My memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer's evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her home, I charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in Brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting.

After that I had applied to the Foreign Office to be transferred, and a month later found myself in Rome.

Perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded.

Sometimes I had thought I had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, I had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere acquaintance. Indeed, I think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love I once bore her to remain within me. It was not just to Edith--that I knew; yet notwithstanding the denunciations of both Kaye and Anderson, I could not altogether crush her from my heart. To wholly forget the woman for whom one has entertained the grand pa.s.sion is often most difficult, sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. Visions of some sweet face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. Thus it was with me--just as it has been with thousands of others.

"No," I admitted truthfully and honestly at last, "my love for Yolande is perhaps not altogether dead."

"Then you will render me a service?" she cried quickly. "Say that you will--for her sake!--for the sake of the great love you once bore her!"

"Of what nature is this service you desire?" I asked, determined to act with caution, for the startling stories I had heard had aroused within me considerable suspicion.

"I desire your silence regarding an absolute secret," she answered in a hoa.r.s.e half-whisper.

"What secret?"

"A secret concerning Yolande," she responded. "Will you, for her sake, render us a.s.sistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as to what you may see or learn here to-day?"

"I will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pa.s.s my lips," I said. "But as to a.s.sistance, I cannot promise until I am aware of the nature of the service demanded of me."

"Of course," she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile. My words had apparently rea.s.sured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though relying upon me for help. "Then as you give me your promise upon your honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth. Come with me."

She led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the sunset. The room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and motionless. In the dim half-light I could just distinguish the features as those of Yolande.

"What has occurred?" I cried in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, dashing towards the bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in fascination.

"We do not know," answered the trembling woman at my side. "It is all a mystery."

I stretched forth my hand and touched her cheek. It was icy cold.

In 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sistance. 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 a.s.sistance 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 Emba.s.sy who chances to be ill. He is a good fellow, and his discretion may be relied upon."