"I'm afraid it's not so absurd as you think. You say he was an old friend, he must have been a very particular kind of an old friend for you to ask a favor of him that you knew and he knew would bring him under suspicion. You did know that, didn't you?"
"Why—er—yes."
"I don't ask what there was between you and M. Kittredge, but if there had been everything between you he couldn't have done more, could he? And he couldn't have done less. So a jury might easily conclude, in the absence of contrary evidence, that there was everything between you."
"It's false," she cried, while Coquenil with keen discernment watched the outward signs of her trouble, the clinching of her hands, the heaving of her bosom, the indignant flashing of her eyes.
"I beg your pardon for expressing such a thought," he said simply. "It's a matter that concerns the judge, only ladies dislike going to the Palais de Justice."
She started in alarm. "You mean that I might have to go there?"
"Your testimony is important, and the judge cannot very well come here."
"But, I'd rather talk to you; really, I would. You can ask me questions and—and then tell him. Go on, I don't mind. M. Kittredge was not my lover—there! Please make that perfectly clear. He was a dear, loyal friend, but nothing more."
"Was he enough of a friend to be jealous of Martinez?"
"What was there to make him jealous?"