The death of the noble-hearted baron in the prime of life, the death of the sweet young girl in dawn of youth, were mournful enough even though they died from natural causes, and if they perished by poison administered by treacherous hands their fate was dreadful indeed. And yet it was nothing to be compared with the unutterable horror of that train of misfortunes which threatened the orphan, stranger, the innocent Eudora. And thus other emotions of sorrow for the loss of his near relatives were swallowed up in an anguish of anxiety for the fate of the orphan girl.
And so he strove for self-command, and coolness, and clearness of mind, that he might be prepared to assist at the approaching investigation, in the hope of discovering the truth, and clearing the fame of Eudora.
He paced up and down the library floor until he had obtained the necessary state of calmness to deal with this mystery.
When the doctor had left the library he was met in the hall by a servant, hastening towards him in great agitation, and saying:
“Sir, I was just coming to see you. The Princess Pezzilini begs that you will hasten at once to my lady’s bedside, as her ladyship is in the death-throe!”
Without a word of reply the doctor turned and hurried up the stairs and along the corridor leading to Lady Leaton’s apartments.
When he entered the chamber he found Lady Leaton in violent convulsions, and restrained from throwing herself out of the bed only by the strong arms of the Italian princess, which thrown around her shoulders supported her heaving form.
But, even as the doctor stepped up to the bedside, her form relaxed and became supple as that of an infant.
The princess laid the head back upon the pillow. Her eyes closed, and the ashen hue of death overspread her features.
The doctor took up her left hand, and placed his fingers upon the pulse. But that pulse was still, and that hand was the hand of the dead. He laid it gently down, and turning, looked upon those gathered around the bed.