"You say the Brabetz palace is next door?" demanded Chase, steadying his voice with an effort.
"Yes—the old Flaurebert mansion. The Princess was to have been the social sensation of Paris this year. She's a wonderful beauty, you know."
"Was to have been?"
"She married that rotten Brabetz last June—but, of course, you never heard of it out there in what's-the-name-of-the-place. You may have heard of his murder, however. His mistress shot him in Brussels----"
"Great God, man!" gasped Chase, clutching his arm in a grip of iron.
"The devil, Chase!" cried the other, amazed. "What's the matter?"
"He's dead? Murdered? How—when? Tell me about it," cried Chase, his agitation so great that James looked at him in wonder.
"'Gad, you seem to be interested!"
"I am! Where is she—I mean the Princess? And the other woman?"
"Cool off, old man. People are staring at you. It's not a long story. Brabetz was shot three weeks ago at a hotel in Brussels. He'd been living there for two months, more or less, with the woman. In fact, he left Paris almost immediately after he was married to the Princess Genevra. The gossip is that she wouldn't live with him. She'd found out what sort of a dog he was. They didn't have a honeymoon and they didn't attempt a bridal tour. Somehow, they kept the scandal out of the papers. Well, he hiked out of Paris at the end of a week, just before the 14th. The police had asked the woman to leave town. He followed. Dope fiend, they say. The bride went into seclusion at once. She's never to be seen anywhere. The woman shot him through the head and then took a fine dose of poison. They tried to save her life, but couldn't. It was a ripping news story. The prominence of the----"