He was a kind-hearted man and sent me a wedding present—a silver bootjack to take off my hunting boots with. He said it might be useful to both of us, which was a distinct libel on Dolores' dear little feet.
At last the eve of our wedding came and Claridge's Hotel was filled from basement to roof, principally with the relatives of both families. For a bevy of Dons with their wives and daughters, all kindred of my little Dolores, had crossed the Atlantic, glad of the excuse to visit London, and a contingent from France of the old noblesse, her mother's relatives, had arrived to do honour to the nuptials of the little heiress. And because she was already a large possessor of the goods of this world they brought more to swell it; gold, silver, and precious stones in such quantities that it took two big rooms at Claridge's to contain them, and four detectives to watch them, two by day and two by night.
But among these presents were two which puzzled me greatly—they came anonymously—a rivière of splendid diamonds for Dolores, a splendid motor car for me.
Had she been but a poor relation I fear her display of wedding gifts would have been but a meagre one. As it was, perhaps St. Nivel's terse comment on the "show," as he called it, was nearest to the truth.
"Bill," he said confidentially, "all this splendour is simply barbaric."
But nobody grudged little Dolores her grand wedding, nor the magnificent gifts, for every one loved her.
I was sitting calmly at breakfast on the morning of the day preceding our wedding, with my mind filled to overflowing with the happiness before me, when St. Nivel burst in upon me.
"Look here, Bill," he cried, flourishing a newspaper before my eyes.
"Look here, some one has got his deserts at last!"
I took the paper from him and read the paragraph he pointed to; it was headed—
"Tragic Death of the Duke of Rittersheim."