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 walls of the station-house shiver, used as they were to ungentle language.

But Philippa was unconscious of this. All she realized was Victoria—Victoria, who turned and faced her with clenched hands and white face. She was speaking slowly and with terrible scorn: "And you were engaged to Morton—you! I thought there might have been some mistake about that private-room dinner-party; I thought you might explain, but we hardly need go further!" She broke off and turned her back; without an other word she moved toward the door.

"Hold on! Miss Claudel, we want you, please. The consul will be here presently, and then we'll need your services. Mulligan, search the bags, and then take the French woman to the matron and have her go over her. But first, come here."

Madame Tollé was led forward. "Your name?" asked the captain. There was no answer. The detective spoke: "She is Marie Françoise Ducas," he said. "Here is her photograph." He laid it on the desk.

"Nativity?"

"Paris," answered the detective, as the woman 234