that thing before in my life."

I was astonished that there was no ring of satisfaction in her voice. It
sounded hard and defiant, but there was no triumph in it, no joy that,
so far, she was saved--as if by a miracle. Rather was her tone that of a
woman at bay, fighting to the last, but without hope. "Nor did I ever
see it before." I echoed her words.

She glanced at me as if with gratitude. Yet there was no need for
gratitude. I was not lying for her sake, but speaking the plain truth,
as I thought that she must know.

For the first time the Commissary of Police condescended to laugh. "I
suppose you want me to believe that the last occupant of this room
tucked some valued possession down into a safe hiding place--and then
forgot all about it. That is likely, is it not? You shall have the
pleasure, Mademoiselle--and you, Monsieur--of seeing with me what that
careless person left behind him."

He had laid the thing on the table, and now he tapped it, aggravatingly,
with his hand. But the strain was over for me. I looked on with
calmness, and was amazed when at last Maxine flew to him, no longer
scornful, tragically indifferent in her manner, but imploring--a weak,
agonized woman.

"For the love of God, spare me, Monsieur," she sobbed. "You don't
understand. I confess that what you have there, is mine. I have held
myself high, in my own eyes, and the eyes of the world, because I--an
actress--never took a lover. But now I am like the others. This is my
lover. There's the price I put on my love. Now, Monsieur, I ask you on