought back the doctor and a gendarme.”

“Do they think that it was the boy who did it?” she asked.

“Things kind of point that way,” Mr. Cray admitted. “The household consisted of Jacques Cassiat—the murdered man; his second wife; and Jacques, the son by his first wife, the boy we saw. From what some one told my chauffeur, it was a miserable ménage. The old man was mean but doting. He wouldn't even pay his son wages for the work he did on the bit of farm, and the woman seems to have helped to make bad blood between them whenever she could.”

“And who was the other man?”

“François Lafont, his name was,” Mr. Cray replied. “He owns the next plot of land.”

The girl shivered a little

“These things are common-place enough to read about,” she remarked, “but it gives one a strange feeling to have been within half a yard of anyone who has just committed a murder. Did you see how blue that boy's eyes were, and what a finely shaped forehead he had?”

Mr. Cray sipped his wine thoughtfully.

“I kind of cottoned to that young man myself,” he admitted, “so much so that I'm taking a bit of trouble to get at the rights of the matter.”

She looked a little puzzled at her partner.

“Yes?” she murmured inquiringly.

“I'm one of those harmless old blunderers,” Mr. Cray explained, “who go about the world poking their noses into other people's business. I've a kind of a natural taste for adventures and for straightening out problems when I come across one. I get more kicks than thanks, but I've had some amusement out of it.... With regard to this present little affair, there doesn't seem, on the face of it, to be much room for interference from anybody. The boy will be arrested probably tonight, and maybe he'll confess right away. If so, of course, there's an end of it. If he doesn't,—if he really has any sort of a story to tell—well, I shall pay a lawyer to get at the rights of it. I have been to the police-station myself already.... How would you like to spend the rest of the evening, Miss Daisy? There's the opera right over the way.”

“The opera would be heavenly,” the young lady declared. “I adore music.”

“I took seats on the chance,” her host announced. “We'll just have a cup of coffee in the lounge and get along over.”

The remainder of the evening passed in the most pleasant fashion. Mr. Cray and his companion thoroughly enjoyed the music, thoroughly enjoyed each other's company, and strolled back toward the Hôtel de Paris about half-past on excellent terms with each other.

“Just a mouthful of supper across at the café,” Mr. Cray insisted, “and a glass of wine, and I'll take you right back.”

“It sounds delightful,” she murmured.

THEY called first at the hotel, at Mr. Cray's suggestion, and in the lounge were accosted by a tall, dark man dressed in somber black, with a small tie, a very high, white-linen collar, carrying a black cape upon his arm. Cray introduced him to his companion.

Monsieur Droumbet, the avocat,” he explained. “I went in to see him this afternoon, and asked him to let me know of any developments in that little affair we saw something of this morning.”

“The young man Jacques Cassiat was arrested at seven o'clock this evening,” the avocat announced. “He was seated on a bench on the promenade.”

“Did he confess?” Mr. Cray asked.

“On the contrary,” the avocat replied, “he had every appearance of being shocked, both at the news of the old murder and at the fact that he was suspected of it. He declared that he had meant to return home himself later. He admitted the quarrel, but declared that his father was strong and well when he left him.”

Mr. Cray smiled.

“This news,” he said, “confirms my own impression of the case. I am very much obliged, Monsieur Droumbet. At what hour will the magistrate's examination take place tomorrow morning?”

“At eleven o'clock, monsieur.”

“At a quarter to eleven I shall be at your office,” Mr. Cray announced.

“I shall await your pleasure, monsieur,” was the polite reply.

Monsieur Droumbet bowed first to Miss Daisy Lindel, then to Mr. Cray, and afterward to no one in particular.

“What's your hurry?” Mr. Cray remonstrated. “We thought of stepping across to the Café de Paris for a sandwich and a bottle of wine. Wont you join us?”

Monsieur Droumbet shook his head. He was apologetic but emphatic.

“Monsieur Cray will excuse me,” he begged. “For the visitor those places are very well. For me who practice my profession here, it would be ruin to be seen at them. I shall expect Monsieur Cray at a quarter to eleven tomorrow morning.”

He departed with a farewell flourish of the hat. Mr. Cray looked after him with some concern.

“I don't see where his fun comes in,” he remarked. “Maybe he keeps canaries or plays on the piano. Let's be getting across now.”

“Are you going to pay him to defend the boy?” she asked as they stepped back into the scented night and turned their faces towards the café, from which the sound of music traveled to their ears.

“I guess so—something of the sort,” Mr. Cray assented.

“You dear, generous man!” she murmured, squeezing his arm.

AT the café it appeared that Mr. Cray was also a well-known and valued client. A table in the best part of the room was at once prepared for him; his brief orders met with instantaneous response; and the Bacchanalian high priest who tendered him the wine-list received his commands with marks of the deepest respect. To complete his companion's happiness, Mr. Cray proved himself an expert in the modern dances which were being lavishly indulged in, and as he led her, breathless, back to her place, Miss Lindel declared that she was having the most enjoyable evening of her life.

“Why, if all the crowd aren't here!” she exclaimed a little later, waving her hand towards a distant corner of the room. “There's Mr. Harding, the producer; and Miss May, our leading lady; and Mr. Spens, the photographer, whom you met this morning. They don't seem to be able to find a table.”

“Ask them right across,” Mr. Cray insisted hospitably. “We'll find room for them here.”

The girl beckoned her friends, without enthusiasm.

“You wont be able to take me home now,” she whispered.

“Damn!” Mr. Cray muttered with emphasis.

A dozen waiters flew to do their wealthy patron's bidding. The table was promptly rearranged and extended. Pleasant courtesies were exchanged with the new-comers, and the evening proceeded merrily, with Mr. Cray a self-established host. It was three o'clock before the party broke up. Mr. Cray and Spens were the last to leave the room.

“I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of trouble,” Mr. Cray said politely.

The camera-man removed a large cigar from the corner of his mouth. Whatever cares he might have had in private life, the memory of them had escaped him. The champagne had been potent and plentiful and his state was beatific.

“No trouble at all, old boy,” he declared. “Pleasure do anything for you. What a night! What a place! What a life!”

The little omnibus rolled off amidst a chorus of thanks from its occupants, and a little bouquet of kisses flung by the ladies, to which Mr. Cray gallantly responded. He watched the vehicle turn the corner of the square. Then he went to bed.

EVEN the examining magistrate himself, a gray and ponderous gentleman seemed conscious of the sense of drama which pervaded the musty room with its high windows and bare, polished floors, in which, next morning, he conducted his preliminary investigation into the circumstances attendant upon the murder of Jacques Cassiat. Before him stood the wretched youth Jacques Cassiat Junior, a gendarme on either side; on his left hand was his clerk; on his right hand, installed in a seat of honor, sat Mr. Cray, who in addition to his passport, made a point of always carrying with him credentials of the highest order. Furthermore, seated some distance away, was the widow of the murdered man, with the neighbor François Lafont. The two whispered to each other frequently. Once, when the boy had burst into a tirade against her unkindness to his father she had passed her arm as though for protection through her companion's Neither seemed entirely at ease. Their presence in court during the boy's examination was unusual and unexplained. Neither of them found it pleasant.

The magistrate broke a somewhat prolonged silence, glancing up from the notes which he had made during his examination of the boy. He turned to the latter pursing out his lips, settling his horn-rimmed spectacles a little more firmly upon his nose, and tapping upon the desk with his penholder.

“Jacques Cassiat,” he said, “you are in custody, probably to be charged with the murder of your father, Jacques Cassiat Senior, of the Orchard Farm. You obstinately deny your guilt. Yet it has been proved that you left the house after a violent quarrel with your father, that those quarrels were of almost daily occurrence, and that he was found stabbed in his chair by the first person who entered the room after your departure. In the face of these facts, do you still obstinately deny your guilt?”

“I am not guilty,” the boy declared passionately. “I swear that I never raise? my hand against him! Before the good God—”

Monsieur Droumbet, the avocat, had risen to his feet. He brandished his arm before the boy's face.

“Remember!” he cried, and the boy broke off in his passionate outburst.

Monsieur Droumbet turned to the magistrate.

“Monsieur le magistrat,” he began, and his voice was charged with portentous meaning, “I beg to be allowed to submit evidence on behalf of the accused.”

The magistrate nodded. In the background François Lafont and the woman by his side unlocked hands and sat a little apart. They both leaned forward to listen. The woman's black eyebrows nearly met. The man's lips had parted, showing unpleasant yellow teeth

“I beg to ask Your Honor to examine this photograph,” the avocat continued, passing one up to the magistrate.

THE magistrate studied the picture which had been submitted for his inspection.

“That is a photograph of Orchard Farm,” Monsieur Droumbet went on, “taken by a photographer employed by an English cinema firm, who waits without for your examination. I ask you, sir, to look at the window on the left. What do you see?”

“I see,” the magistrate replied, “the blurred but distinguishable form of a man—an old man—looking out of the window.”

“That man, sir,” the avocat declared, “was Jacques Cassiat! And listen!” he added. throwing out his arms with a theatrical gesture. “That picture was taken after this wrongfully accused boy had left the house! The figure at the window is the figure of his father, who went to the window to watch the departure of his son.”

“Have you witnesses?” the magistrate inquired,

“The photographer himself,” was the triumphant reply, “Monsieur Cray, the American gentleman of great importance who sits by your side, and a young lady from the cinema company. All three will testify that the photographer took up his position and secured his picture after that unfortunate young man had crossed the road and descended the hill.”

The magistrate turned toward Mr. Cray, who bowed his head.

“I am prepared to bear witness to that upon my oath,” the American said.

The magistrate turned back to Monsieur Droumbet.

“This is very extraordinary evidence, monsieur l'avocat,” he said. “We are here to sift the matter. If the boy did not kill his father, then who did?”

“Monsieur,” was the prompt reply, “before I go farther, I have to request you to remove the gendarmes from guarding that young man, and to place them at the door. I myself will be responsible for Jacques Cassiat.”

The magistrate made a sign, and the thing was done. Monsieur Droumbet continued.

“Monsieur le magistrat,” he pronounced, “perjury has been committed in this court within the last hour. You have been told a lie! You have been told a lie in order to shield the guilty man!”

There was an intense silence. François Lafont was leaning farther forward in his seat now, breathing heavily. The courage born of the wineshops where he had spent the early morning was evaporating. The woman's eyes were like points of fire.

“The man Lafont there,” the avocat continued, with a sudden sweep of the arm, “was in the shed where the woman by his side was washing clothes, while the quarrel between father and son was at its height. I can prove that he was there. Let us assume that he entered the house, that he seized the opportunity of that quarrel and that poor boy's precipitate departure, to commit the evil deed which secured for him the old man Cassiat's savings, and to make this woman his wife.”

“A lie!” the woman shrieked. “Monsieur,” she added imploringly to the magistrate, “stop that man!”

LAFONT, by her side, was shaking as if in an ague.

“I can prove,” the avocat continued, “that that man Lafont left the house after the poor boy Cassiat, that he left it secretly, keeping all the time under cover of the stone wall while he made his way to his own home. Arrived there, he fetched out his bicycle and came along the road on a casual errand. It was no casual errand, monsieur le magistrat. He came back to see the work which he had done! My facts are facts. The American gentleman of importance who sits by your side can testify to their truth. It was he who saw the man whom I now accuse as the murderer of Jacques Cassiat, skulking from the house where he had committed that foul deed!”

Lafont was on his feet. The woman was shouting and shrieking at him.

“She made me do it!” he cried. “It was she who placed the knife in my hand! She threw her arms around his neck! She would have strangled him if I had not struck!”

“Liar! Coward! Poltroon!” the woman shrieked as she fell upon her companion and forced her hands against his mouth. “You give yourself to the guillotine! You have a heart of putty!”

The gendarmes separated them. The magistrate made a sign, and their hands fell heavy upon Lafont's shoulder.

“You confess, Lafont?” the magistrate cried with outstretched finger. “It is useless to deny your guilt.”

“I killed the old man,” Lafont faltered, each word seeming to stick in his throat. “We talked of it often, she and I. She put it into my head, as she put the knife into my hand.”

The woman spurned him. Lafont was marched away. The boy, a little dazed, crept over to where Mr. Cray was seated and kissed his hand.

“It was Monsieur who discovered the truth,” he murmured.

“My young friend,” Mr. Cray replied. “truth always discovers itself.”

The magistrate took up a knife and began to pare his nails.

“A most interesting morning,” he said. “Monsieur will do me the honor of taking déjeuner with me?”

“Any morning except this morning, with pleasure,” Mr. Cray replied. “It chances that I have an engagement

“Tomorrow, then,” the magistrate agreed, rising to his feet. “Au revoir, monsieur! In the name of the law, I thank you.”

MR. CRAY drew a little breath as he left the dusty courtroom and stepped into the brilliant sunshine Everywhere were signs of a busy and genial life. Women flitted about like butterflies in their pursuit of pleasure. The little tables outside the Café de Paris were almost all taken. Miss Daisy Lindel waved her parasol.

“Is everything all right?” she asked anxiously.

The sun was very warm and the west wind fragrant. Mr. Cray shook himself free from that web of ugly memories.

“The boy is free,” he assured her

She gave a little sigh of relief, and Mr. Cray seated himself in the chair which she had been guarding. There was an almost feverish zest in the order which he gave to a passing waiter. Then he became conscious that the boy was lingering at the edge of the little array of tables, lingering there wistfully, as though he still had a word to say. Mr. Cray beckoned to him. Jacques Cassiat hastened up and stood there, bare-headed.

“If Monsieur would accept my service,” he begged, nervously fingering his cap.

Mr. Cray shook his head, smiling.

“Take my advice, Jacques,” he said. “Get back to your farm and remember these last twenty-four hours only as a dream.”

“It shall be as Monsieur says,” the boy replied reluctantly, “but Monsieur will remember,” he added, his hand pressed for a moment against his heart, “there will be a pain here until the day when Monsieur shall require some service of me.”

He moved away almost at once and turned up the hill, a strange figure in his peasant's clothes and with his fine, free carriage. They watched him until he was out of sight.

“I should like to see him in a film,” Miss Daisy Lindel declared.

Mr. Cray only smiled.