He spoke in a tone of simple wonder, but Gabrielle shot a quick glance at him from under her veiled lashes as she replied: 

“Bah!  What has that to do with it?  I repeat:  Monsieur Crewe, you men cannot understand the feelings of a lady like Madame Holymead in a matter like this.  She and her husband were, as I have said before, intime with the great judge.  They visited his house, they dined with him, they met him in Society.  Behold, he is brutally, horribly killed.  Madame, when she hears the terrible news, is ill for days; she cannot eat, she cannot sleep; she can interest herself in nothing.  She is forgetting a little when the police agents they catch a man and say he is the murderer.  Then comes the trial of this man at the court with so queer a name—­Old Bailee.  The papers are full of the terrible story again; of the dead man; how he looked killed; how he lay in a pool of blood; how they cut him open!  Madame Holymead cannot pick up a paper without seeing these things, and she falls ill again.  Then the jury say the man the police agents caught is not the murderer.  He goes free, and once more the talk dies away.  Madame Holymead once more begins to forget, when this police agent comes to her house to remind her once more all about it.  It is too cruel, monsieur, it is too cruel!”

Gabrielle’s voice vibrated with indignation as she concluded, and Crewe regarded her closely.  He decided that her affection for Mrs. Holymead was not simulated, and that it would be best to handle her from that point of view.

“I am sorry,” he said coldly, “but I do not see how I can help you.”

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchwoman, clasping her hands, “I entreat you not to say so.  It would be so easy for you to help—­not me, but Madame.”

“How?”

“You know this police agent.  You also are a police agent, though so much greater.  Therefore you whisper just one little word in the ear of your friend the police agent, and he will not bother Madame Holymead again.  I think you could do this.  And if you need money to give to the police agent, why, I have brought some.”  She fumbled nervously at her hand-bag.

“Stay,” said Crewe.  “What you ask is impossible.  I have nothing whatever to do with Scotland Yard.  I could not interfere in their inquiries, even if I wished to.  They would only laugh at me.”

Gabrielle’s dark eyes showed her disappointment, but she made one more effort to gain her end.  She leant nearer to Crewe, and laid a persuasive hand on his arm.

“If you would only make the effort,” she said coaxingly, “my beautiful Madame Holymead would be for ever grateful.”

“Mademoiselle, once more I repeat that what you ask is impossible,” returned Crewe decisively.  “I repeat, I cannot see why Mrs. Holymead should object to answering a few questions the police wish to ask her.  She is too sensitive about such a trifle.”

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recognition of the fact that the man in front of her was too shrewd to be deceived by subterfuge.