"I refer to the murder of Reginald Thorne," I said, as quietly as I was able.
"The murder of Monsieur Thorne," repeated the woman. "And what have I to do, pray, with the death of that gentleman, whoever he may be?"
Ernest glanced at me strangely, and then addressed her in a firm voice.
"The person who murdered him was none other than yourself—Julie Fournereau."
I stood dumbfounded. Was it possible that he intended to endeavour to fix the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the words I had overheard, which were paramount to an admission?
"What!" she shrieked, in fierce anger, speaking in French. "You have sought me here to charge me with murder—to bring against me a false accusation? It is a lie! You know that I am innocent."
"That point, madame, must be decided by a judge," he answered, with marvellous coolness.
"What do you mean? I don't understand!" she exclaimed, with a slight quiver in her voice which betrayed a sudden fear.
"I mean that during the months which have elapsed since the murder of my friend Thorne, at Nice, I have been engaged in tracing the assassin—or, to put it plainly, in tracing you."
I stood there, utterly astounded. If his words were true, why had he been concealed on board the Vispera in order to avoid arrest?