Her eyes sought the eyes of Ralph. He had the impression that she was trying to excuse her own crimes by bringing to light the crimes of Beaumagnan and his confederates. But he said sternly: “And now? Have you finished? Or are you going on tearing this unfortunate child to pieces? What more do you want?” “I want her to speak,” said Josephine. “And if she speaks, will you let her go free?” “Yes,” she replied. “Then question her,” he said. “What is it you demand? The casket, the key-word inscribed on the inside of the lid? Is that what you want?” But whether Clarice was willing to answer or not, whether she knew or did not know the truth she seemed incapable of speaking a word, or even of understanding the questions put to her. Ralph pressed her: “Try to get the better of your grief, Clarice,” he said. “It’s the last trial; and all will be over. Answer, I beg you. There is nothing in what you are called on to tell which can possibly be against your conscience. You have taken no oath of secrecy. You are betraying no one. In that case----” His gentle, imploring voice was making the young girl feel easier in mind. He became conscious of it and asked: “What has become of that casket? Did you take it to La Haie d’Etigues?” “Yes,” she murmured in a tone of exhaustion. “Why?” “It took my fancy--it was just a whim.” “Did your father see it?” he said quickly. “Yes.” “The same day?” “No. Some days later.” “Did he take it away from you?” he asked with a note of keener interest in his voice. “Yes.” “What reason did he give for doing so?” “None at all.” “But you had had time to examine it?” “Yes.” “And you saw an inscription inside the lid, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “In old characters, wasn’t it? Roughly carved?” “Yes.” “Did you make it out?” “Yes.” “Easily?” “No; but I did make it out.” “And can you remember the inscription?” She hesitated; then she said doubtfully: “Perhaps.... I don’t know.... They were Latin words.” “Latin words? Try to remember them.” Clarice hesitated again; then she said: “But ought I to? If it’s such an important secret, ought I to reveal it?” “You may, Clarice. I assure you you may,” he said earnestly. “You may, because the secret belongs to no one. No one in the world has any greater claim to know it than your father, or his friends, or myself. The secret belongs to the person who shall find it out, to the first passer-by who shall be able to profit by it.” She yielded. What Ralph said must be right. “Yes, yes; no doubt you’re right. But I attached so little importance to that inscription that I can’t remember exactly what it was.... It was something to do with a stone and a queen.” “You must recall it, Clarice; you really must,” he begged, for a sudden fresh overclouding of Josephine’s face made him again anxious. Slowly, her brow knitted in the effort to remember, correcting herself and contradicting herself, the young girl succeeded in saying: