“There were reasons,” he said, “for that. But when you say that she left no message you are mistaken.”
Passmore nodded.
“Go on,” he said.
Mr. Sabin nodded towards a great vase of La France roses upon a side table.
“I found these here on my return,” he said, “and attached to them the card which I believe is still there. Go and look at it.”
Passmore rose and bent over the fragrant blossoms. The card still remained, and on the back of it, in a delicate feminine handwriting:
“For my husband,
“with love from
“Lucille.”
Mr. Passmore shrugged his shoulders. He had not the vice of obstinacy, and he knew when to abandon a theory.
“I am corrected,” he said. “In any case, a mystery remains as well worth solving. Who are these people at whose instigation Duson was to have murdered you—these people whom Duson feared so much that suicide was his only alternative to obeying their behests?”
Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.