“Madame Renauld told us that this dagger was on her dressing table on
the night of the crime. But Madame Renauld is a mother! It will
doubtless astonish you, Renauld, but I consider it highly likely that
Madame Renauld was mistaken, and that, by inadvertence perhaps, you had
taken it with you to Paris. Doubtless you will contradict me—”
I saw the lad’s handcuffed hands clench themselves. The perspiration
stood out in beads upon his brow, as with a supreme effort he
interrupted M. Hautet in a hoarse voice:
“I shall not contradict you. It is possible.”
It was a stupefying moment. Maître Grosíer rose to his feet,
protesting:
“My client has undergone a considerable nervous strain. I should wish
it put on record that I do not consider him answerable for what he
says.”
The magistrate quelled him angrily. For a moment a doubt seemed to
arise in his own mind. Jack Renauld had almost overdone his part. He
leaned forward, and gazed at the prisoner searchingly.
“Do you fully understand, Renauld, that on the answers you have given
me I shall have no alternative but to commit you for trial?”
Jack’s pale face flushed. He looked steadily back.
“M. Hautet, I swear that I did not kill my father.”
But the magistrate’s brief moment of doubt was over. He laughed a
short, unpleasant laugh.
“Without doubt, without doubt—they are always innocent, our prisoners!
By your own mouth you are condemned. You can offer no defence, no
alibi—only a mere assertion which would not deceive a babe!—that you
are not guilty. You killed your father, Renauld—cruel and cowardly
murder—for the sake of money which you believed would come to you at
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 justly 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.”