Arnold made his way through the reception hall and across the courtyard. Already the crowd of people was melting away. A policeman stood on guard at the opposite door, and two more at the entrance of the café. The whole of the vestibule where the affair had happened was closed, and the only information which it was possible to collect Arnold gathered from the excited conversations of the little knots of people standing around. In a few minutes he returned to the small reception room. Fenella and Starling looked eagerly up as he entered. They both showed signs of an intense emotion. Starling was even gripping the back of a chair as he spoke.
"What of Rosario?" he demanded.
Arnold hesitated, but only for a moment. The truth, perhaps, was best.
"Rosario is dead," he replied gravely. "He was stabbed to the heart and died within a few seconds."
There was a queer silence. Arnold felt inclined to rub his eyes. Gone was at least part of the horror from their white faces. Fenella sank back in her chair with a little sob which might almost have been of relief. Starling, as though suddenly mindful of the conventions, assumed a grimly dolorous aspect.
"Poor fellow!" he muttered. "And the murderer?"
"He's gotten clean off, for the present at any rate," Arnold told them. "They seem to think that he reached the Strand and had a motor car waiting."
Again there was silence. Then Mrs. Weatherley rose to her feet, glanced for a moment in the looking-glass, and turning round held out both her hands to Arnold.
"You have been so kind to me," she said softly. "I shall not forget it—indeed I shall not. Mr. Starling is going to take me home in his car. Good-bye!"
Arnold held her hands steadfastly and looked into her eyes. They were more beautiful than ever now with their mist of risen tears. But there were other things in her face, things less easy to understand. He turned away regretfully.