“You do not understand.” Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. “It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police.”

“The police⁠—ah?”

The Comte sat up, alert once more.

Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.

“Yes, yes. You comprehend me⁠—I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself⁠—” She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.

“Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?” murmured the Count politely.

“The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering. But they are wrong.”

“Certainly they are wrong,” agreed the Comte easily.

“You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do.”