She smiled at me pathetically.
“Whatever should I have done if I had been alone?” she said.
I was tempted to direct the conversation into a purely personal channel, but common sense prevailed, and:
“Is Madame de Stamer awake?” I asked.
“Yes.” The girl nodded. “Dr. Rolleston is with her now.”
“And does she know?”
“Yes. She sent for me directly she awoke, and asked me.”
“And you told her?”
“How could I do otherwise? She was quite composed, wonderfully composed; and the way she heard the news was simply heroic. But here is Dr. Rolleston, coming now.”
I glanced along the corridor, and there was the physician approaching briskly.
“Good morning, Mr. Knox,” he said.
“Good morning, doctor. I hear that your patient is much improved?”
“Wonderfully so,” he answered. “She has enough courage for ten men. She wishes to see you, Mr. Knox, and to hear your account of the tragedy.”
“Do you think it would be wise?”
“I think it would be best.”
“Do you hold any hope of her permanently recovering the use of her limbs?”
Dr. Rolleston shook his head doubtfully.
“It may have only been temporary,” he replied. “These obscure nervous affections are very fickle. It is unsafe to make predictions. But mentally, at least, she is quite restored from the effects of last night’s shock. You need apprehend no hysteria or anything of that nature, Mr. Knox.”
“Oh, I see,” exclaimed a loud voice behind us.
We all three turned, and there was Inspector Aylesbury crossing the hall in our direction.
“Good morning, Dr. Rolleston,” he said, deliberately ignoring my presence. “I hear that your patient is quite well again this morning?”
“She is much improved,” returned the physician, dryly.
“Then I can get her testimony, which is most important to my case?”
“She is somewhat better. If she cares to see you I do not forbid the interview.”
“Oh, that’s good of you, doctor.” He bowed to Miss Beverley. “Perhaps, Miss, you would ask Madame de Stamer to see me for a few minutes.”
Val Beverley looked at me appealingly then shrugged her shoulders, turned aside, and walked in the direction of Madame de Stamer’s door.
“Well,” said Dr. Rolleston, in his brisk way, shaking me by the hand, “I must be getting along. Good morning, Mr. Knox. Good morning, Inspector Aylesbury.”
He walked rapidly out to his waiting car. The presence of Inspector Aylesbury exercised upon Dr. Rolleston a similar effect to that which a red rag has upon a bull. As he took his departure, the Inspector drew out his pocket- book, and, humming gently to himself, began to consult certain entries therein, with a portentous air of reflection which would have been funny if it had not been so irritating.
Thus we stood when Val Beverley returned, and:
“Madame de Stamer will see you, Inspector Aylesbury,” she said, “but wishes Mr. Knox to be present at the interview.”
“Oh,” said the Inspector, lowering his chin, “I see. Oh, very well.”
Chapter 26 IN MADAME’S ROOM
Madame de Stamer’s apartment was a large and elegant one. From the window-drapings, which were of some light, figured satiny material, to the bed-cover, the lampshades and the carpet, it was French. Faintly perfumed, and decorated with many bowls of roses, it reflected, in its ornaments, its pictures, its slender-legged furniture, the personality of the occupant. In a large, high bed, reclining amidst a number of silken pillows, lay Madame de Stamer. The theme of the room was violet and silver, and to this everything conformed. The toilet service was of dull silver and violet enamel. The mirrors and some of the pictures had dull silver frames, There was nothing tawdry or glittering. The bed itself, which I thought resembled a bed of state, was of the same dull silver, with a coverlet of delicate violet I hue. But Madame’s decollete robe was trimmed with white fur, so that her hair, dressed high upon her head, seemed to be of silver, too.
Reclining there upon her pillows, she looked like some grande dame of that France which was swept away by the Revolution. Immediately above the dressing-table I observed a large portrait of Colonel Menendez dressed as I had imagined he should be dressed when I had first set eyes on him, in tropical riding kit, and holding a broad- brimmed hat in his hand. A strikingly handsome, arrogant figure he made, uncannily like the Velasquez in the library.
At the face of Madame de Stamer I looked long and searchingly. She had not neglected the art of the toilette. Blinds tempered the sunlight which flooded her room; but that, failing the service of rouge, Madame had been pale this morning, I perceived immediately. In some subtle way the night had changed her. Something was gone out of her face, and something come into it. I thought, and lived to remember the thought, that it was thus Marie Antoinette might have looked when they told her how the drums had rolled in the Place de la Revolution on that morning of the twenty-first of January.
“Oh, M. Knox,” she said, sadly, “you are there, I see. Come and sit here beside me, my friend. Val, dear, remain. Is this Inspector Aylesbury who wishes to speak to me?”
The Inspector, who had entered with all the confidence in the world, seemed to lose some of it in the presence of this grand lady, who was so little impressed by the dignity of his office.
She waved one slender hand in the direction of a violet brocaded chair.
“Sit down, Monsieur l’inspecteur,” she commanded, for it was rather a command than an invitation.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat and sat down.
“Ah, M. Knox!” exclaimed Madame, turning to me with one of her rapid movements, “is your friend afraid to face me, then? Does he think that he has failed? Does he think that I condemn him?”
“He knows that he has failed, Madame de Stamer,” I replied, “but his absence is due to the fact that at this hour he is hot upon the trail of the assassin.”
“What!” she exclaimed, “what!”— and bending forward touched my arm. “Tell me again! Tell me again!”
“He is following a clue, Madame de Stamer, which he hopes will lead to the truth.”
“Ah! if I could believe it would lead to the truth,” she said. “If I dared to believe this.”
“Why should it not?”
She shook her head, smiling with such a resigned sadness that I averted my gaze and glanced across at Val Beverley who was seated on the opposite side of the bed.
“If you knew— if you knew.”
I looked again into the tragic face, and realized that this was an older woman than the brilliant hostess I had known. She sighed, shrugged, and:
“Tell me, M. Knox,” she continued, “it was swift and merciful, eh?”
“Instantaneous,” I replied, in a low voice.
“A good shot?” she asked, strangely.
“A wonderful shot,” I answered, thinking that she imposed unnecessary torture upon herself.
“They say he must be taken away, M. Knox, but I reply: not until I have seen him.”
“Madame,” began Val Beverley, gently.
“Ah, my dear!” Madame de Stamer, without looking at the speaker, extended one hand in her direction, the fingers characteristically curled. “You do not know me. Perhaps it is a good job. You are a man, Mr. Knox, and men, especially men who write, know more of women than they know of themselves, is it not so? You will understand that I must see him again?”
“Madame de Stamer,” I said, “your courage is almost terrible.”
