Hillard opened the door. "What's the trouble, Dan?" he asked.
Merrihew closed the door and whispered: "Dead!" As the light from the window fell upon his face it disclosed pale cheeks and widely opened eyes.
"Who?" Hillard's heart contracted. "In God's name, who?"
"The prince. They found him and his horse at the bottom of the gorge. There was a broken place in the road, and over this they had gone. The concierge says that there has been foul play. Tracks in the dust, a strange cut in the neck of the horse, and a scabbard minus its saber. Now, what the devil shall I do with the blamed sword?"
Dead! Hillard sat down on the edge of the bed. Dead! Then she was free, free.
"What shall I do with it?" demanded Merrihew a second time.
"The sword? You really brought it?"
"Yes. And if they find us with it—"
"Put it in the bottom of the trunk and leave it there till you land in New York. But the prince dead? You are sure?"
"All Florence is ringing with the story of the ball, the wind-up, and the tragedy. He's dead, no doubt of it. Shall we go up to the villa this morning?"