chagrined I could not tell. He merely called to Marchaud:
“You have got the other there?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Bring her in then.”
“The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with vehemence.
“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?”
“Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.”
“How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous.”
“Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?”
With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips.
“It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Any one who says I do lies! Ah! mon Dieu, what shall I do?”
“Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.”
“Anything you wish, monsieur.”
“Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?”
Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head.
“I do not know him.”
It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head. “You are letting her go?” I asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.”
“I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud
