"Pardon me! I withdraw the unnecessary adjective."
The count bowed. "And a statement on my part——" he murmured.
"Would be of great value to me at the present moment. And so I have ventured to write to you, as one gentleman to another, to beg your assistance."
"And the question?" The count's voice was like velvet. He outlined a pattern of the carpet with his cane.
The ambassador regarded him somewhat sternly. "How did you spend the evening of the eighteenth of this month?"
The count's composure did not fail him. Not a muscle of his face moved under the sharp scrutiny of his questioner, but he hesitated a perceptible moment.
"The eighteenth?" He wrinkled his brows, in an effort at recollection. "Pardon me!" He took out a small, black, leather-bound book. "I sometimes scribble in it my random thoughts," he explained. "It may contain something which will aid my memory of that particular night. Ah!" His face beamed. "Here it is! The night of the eighteenth, I was at the opera with Lady Dinsmore and her charming niece. Afterwards, I had a most interesting conversation with Mr. Van Ingen, in which he confided to me—ah!—his age." He looked up brightly.
"Is that helpful?"
The ambassador smiled grimly. "And then?"
"Then we parted. I strolled for perhaps ten minutes, and took a taxi-cab home." He appeared to reflect a moment. "I went directly to my study, and wrote for some time—several hours, perhaps. Later, I read." He paused, and then added: "I am not, at any time, an insatiable sleeper. Four, or five hours at best, are all that I can manage. That morning it was dawn when I retired, and a faint, ghostly light was filtering through the shutters. I remember flinging them wide to look out, and wondering what the new day would bring to the world. It brought," he concluded quietly, "great grief to my dear friends."