“The torture of some criminal.  She must have been a terrible malefactor indeed if her crimes are in proportion to her penalty.”

“Well, we have that small consolation,” said Dacre, wrapping his dressing-gown round him and crouching closer to the fire.  “They were in proportion to her penalty.  That is to say, if I am correct in the lady’s identity.”

“How could you possibly know her identity?”

For answer Dacre took down an old vellum-covered volume from the shelf.

“Just listen to this,” said he; “it is in the French of the seventeenth century, but I will give a rough translation as I go.  You will judge for yourself whether I have solved the riddle or not.

“`The prisoner was brought before the Grand Chambers and Tournelles of Parliament, sitting as a court of justice, charged with the murder of Master Dreux d’Aubray, her father, and of her two brothers, mm. d’Aubray, one being civil lieutenant, and the other a counsellor of Parliament.  In person it seemed hard to believe that she had really done such wicked deeds, for she was of a mild appearance, and of short stature, with a fair skin and blue eyes.  Yet the Court, having found her guilty, condemned her to the ordinary and to the extraordinary question in order that she might be forced to name her accomplices, after which she should be carried in a cart to the Place de Greve, there to have her head cut off, her body being afterwards burned and her ashes scattered to the winds.’

“The date of this entry is July 16, 1676.”

“It is interesting,” said I, “but not convincing.  How do you prove the two women to be the same?”

“I am coming to that.  The narrative goes on to tell of the woman’s behaviour when questioned. `When the executioner approached her she recognized him by the cords which he held in his hands, and she at once held out her own hands to him, looking at him from head to foot without uttering a word.’  How’s that?”

“Yes, it was so.”

“`She gazed without wincing upon the wooden horse and rings which had twisted so many limbs and caused so many shrieks of agony.  When her eyes fell upon the three pails of water, which were all ready for her, she said with a smile, “All that water must have been brought here for the purpose of drowning me, Monsieur.  You have no idea, I trust, of making a person of my small stature swallow it all."’ Shall I read the details of the torture?”

“No, for Heaven’s sake, don’t.”

“Here is a sentence which must surely show you that what is here recorded is the very scene which you have gazed upon tonight:  `The good Abbe Pirot, unable to contemplate the agonies which were suffered by his penitent, had hurried from the room.’  Does that convince you?”

“It does entirely.  There can be no question that it is indeed the same event.  But who, then, is this lady whose appearance was so attractive and whose end was so horrible?”