Bellamy pointed once more to the newspaper.
“He was murdered last night, within fifty yards of the place of our rendezvous.”
A little exclamation broke from Louise’s lips. She sat down suddenly. The color called into her cheeks by the exercise of her bath was rapidly fading away.
“David,” she murmured, “is this true?”
“It is indeed,” Bellamy assured her. “Not only that, but there is no mention of his pocket-book in the account of his murder. It must have been engineered by Streuss and the others, and they have got away with the pocket-book and the money.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
“There is nothing to be done,” Bellamy declared calmly. “We are defeated. The thing is quite apparent. Von Behrling never succeeded, after all, in shaking off the espionage of the men who were watching him. They tracked him to our rendezvous, they waited about while I met him. Afterwards, he had to pass along a narrow passage. It was there that he was found murdered.”
“But, David, I don’t understand! Why did they wait until after he had seen you? How did they know that he had not parted with the paper in the restaurant? To all intents and purposes he ought to have done so.”
“I cannot understand that myself,” Bellamy admitted. “In fact, it is inexplicable.”
She took up the newspaper and glanced at the report. Then, “You are sure, I suppose, that this does refer to Von Behrling? He is quite unidentified, you see.”