She laughed scornfully.
“It is ingenious,” she admitted, “and perhaps a little unfortunate for me. But the inference is ridiculous. What interest had I in the man’s death?”
“None, of course!” the Prince said. “But, Lucille, in all cases of poisoning it is the wife of whom one first thinks!”
“The wife? I did not even know that the creature had a wife.”
“Of course not! But Duson drank from Mr. Sabin’s glass, and you are Mr. Sabin’s wife. You are living apart from him. He is old and you are young. And for the other man—there is Reginald Brott. Your names have been coupled together, of course. See what an excellent case stands there. You procure the poison—secretly. You make your way to your husband’s room—secretly. The fatal dose is taken from your husband’s wineglass. You leave no note, no message. The poison of which the man died is exactly the same as you procured from Sachs. Lucille, after all, do you wonder that the police are looking for a woman in black with an ermine toque? What a mercy you wore a thick veil!”
She sat down suddenly.
“This is hideous,” she said.
“Think it over,” he said, “step by step. It is wonderful how all the incidents dovetail into one another.”
“Too wonderful,” she cried. “It sounds like some vile plot to incriminate me. How much had you to do with this, Prince?”
“Don’t be a fool!” he answered roughly. “Can’t you see for yourself that your arrest would be the most terrible thing that could happen for us? Even Sachs might break down in cross-examination, and you—well, you are a woman, and you want to live. We should all be in the most deadly peril. Lucille, I would have spared you this anxiety if I could, but your defiance made it necessary. There was no other way of getting you away from England to-night except by telling you the truth.”