The whole thing passed in a few seconds, the priest proceeded with the last sentences, and pronounced the benediction, and Starr, his brain awhirl with wild conjectures, looked once more at the girl.
She was standing with bowed head and downcast eyes, in an attitude of reverence, her hands clasped on her breast, and he wondered if his eyes had deceived him just now. Then he noticed that one of her black gloves was split right across—plain to see even at that distance, for her white hand gleamed through the rent—and knew he had not been mistaken. She had clenched her hands in that spasm of fury. The glove was evidence!
She loved Boris Melikoff; she hated that dead woman with a hatred that even the grave could not mitigate.
Was this the clue he sought? Who was she? What was her connection with Cacciola—with Melikoff? He must learn that without delay.
Cacciola was already hastening towards Boris and his friends, while the girl remained with Giulia, and Austin would have followed, but was intercepted by Mr. Twining, the lawyer, who had held a brief colloquy with Thomson, and now hurried up to the little group of journalists.
“Mr. Starr? I believe you and these gentlemen are representatives of the Press? I represent Sir Robert Rawson on this solemn occasion, and, speaking in his name, I beg of you not to give any publicity to the painful little incident you have just witnessed—I mean the incident with the flowers. It cannot be of any public interest whatever, and its publication would add to the distress of Sir Robert and—er—possibly of others. Can I rely upon you not to mention it?”
The undertaking was given, of course, and the journalists hurried off, with the exception of Austin, detained this time by Thomson.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like a few minutes’ conversation, and as I know you are pressed for time, would you accept the use of the car, one of Sir Robert’s that I am to return in, and permit me to accompany you? We can drive straight to your destination.”
Austin accepted with alacrity, and they entered a closed car, which had come laden with flowers, whose heavy, sickly fragrance still clung about it.
“I am sure you will excuse the liberty, sir,” said Thomson, in his precise, respectful way. “I would have liked to have a word with you yesterday when you called on Sir Robert, but it was impossible.”