"Trouble. I was born to trouble, my dear. Everything that could go wrong with me went wrong. I tried the stage, and failed. I became a lecturer, and lost my voice--you hear how hoarse it is still. I went to America as a lady's-maid, and was stranded there in San Francisco. I worked as a typist; I laboured in a laundry; I took to reporting; I edited a woman's paper, and did all I could to keep myself above water. As a reporter I was sent to Paris in the interests of the paper. It failed, and I went in for massaging people. Then--well, to make a long story short, I learnt from a friend of mine in Paris all kinds of secrets about the art of making women beautiful. It struck me that I might start in London. I came back and wrote to Dora. There was no difficulty in finding her, as she was by this time Lady Branwin, the wife of a millionaire. I am bound to say that Dora behaved very well. She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but managed in some way to get enough to start me in this business. Then--" Madame Coralie stopped abruptly, with a gesture. "That's all, my dear."
"And does the business pay?" asked Audrey, mindful of what Ralph had said regarding the difficulties of the woman before her.
"Yes. That is, it would pay if I could only get in the money. But all my clients, being women of fashion, are such bad payers--they ask for years of credit. Then there's Eddy, who is extravagant. I was a fool to marry him; but I did so for companionship. I bought him, so to speak, so we understand one another perfectly. Of course, poor Dora's death has done a lot of harm to me; but now that I have money to fall back on, I hope to pull round. It is weary work, though," said Madame Coralie, looking very old--"weary work."
"I am glad that you have saved money," said Audrey, who could not but acknowledge that her aunt was marvellously candid.
"Saved money! My dear, have you not been listening to what I have been saying? How could I save money with Eddy's extravagance and these customers who never will pay their bills. It was Dora who came to my rescue. She gave me her diamonds, poor dear."
Audrey jumped up amazed. "Gave you her diamonds?" she echoed. "But you said at the inquest--"
"I know perfectly well what I said at the inquest and what I am saying to you," interrupted Madame Coralie, sharply. "I denied that I knew anything of the diamonds. For obvious reasons I did so. If I had admitted possession of the diamonds, I would have been suspected as the person who strangled your mother. No one knew that Dora and I were sisters."
"You could have explained at--"
"No," said Madame Coralie, positively, "I could not have explained, for my story would have appeared to be merely a made-up one to account for the possession of the jewels. Of course, the resemblance--for Dora and I were wonderfully alike, save for this birthmark--would have hinted that I was speaking the truth. But in that case I should have had to remove my yashmak, and then all the world would have known of this disfigurement. It would have ruined my business, my dear."
Audrey looked bewildered. "But if my mother was not strangled for the sake of the diamonds, why was she killed?"