"But their laughter did not bring the centimes to the itching palm of the old woman. I was not pitiful enough with my rabbit-mouth. She had a son, that old woman, and he was wise. He told her what to do. So—my foot," and Erard thrust the crooked extremity forth.
"Oh, you told me it was run over by a farmer's wagon!" gasped Belinda.
"Oui, oui! I am that wicked one," and he grinned. "I even lied to you, Mademoiselle. But do I look like a sale cultivateur? Non! Non!
"I was a child. My bones were soft like gristle. They twisted my foot and put it in plaster, then chained me to the old beldame's bedpost. We lived deep in a cellar. Nobody could hear my cries.
"So," finished Erard, shrugging his shoulders, "after that, when I went out begging, dragging this poor foot, the sympathetic gave me more centimes for my old woman, until I could run away from her and steal and beg for myself."
The story was a dreadful one—the cheap and pitiful tale of a Paris gamin, drifting naturally into the underworld of the apaches—the shrewd, sly cripple seeking his proper level in the sewers of the metropolis. And yet Belinda could not dwell in her thoughts on that. Not of what the little harelipped man had been. It was what he was now.
A hero!
She was in tears when Carl led her back to the hospital. She had not dared to ask to speak with Sanderson. She dared not even show her fear that he, too, would be made a prisoner instead of held as a witness.
Sanderson could do nothing for Erard when he told his story before the major and the other officers, of whom Doctor Herschall would be one, because of the very nature of the crime.
If the American denied the truth of Erard's tale of attempted robbery he would merely put his own life in jeopardy without saving the Frenchman; and perhaps endanger Belinda's safety as well. The testimony of Ernest, whom Doctor Herschall had so well used, might convict the young aviator and the nurse of a greater military crime than that to which Erard confessed.