LITMIR.BIZ

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those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of the darkened room, and I detected the change that had taken place in the girl’s countenance. Her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged pillow.

      I held my breath. The awful truth was distinctly apparent. I placed my hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened. Then a few seconds later I drew back, standing rigid and aghast.

      “Why, she’s dead!” I gasped.

      “Yes,” the Countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. “My poor Yolande! she is dead —dead!”

      The discovery appalled me. Only a couple of hours before we had chatted together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in the old days, until I had made the announcement of Wolf’s presence in Paris. The effect of that statement upon her had apparently been electrical. Why, I knew not. Had she not implored me to save her? This in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear.

      Again I bent in order to make further examination, but saw the unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance. The lower jaw had dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which I had snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded. There was no movement – no life. Yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days, was dead.

      I stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream. So swiftly had she been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of realisation.

      The Countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly. Truly the scene in that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one. Never before in my whole life had I been in the presence of the dead.

      “Yolande – Yolande!” I called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken her, for I could not believe that she was actually dead.

      But there was no response. Those blanched lips and the coldness of those cheeks told their own tale. She had passed to that land which lies beyond the range of human vision.

      How long I stood there I cannot tell. My thoughts were inexpressibly sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that I scarcely knew what I said or did. The blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed me. The affair was mysterious, to say the least of it. Of a sudden, however, the sobs of the grief-stricken Countess aroused me to a sense of my responsibility, and taking her hand I led her from the bedside into an adjoining room.

      “How has this terrible catastrophe occurred?” I demanded of her breathlessly. “Only two hours ago she was well and happy.”

      “You mean when you saw her?” she said. “What was the object of your call?”

      “To see her,” I responded.

      “And yet you parted ill friends in Brussels?” she observed in a tone of distinct suspicion. “You had some motive in calling. What was it?”

      I hesitated. I could not tell her that I suspected her daughter to be a spy.

      “In order to assure her of my continued good friendship.”

      She smiled, rather superciliously I thought.

      “But how did the terrible affair occur?”

      “We have no idea,” answered the Countess brokenly. “She was found lying upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. Jean, the valet-de-chambre, on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead.”

      “Astounding!” I gasped. “She was in perfect health when I left her.”

      She shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief, declared:

      “My child has been killed – murdered!”

      “Murdered! Impossible!” I cried.

      “But she has,” she declared. “I am absolutely positive of it!”

      Chapter Six

      A Piece of Plain Paper

      “What medical examination has been made?” I demanded.

      “None,” responded the Countess. “My poor child is dead, and no doctor can render her assistance. Medical aid is unavailing.”

      “But do you mean to say that on making this discovery you did not think it necessary to send for a doctor?” I cried incredulously.

      “I did not send for one – I sent for you,” was her response.

      “But we must call a doctor at once,” I urged. “If you have suspicion of foul play we should surely know if there is any wound, or any injury to account for death.”

      “I did not consider it necessary. No doctor can return her to me,” she wailed. “I sent for you because I believed that you would render me assistance in this terrible affair.”

      “Most certainly I will,” I replied. “But in our own interests we must send for a medical man, and if it is found to be actually a case of foul play, for the police. I’ll send a line to Doctor Deane, an Englishman whom I know, who is generally called in to see anybody at the Embassy who chances to be ill. He is a good fellow, and his discretion may be relied upon.”

      So saying, I scribbled a line on the back of a card, and told the man to take a cab down to the Rue du Havre, where the doctor occupied rooms over a hosier’s shop a stone’s throw from the bustling Gare St. Lazare.

      A very curious mystery was evidently connected with this startling discovery, and I was anxious that my friend, Dick Deane, one of my old chums of Rugby days, should assist me in clearing it up.

      The Countess de Foville, whose calmness had been so remarkable while speaking with me before we entered the death-chamber, had now given way to a flood of emotion. She sank back into her chair, and, burying her face in her hands, cried bitterly.

      I tried to obtain some further information from her, but all that escaped her was:

      “My poor Yolande! My poor daughter!” Finding that my endeavours to console her were futile, I went forth and made inquiries of the three frightened maidservants regarding what had occurred.

      One of them, a dark-eyed Frenchwoman in frilled cap, whom I had seen on my previous visit, said, in answer to my questions:

      “Jean discovered the poor mademoiselle in the petit salon about a quarter of an hour after m’sieur had left. She was lying upon her face near the window, quite rigid. He shouted; we all rushed in, and on examining her found that she was already dead.”

      “But was there no sign of a struggle?” I inquired, leading the way to the room indicated.

      “The room was just as m’sieur sees it now,” she answered, with a wave of her hand.

      I glanced around, but as far as I could distinguish it was exactly as I had left it.

      “There was no mark of violence – nothing to show that mademoiselle had been the victim of foul play?”

      “Nothing, m’sieur.”

      Could it have been a case of suicide? I wondered. Yolande’s words before I had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man Wolf who had so suddenly arrived in Paris – the man who exercised upon her some mysterious influence, the nature of which I could not guess.

      “It was not more than fifteen minutes after I had left, you say?” I inquired.

      “No, m’sieur, not more.”

      “Mademoiselle had no other visitor?”

      “No, m’sieur. Of that we are all certain.”

      “And the Countess, where was she during the time I was here?”

      “She was out driving. She did not return till about five minutes after we had made the terrible discovery.”

      “And how did madame act?”

      “She

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