"I was engaged to her," said Alexander sorrowfully, "but there's a medical student on the same floor and——"
"No matter. You were suspicious of this young person. And on the night of July 4th you attacked a man passing along the balcony. Is that correct?"
The photographer put forth his thin hands, palms upward in mild protest. "To say that I attacked him is—is a manner of speaking. The fact is he—he—" Alexander stroked his neck ruefully.
"I understand, he turned and nearly choked you. The marks of his nails are still on your neck?"
"They are, sir," murmured the shrimp.
"And you are sure this is the man?" he pointed to the accused.
"Perfectly sure. I'll swear to it."
"Good. Now stand still. Come here, Groener. Reach out your arms as if you were going to choke this young man. Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. No, no, the other arm! I want you to put your left hand, on his neck with the nails of your thumb and fingers exactly on these marks. I said exactly. There is the thumb—right! Now the first finger—good! Now the third! And now the little finger! Don't cramp it up, reach it out. Ah!"
With breathless interest Coquenil watched the test, and, as the long little finger slowly extended to its full length, he felt a sudden mad desire to shout or leap in the pure joy of victory, for the nails of the prisoner's left hand corresponded exactly with the nail marks on the shrimp photographer's neck!