The Comte leaned back in his chair. His face was a mask.
“Let me ask you, Mademoiselle—how do you know this?”
“How do I know it?” Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. “He boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only the death of his wife could save him. He told me so. He travelled on the same train—but she was not to know it. Why was that, I ask you? So that he might creep upon her in the night—Ah!”—she shut her eyes—“I can see it happening …”
The Count coughed.
“Perhaps—perhaps,” he murmured. “But surely, Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?”
“The jewels!” breathed Mirelle. “The jewels. Ah! Those rubies …”
Her eyes grew misty, a faraway light in them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.
“What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?”
Mirelle became alert and businesslike once more.
“Surely it is simple. You will go to the police. You will say to them that M. Kettering committed this crime.”
“And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?” He was eyeing her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round her.
“Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte,” she said softly; “I will give them the proof they want.”