LITMIR.BIZ

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these things before, I know nothing about them," he said.

      "Name of a camel!" muttered Coquenil. "He's got his nerve with him all right!"

      The judge sat silent, playing with his lead pencil, then he folded a sheet of paper and proceeded to mark it with a series of rough geometrical patterns, afterwards going over them again, shading them carefully. Finally he looked up and said quietly to the guard: "Take off his handcuffs."

      The guard obeyed.

      "Now take off his coat."

      This was done also, the prisoner offering no resistance.

      "Now his shirt," and the shirt was taken off.

      "Now his boots and trousers."

      All this was done, and a few moments later the accused stood in his socks and underclothing. And still he made no protest.

      Here M. Paul whispered to Hauteville, who nodded in assent.

      "Certainly. Take off his garters and pull up his drawers. I want his legs bare below the knees."

      "It's an outrage!" cried Groener, for the first time showing feeling.

      "Silence, sir!" glared the magistrate.

      "You'll be bare above the knees in the morning when your measurements are taken." Then to the guard: "Do what I said."

      Again the guard obeyed, and Coquenil stood by in eager watchfulness as the prisoner's lower legs were uncovered.

      "Ah!" he cried in triumph, "I knew it, I was sure of it! There!" he pointed to an egg-shaped wound on the right calf, two red semicircles plainly imprinted in the white flesh. "It's the first time I ever marked a man with my teeth and—it's a jolly good thing I did."

      "How about this, Groener?" questioned the judge. "Do you admit having had a struggle with Paul Coquenil one night on the street?"

      "No."

      "What made that mark on your leg?"

      "I—I was bitten by a dog."

      "It's a wonder you didn't shoot the dog," flashed the detective.

      "What do you mean?" retorted the other.

      Coquenil bent close, black wrath burning in his deep-set eyes, and spoke three words that came to him by lightning intuition, three simple words that, nevertheless, seemed to smite the prisoner with sudden fear: "Oh, nothing, Raoul!"

      So evident was the prisoner's emotion that Hauteville turned for an explanation to the detective, who said something under his breath.

      "Very strange! Very important!" reflected the magistrate. Then to the accused: "In the morning we'll have that wound studied by experts who will tell us whether it was made by a dog or a man. Now I want you to put on the things that were in that bag."

      For the first time a sense of his humiliation seemed to possess the prisoner. He clinched his hands fiercely and a wave of uncontrollable anger swept over him.

      "No," he cried hoarsely, "I won't do it, I'll never do it!"

      Both the judge and Coquenil gave satisfied nods at this sign of a breakdown, but they rejoiced too soon, for by a marvelous effort of the will, the man recovered his self-mastery and calm.

      "After all," he corrected himself, "what does it matter? I'll put the things on," and, with his old impassive air, he went to the table and, aided by the guard, quickly donned the boots and garments of the wood carver. He even smiled contemptuously as he did so.

      "What a man! What a man!" thought Coquenil, watching him admiringly.

      "There!" said the prisoner when the thing was done.

      But the judge shook his head. "You've forgotten the beard and the wig. Suppose you help make up his face," he said to the detective.

      M. Paul fell to work zealously at this task and, using an elaborate collection of paints, powders, and brushes that were in the bag, he presently had accomplished a startling change in the unresisting prisoner—he had literally transformed him into the wood carver.

      "If you're not Groener now," said Coquenil, surveying his work with a satisfied smile, "I'll swear you're his twin brother. It's the best disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to you on that."

      "Extraordinary!" murmured the judge. "Groener, do you still deny that this disguise belongs to you?"

      "I do."

      "You've never worn it before?"

      "Never."

      "And you're not Adolf Groener?"

      "Certainly not."

      "You haven't a young cousin known as Alice Groener?"

      "No."

      During these questions the door had opened silently at a sign from the magistrate, and Alice herself had entered the room.

      "Turn around!" ordered the judge sharply, and as the accused obeyed he came suddenly face to face with the girl.

      At the sight of him Alice started in surprise and fear and cried out: "Oh, Cousin Adolf!"

      But the prisoner remained impassive.

      "Did you expect to see this man here?" the magistrate asked her.

      "Oh, no," she shivered.

      "No one had told you you might see him?"

      "No one."

      The judge turned to Coquenil. "You did not prepare her for this meeting in any way?"

      "No," said M. Paul.

      "What is your name?" said Hauteville to the girl.

      "Alice Groener," she answered simply.

      "And this man's name?"

      "Adolf Groener."

      "You are sure?"

      "Of course, he is my cousin."

      "How long have you known him?"

      "Why I—I've always known him."

      Quick as a flash the prisoner pulled off his wig and false beard.

      "Am I your cousin now?" he asked.

      "Oh!" cried the girl, staring in amazement.

      "Look at me! Am I your cousin?" he demanded.

      "I—I don't know," she stammered.

      "Am I talking to you with your cousin's voice? Pay attention—tell me—am I?"

      Alice shook her head in perplexity. "It's not my cousin's voice," she admitted.

      "And it's not your cousin," declared the prisoner. Then he faced the judge. "Is it reasonable that I could have lived with this girl for years in so intimate a way and been wearing a disguise all the time? It's absurd. She has good eyes, she would have detected this wig and false beard. Did you ever suspect that your cousin wore a wig or a false beard?" he asked Alice.

      "No," she replied, "I never did."

      "Ah! And the voice? Did you ever hear your cousin speak with my voice?"

      "No, never."

      "You see," he triumphed to the magistrate. "She can't identify me as her cousin, for the excellent reason that I'm not her cousin. You can't change a man's personality by making him wear another man's clothes and false hair. I tell you I'm not Groener."

      "Who are you then?" demanded the judge.

      "I'm not obliged to say who I am, and you have no business to ask unless you can show that I have committed a crime, which you haven't done yet. Ask my fat friend in the corner if that isn't the law."

      Maître

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