The old millionaire and his companion were just as astounded to find me present as Ernest had been. But there was no time at that exciting moment for explanations. The plan had apparently been arranged for the arrest of the white-faced woman, who now stood trembling before us.
"I tell you it's a lie!" she cried hoarsely. "I did not kill him."
But Ernest, turning to the shabby little man, said:
"I demand the arrest of that woman, Julie Fournereau, for the murder of Reginald Thorne at the 'Grand Hotel,' in Nice."
"You know her?" inquired the detective. "Have you evidence to justify the arrest?
"I have evidence that she committed the murder—that the sixty thousand francs stolen from the dead man's pockets were in her possession on the following morning; and, further, that on the night on which the murder was committed she was staying under another name at the very hotel in which Mr. Thorne was found dead."
"And the witnesses?"
"They are already in Paris, waiting to be called to give evidence."
A dead silence fell for a few moments. We each looked at one another.
The wretched woman, who had suddenly been denounced by the man with whom she had been so friendly at Monte Carlo, was standing in the centre of the room, swaying forward, supporting herself by clutching the edge of the small table. Her white lips trembled, but no word escaped from them. She seemed rendered speechless by the suddenness of the overwhelming charge.