“There is another reason, monsieur,” she whispered.

“You had better tell it to me.”

“If you had been a woman you would have guessed.  The great judge who was killed was in his spare moments what you call a gallant—­he did love my sex.  In France this would not matter, but in England they think much of it—­so very much.  Madame Holymead is frightened for fear the least breath of scandal should attach to her name, if the world knew that the police agent had visited her house on such an errand.  Madame is innocent—­it is not necessary to assure you of that; but the prudish dames of England are censorious.”

“The Scotland Yard people are not likely to disclose anything about it,” said Crewe.

“That may be so, but these things come out,” retorted Gabrielle.

“Monsieur,” she added, after a pause, and speaking in a low tone, “I know that you can do much—­very much—­if you will, and can stop Madame Holymead from being worried.  Would you do so if you were told who the murderer was—­I mean he who did really kill the great judge?” Crewe was genuinely surprised, but his control over his features was so complete that he did not betray it.  “Do you know who Sir Horace Fewbanks’s murderer is?” he asked, in quiet even tones.  “Monsieur, I do.  I will tell you the whole story in secret—­how do you say?—­in confidence, if you promise me you will help Madame Holymead as I have asked you.”  “I cannot enter into a bargain like that,” rejoined Crewe.  “I do not know whether Mrs. Holymead may not be implicated—­concerned—­in what you say.”

“Monsieur, she is not!” flashed Gabrielle indignantly.  “She knows nothing about it.  What I have to tell you concerns myself alone.”

“In that case,” rejoined Crewe, “I think you had better speak to me frankly and freely, and if I can I will help you.”

“You are perhaps right,” she replied.  “I will tell you everything, provided you give me your word of honour that you will not inform the police of what I will tell you.”

“If you bind me to that promise I do not see how I can help you in the direction you indicate,” said Crewe, after a moment’s thought.  “If the police are asked to abandon their inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, they will naturally wish to know the reason.”

“You are quite right,” said Gabrielle.  “I did not think of that.  But if I tell you everything, and you have to tell the police agents so as to help Madame, will you promise that the police agents do not come and arrest me?”

“Provided you have not committed murder or been in any way accessory to it, I think I can promise you that,” rejoined Crewe.

“Monsieur, I do not understand you, but I can almost divine your meaning.  Your promise is what you call a guarded one.  Nevertheless, I like your face, and I will trust you.”

Gabrielle relapsed into silence for some moments, looking at Crewe earnestly.

“Monsieur,” she said at length, “it is a terrible story I have to relate, and it is difficult for me to tell a stranger what I know.  Nevertheless, I will begin.  I knew the great judge well.”