Outside sounded loud scuffling and altercation, for, as it afterwards proved, the strong body of police who had raided the place, finding many persons “wanted,” were making wholesale arrests. The woman Fournereau raised her head at Ernest’s denunciation and laughed a strange, harsh laugh of defiance. “Bien!” she cried shrilly with affected carelessness. “Arrest me, if you will! But I tell you that you are mistaken. You have been clever,--very clever, all of you,--but the assassin was not myself.” The police officer addressed her, saying: “Then if not yourself, you are aware of the identity of the murderer. So I shall arrest you as being an accomplice. It is the same.” “No, I was not even an accomplice,” she protested quickly. “I may be owner of this place; I may be a--a person known to you, but I swear I have never been a murderess.” The officer smiled dubiously. “The decision upon that point must be left to the judges,” he answered. “There is evidence against you. For the present that is sufficient.” “Monsieur Cameron has told you that I was threatened with exposure by the young American gentleman,” she said. “That is perfectly the truth. Indeed, all that has been said is the truth--save one thing. I did not commit the murder, nor had I any knowledge of it until afterwards.” “But the stolen notes were actually in your possession on the following morning,” the detective observed in a tone of doubt. “They were given to me for safe-keeping.” “By whom?” “I refuse to say.” The detective shrugged his shoulders, and a smile passed across the faces of his two companions. “You prefer arrest, then?” he said. “I prefer to keep my own counsel,” she answered. “These persons,” she continued, indicating us, “have believed themselves extremely ingenious, apparently taking upon themselves the duties of the police, and have arrived at a quite wrong conclusion. You may therefore arrest me if you wish. I have nothing whatever to fear.” And she glanced around at us in open defiance. Indeed, so indifferent was she that I felt convinced that Ernest’s theory of the committal of the crime had fallen to the ground. The detective seemed, however, well aware of the character of the woman, and proceeded to deal with her accordingly. “You are charged with the murder,” he said. “It is for you to prove your innocence.” “Who, pray, is the witness against me?” she cried indignantly. “Your accomplice,” cried Ernest quickly. “The man Laumont--the man to whom you gave the stolen notes to transfer to Miss Rosselli.” “Laumont!” she cried. “He--he has told you that I committed the crime--he has denounced me as the murderess?”