residing in Paris, at your own house in Neuilly?"
"Yes."
"Will you kindly turn round, madame, and tell me if you know the prisoner in the dock?"
Lady Beltham obeyed mechanically; she glanced at Gurn, who paled a little, and answered the President.
"Yes, I know the prisoner; his name is Gurn."
"Very good, madame. Can you tell me first of all how you came to be acquainted with him?"
"When my husband was in South Africa, at the time of the Boer War, Gurn was a sergeant in the regular army. It was then that I first met him."
"Did you know him well at that time?"
Lady Beltham seemed to be unable to prevent herself from casting long glances at the prisoner; she appeared to be almost hypnotised and frightened by his close proximity.
"I saw very little of Gurn in the Transvaal," she answered. "It was just by chance that I learned his name, but of course the difference between his own rank and my husband's position made the relations that I could have with a mere sergeant very limited indeed."
"Yes, Gurn was a sergeant," the President said. "And after the war, madame, did you see the prisoner again?"
"Yes, immediately after the war; my husband and I went to England by the same boat on which Gurn went home."
"Did you see much of him on board?"
"No; we were first-class passengers, and he, I believe, went second. It was just by accident that my husband caught sight of him soon after the boat sailed."
The President paused and made a note.
"Were those all the relations your husband had with the prisoner?"
"They are at any rate all the relations I had with him," Lady Beltham replied in tones of some distress; "but I know that my husband employed Gurn on several occasions, to help him in various affairs and matters of business."
"Thank you," said the President; "we will return to that point presently. Meanwhile there is one question I should like to ask you. If you had met the prisoner in the street a few months ago, should you have recognised him? Was his face still distinct in your memory, or had it become blurred and vague?"
Lady Beltham hesitated, then answered confidently.
"I am sure I should not have recognised him; and some proof of this is, that just before his arrest was effected I was conversing with the prisoner for several minutes, without having the faintest idea that the poor man with whom I imagined I had to do was no other than the man Gurn for whom the police were looking."
The President nodded, and Maître Barberoux leaned forward and spoke eagerly to his client in the dock. But the President continued immediately.
"You must forgive me, madame, for putting a question that may seem rather brutal, and also for reminding you of your oath to tell us the entire truth. Did you love your husband?"
Lady Beltham quivered and was silent for a moment, as though endeavouring to frame a right answer.
"Lord Beltham was much older than myself —— ," she began, and then, perceiving the meaning implicit in her words, she added: "I had the very highest esteem for him, and a very real affection."
A cynical smile curled the lip of the President, and he glanced at the jury as though asking them to pay still closer attention.
"Do you know why I put that question to you?" he asked, and as Lady Beltham confessed her ignorance he went on: "It has been suggested, madame, by a rumour which is very generally current in the newspapers and among people generally, that the prisoner may possibly have been greatly enamoured of you: that perhaps — well, is there any truth in this?"
As he spoke the President bent forward, and his eyes seemed to pierce right through Lady Beltham.
"It is a wicked calumny," she protested, turning very pale.
Throughout the proceedings Gurn had been sitting in an attitude of absolute indifference, almost of scorn; but now he rose to his feet and uttered a defiant protest.
"Sir," he said to the President of the Court, "I desire to say publicly here that I have the most profound and unalterable respect for Lady Beltham. Anyone who has given currency to the malignant rumour you refer to, is a liar. I have confessed that I killed Lord Beltham, and I do not retract that confession, but I never made any attempt upon his honour, and no word, nor look, nor deed has ever passed between Lady Beltham and myself, that might not have passed before Lord Beltham's own eyes."
The President looked sharply at the prisoner.
"Then tell me what your motive was in murdering your victim."
"I have told you already! Lady Beltham is not to be implicated in my deed in any way! I had constant business dealings with Lord Beltham; I asked him, over the telephone, to come to my place one day. He came. We had an animated discussion; he got warm and I answered angrily; then I lost control of myself and in a moment of madness I killed him! I am profoundly sorry for my crime and stoop to crave pardon for it; but I cannot tolerate the suggestion that the murder I committed was in the remotest way due to sentimental relations with a lady who is, I repeat, entitled to the very highest respect from the whole world."
A murmur of sympathy ran through the court at this chivalrous declaration, by which the jury, who had not missed a word, seemed to be entirely convinced. But the President was trained to track truth in detail, and he turned again to Lady Beltham who still stood in the witness-box, very pale, and swaying with distress.
"You must forgive me if I attach no importance to a mere assertion, madame. The existence of some relations between yourself and the prisoner, which delicacy would prompt him to conceal, and honour would compel you to deny, would alter the whole aspect of this case." He turned to the usher. "Recall Mme. Doulenques, please."
Mme. Doulenques considered it a tremendous honour to be called as witness in a trial with which the press was ringing, and was particularly excited because she had just been requested to pose for her photograph by a representative of her own favourite paper. She followed the usher to where Lady Beltham stood.
"You told us just now, Mme. Doulenques," the President said suavely, "that your lodger, Gurn, often received visits from a lady friend. You also said that if this lady were placed before you, you would certainly recognise her. Now will you kindly look at the lady in the box: is this the same person?"
Mme. Doulenques, crimson with excitement, and nervously twisting in her hands a huge pair of white gloves which she had bought for this occasion, looked curiously at Lady Beltham.
"Upon my word I can't be sure that this is the lady," she said after quite a long pause.
"But you were so certain of your facts just now," the President smiled encouragingly.
"But I can't see the lady very well, with all those veils on," Mme. Doulenques protested.
Lady Beltham did not wait for the request which the President would inevitably have made, but haughtily put back her veil.
"Do you recognise me now?" she said coldly.
The
