"Absolutely. The other was a blonde with Titian hair. And she has been dead for years."
Virginia said no more, and appeared to forget the Portuguese countess. But when Lady Gardiner complained of being tired, and went off to bed, that she might be fresh for sight-seeing next morning, also to write a puzzled letter to the Marchese Loria, Virginia remained. George Trent had gone to a Cairene theatre, and she and Roger were alone together.
Scarcely had the door closed upon Kate Gardiner, when the girl sprang up from her chair, and before Roger knew what she meant to do, was sitting on a divan beside him, her hand on his sleeve.
"Roger," she exclaimed, "I thank you a thousand, thousand times for insisting that I should come here."
"You haven't seen anything yet," he returned. "Thank me after to-morrow."
"It's the most wonderful thing in the world that we should have come," she went on. "If we had employed the cleverest detectives in Paris and London they might never have discovered what chance, merest chance—if there is such a thing as chance—has put into our hands to-night."
"What are you talking about, dear child?" asked Roger.
"I'm talking about Liane Devereux, the actress that Maxime Dalahaide is supposed to have murdered. You've been very good, Roger. I've appreciated it, for you never believed in his innocence. Now you must believe, in spite of yourself, since she is here, calling herself the Countess de Mattos."
Roger stared at her in amazement. "But this is madness, dear," he said. "Liane Devereux was murdered; whether Maxime Dalahaide or another was her murderer, there is no possible doubt that she is dead. You can't know the story as well as I thought you did, if you don't put that beyond questioning."
"I tell you, Liane Devereux is in this house, and Providence sent me here to see her. It's that which is beyond question."