Oh, as to that, no! She had not touched a cent from the business. She did not even know what was involved. The exact truth was this. She was ill in the hospital when all of a sudden she remembered that Loupart had some days before bidden her be at all costs at the Lyons Station, on a certain Saturday evening at exactly seven o'clock. Now that particular Saturday was the day after the attempt on her life. As she was much better she set off in obedience to her lover. She knew no more; she had done no more; she would not have them accuse her of any more. The young woman had gradually grown warm, her voice rose and vibrated. The judge let her have her say, and when she had finished there was a silence. M. Fuselier slowly dipped a pen in the ink, and in his level voice declared, casting a glance in Juve's direction: "After all, what seems clearly established is complicity." Josephine gave a start--she knew the terrible significance of the term. Complicity meant joint guilt. But Juve intervened: "Excuse me, in place of 'complicity' perhaps we had better say 'compulsion.'" "I don't follow you, Juve." "We must bear in mind, your honour, that this girl is to be pardoned to a certain extent for having obeyed her lover's order, more particularly at a time when the latter had gained quite a victory over the police. For in spite of the protection of our people, his attempt against her partially succeeded." Taken aback, M. Fuselier looked from the detective to the young woman whom he regarded as guilty. Juve's outburst seemed to him out of place. "Your pardon, Juve, but your reasoning seems to me somewhat specious; however, I will not press this charge against the girl; we have something better." Turning to Loupart's mistress, the judge asked abruptly: "What has become of Lady Beltham?" Josephine was amazed by the question. She turned inquiring eyes toward Juve, who quickly said: "M. Fuselier, this is not the moment----" The magistrate, dropping this line, again tackled Josephine on her relations with Loupart. In a flash Josephine made up her mind. She would simulate innocence at all costs. With the craft of a consummate actress, she began in a low voice, which gradually rose and became impressive, insinuating: "How pitiful it is to think that everyone bears a grudge against a poor girl who, some day in springtime, has given herself the pleasure of a lover! Is there any harm in giving oneself to the man who loves you? Who forbids it? No one but the priests, and they have been kicked out of doors!" The magistrate could not help smiling, and Juve showed signs of amusement. "But I am honest, and when I understand something of what was going on, I wrote to M. Juve. And what thanks did I get? Two bullet holes in my skin!" M. Fuselier hesitated about turning his summons into a committal. XXI AT THE MONTMARTRE FÊTE