“Well, yes,” Dallas said grimly; “I don’t see how the matter can rest here. We know perfectly well that Mrs. Delahay was away from her hotel for upwards of two hours on the night of her husband’s death. It has been proved that she was seen in his company. And yet, at the first outset, she declares that she has not been outside her bedroom. One doesn’t like to come to conclusions; they are fatal things to form in our profession. But it seems to me pretty obvious that there is one person who could clear up this mystery, and she happens to be the dead man’s wife.”
Lance had nothing to say in objection to this. Still, at the same time, there was a haunting doubt in the back of his mind that circumstances were shaping themselves against Maria Delahay apart from any faults of her own.
“You haven’t enough to justify an immediate arrest, I suppose?” he asked. “You see what I mean?”
“Oh, I see perfectly well what you mean, sir,” Inspector Dallas replied. “There is nothing to gain by such a course. It is impossible for the woman to get away. Indeed, we should take immediate steps to prevent her leaving the country. If she is the guilty party, she will be much more use to us as a free woman than she would be as a suspected criminal under lock and key. But, unless I am mistaken, Mr. Lance, you came here to tell me something.”
“I had clean forgotten all about it,” Lance exclaimed. “But as it is getting late now, if you don’t mind I will leave it till the morning. It is a long story.”
A few moments later and Lance was retracing his steps in the direction of the Grand Hotel. He was going to do wrong; he was going to do something which, sooner or later, might land him in serious trouble, but that did not deter him for a moment. In the hall of the hotel he scribbled a hasty note, and sent it up to Mrs. Delahay. A message came down in a moment or two to say that Mrs. Delahay would be pleased to see Mr. Lance.
He found her waiting in the sitting-room, just as cold and pale and impassive as before.
“You have something very important?” she asked.
“Indeed, I have,” Lance exclaimed. “I want you to believe that I am actuated entirely by the friendliest motives, and if I speak plainly you will understand that I am not wanting in feeling. I have been with Inspector Dallas tonight and he introduced me to an Italian detective whose name is Berti. The latter assures me that his name is quite familiar to you.”
“He is quite mistaken,” Mrs. Delahay said in her cold, even voice. “I don’t know anybody of that name. As to a policeman, I never had the honour of speaking to one in my life.”
“You are quite certain of that?”
“Absolutely. If it were true, what should I have to gain by denying it? If you have anything to say to me, it will be far better to speak quite plainly.”
The woman spoke quietly enough. It was impossible to believe that she was wilfully deceiving her questioner.
“Very well, then,” Lance said, “I may as well tell you that this man Berti was the detective who had the Flavio case in hand. You will remember, of course, what an extraordinary sensation that drama caused in Italy many years ago.”
“Did it?” Mrs. Delahay said indifferently. “I never had the slightest interest in that kind of thing. So far as this particular case is concerned, I never heard of it before.”
Lance could only stare in astonishment. She was speaking and acting now just as, according to Berti, the Countess Flavio had behaved before and during the trial. Was she the sport of circumstance, or was she the woman she denied herself to be?
XVII
Looking Backwards
“That is very strange,” Lance murmured. “I am told that the trial in question was the talk of Europe for two or three years. I believe the papers were full of it at the time. And yet you don’t seem to have heard of it. Isn’t the name of Flavio familiar to you at all? It is not a common name.”
As Lance spoke he saw a swift and subtle change pass over the face of his companion. A flame of colour stained either cheek; then it was gone, leaving her still more ghastly white than before.
“I have not told you quite the truth,” the woman said; “but in twenty years one forgets even the keenest of sorrows. Now I come to think of it, the name of Flavio reminds me of one of the most unhappy experiences in my existence. There was a certain Count Flavio whose estates joined those of my father. For some generations there had been a deep and bitter feud existing between the Flavios and the Descartis. The head of the Flavios was a very old man, who had two sons. Not to make a long story of it, the young people met, and fell in love with each other: the young people on one side being my sister and myself. The intrigue was found out, of course, and for the next ten years I was practically a prisoner in my father’s house. He had a
