“I have no wish whatever to bring upon you any greater exposure or disgrace than that which must inevitably come,” he said coolly. “For months I have been awaiting this opportunity, and by the cipher fortunately discovered your return. I was then enabled to give the police some highly interesting information.” “The police!” she gasped, her face instantly blanched to the lips. “You have told them?” “Yes,” he responded, gazing steadily upon her, “I have told them.” “Then let me pass,” she said hoarsely, making towards the door. But in a moment he had barred her passage, and raising a small whistle quickly to his lips blew it shrilly. “So this is your revenge!” cried the miserable woman, turning upon him with a fierce, murderous light in her eyes. Yet ere the words had left her mouth there were sounds of scuffling and shouting, a smashing of glass, and loud imprecations. The whistle had raised the alarm, and the police had entered the place, barring the egress of the players. Outside in the corridor there were several fierce scrimmages, but next instant the door opened and there entered three detectives, of whom one was the wizen-faced little man who had betrayed such an interest in myself when at the Grand Café, accompanied by old Mr. Keppel and the woman who had been my travelling-companion in the wagon-lit. Certainly the arrangements made by the police to raid the place had been elaborately prepared, for at the signal given by Ernest the coup was complete, and the players, nearly all of whom were persons known as criminals, fell back entrapped and dismayed. The old millionaire and his companion were as astounded at finding me present as Ernest had been. But there was no time at that exciting moment for explanations. The plan had apparently been arranged for the arrest of the pale, white-faced woman now trembling before us. “I tell you it’s a lie!” she cried hoarsely. “I did not kill him!” But Ernest, turning to the shabby little man, said,-- “I demand the arrest of that woman, Julie Fournereau, for the murder of Reginald Thorne at the Grand Hotel in Nice.” “You know her,” inquired the detective, “and you have evidence to justify the arrest?” “I have evidence that she committed the murder--that the sixty thousand francs stolen from the dead man’s pockets were in her possession on the following morning, and, further, that on the night on which the murder was committed she was staying under another name at the same hotel wherein Mr. Thorne was found dead.” “And the witnesses?” “They are already in Paris, awaiting to be called to give evidence.” A dead silence fell, and we looked at one another.