The Commissary of Police turned the leather case wrong side out.  It was empty.  There had been nothing inside but the necklace:  not a card, not a scrap of paper.

“Where, then, is the document?” Crestfallen, he put the question half to himself, half to Maxine de Renzie.

“What document?” she asked, too wise to betray relief in voice or face.  Hearing the heavy tone, seeing the shamed face, the hanging head that lay against my shoulder, who—­knowing a little less than I did of the truth—­would have dreamed that in her soul she thanked God for a miracle?  Even I would not have been sure, had I not felt the life stealing back into her half-dead body.

“The contents of the case are not what I came here to find,” admitted the Enemy.

“I do not know what you came to find, but you have made me suffer horribly,” said Maxine.  “You have been very cruel to a woman who has done nothing to deserve such humiliation.  All pleasure I might have taken in my diamonds is gone now.  I shall never have a peaceful moment—­never be able to wear them joyfully.  I shall have the thought in my mind that people who look at me will be saying:  ’Every woman has her price.  There is the price of Maxine de Renzie.’”

“You need have no such thought, Mademoiselle,” the man protested.  “We shall never speak to anyone except those who will receive our report, of what we have heard and seen in this room.”

“Won’t you search further?” asked Maxine.  “Since you seemed to expect something else—­”

“You would not have had time to conceal more than one thing, Mademoiselle,” said the policeman, with a smile that was faintly grim.  “Besides, this case was what you did not wish us to find.  You are a great actress, but you could not control the dew which sprang out on your forehead, or the beating of your heart when I touched the sofa, so I knew:  I had been watching you for that.  There has been an error, and I can only apologise.”

“I don’t blame you, but those who sent you,” said Maxine, letting me lead her to a chair, into which she sank, limply.  “I am thankful you do not tell me these diamonds are contraband in some way.  I was not sure but it would end in that.”

“Not at all, Mademoiselle.  I wish you joy of them.  It is you who will adorn the jewels, not they you.  Again I apologise for myself and my companions.  We have but done our duty.”

“I have an enemy, who must have contrived this plot against me,” exclaimed Maxine, as if on a sudden thought.  “It is said that ’Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’  But what of a man who has been scorned—­by a woman?  He knew I wanted all my strength for to-night—­the night of the new play—­and he will be hoping that this has broken me.  But I will not be broken.  If you would atone, Messieurs, for your part in this scene, you will go to the theatre this evening and encourage me by your applause.”

All three bowed.  The Commissary of Police, lately so relentless, murmured compliments.  It was all very French, and after what had passed, gave me the sensation that I was in a dream.