“You mean he is not my husband?”
“Not in the least.”
“I do not believe you. It is all lies. These women are but jealous. Proceed.”
“That's about all there is to it, Mazi, except to show you the letter from your own priest, who confirms the fact that the priest who married Jean Carnot and Annie Tighe was legally authorized to do so, both by the laws of his own church and those of New York State, where the ceremony took place. You will believe Father Capoti, won't you?” and he laid beside the girl a letter which she read eagerly.
This time she said nothing about lies, but her face turned deadly pale.
“And this is the last exhibit,” went on the colonel, as he laid a photograph before Mazi. It showed a man and a girl, evidently in their wedding finery, and the face of the man was that of Jean Forette, and that of the girl was of the woman who had groveled on the sand at the feet of the chauffeur the night before,—Morocco Kate.
“Look on the back,” suggested the detective, and when Mazi turned the photograph over she read:
“The happiest day of my life—Jean Carnot.”
“If you happen to have any love letters from him—and I guess you have,” went on the colonel, “you might compare the writing and—”
“I have no need, monsieur,” was the low answer. “I—God help me.—I believe now! Oh, the liar! If I could see him now—”