gleam. He took a step forward. His face seemed to narrow to a
greater sharpness. In a moment, to Mr. Ricardo's thought, he
ceased to be the judge; he dropped from his high office; he
dwindled into a fanatic.

"She is a Jewess, this Celia Harland?" he cried.

"No, M. Fleuriot, she is not," replied Wethermill. "I do not speak
in disparagement of that race, for I count many friends amongst
its members. But Celia Harland is not one of them."

"Ah!" said Fleuriot; and there was something of disappointment,
something, too, of incredulity, in his voice. "Well, you will come
and report to me when you have made your investigation." And he
passed on without another question or remark.

The group of men watched him go, and it was not until he was out
of earshot that Besnard turned with a deprecating gesture to
Hanaud.

"Yes, yes, he is a good judge, M. Hanaud--quick, discriminating,
sympathetic; but he has that bee in his bonnet, like so many
others. Everywhere he must see l'affaire Dreyfus. He cannot get it
out of his head. No matter how insignificant a woman is murdered,
she must have letters in her possession which would convict
Dreyfus. But you know! There are thousands like that--good,
kindly, just people in the ordinary ways of life, but behind every
crime they see the Jew."

Hanaud nodded his head.