She raised her veil—and I gasped. For, though as like her as two peas, this girl was not Cinderella! On the other hand, now that I saw her without the fair wig she had worn on the stage, I recognized her as the girl of the photograph in Jack Renauld’s room.

“You are the Juge d’Instruction, M. Hautet?” she queried.

“Yes, but I forbid—”

“My name is Bella Duveen. I wish to give myself up for the murder of Mr. Renauld.”