"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"
"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in photography."
"You saw the genuine picture?"
"Of course—that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the man who gave him the order."
"You mean the wood carver?"
Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the work."
Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was covering his tracks in advance?"
"Evidently."
"And the smooth young widow lied?"
"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured picture."