“Madame—” he said.
Juana, who had removed her bloody gown, came towards him.
“It was you,” he whispered, stooping to her ear, “who killed your husband.”
“Yes, monsieur,” she replied.
The doctor returned and continued his dictation as follows,—
“And, from the above assemblage of facts, it appears evident that the said Diard killed himself voluntarily and by his own hand.”
“Have you finished?” he said to the sheriff after a pause.
“Yes,” replied the writer.
The doctor signed the report. Juana, who had followed him into the room, gave him one glance, repressing with difficulty the tears which for an instant rose into her eyes and moistened them.
“Messieurs,” she said to the public prosecutor and the judge, “I am a stranger here, and a Spaniard. I am ignorant of the laws, and I know no one in Bordeaux. I ask of you one kindness: enable me to obtain a passport for Spain.”