"And the names on it?"
"They were those of a Frenchman, Jean de Courtois, and of an English lady, Hermione Beauregard Grandison."
"So you have imagined that the man who was killed was this Monsieur Jean de Courtois?"
For the life of him, Curtis could not prevent the tumultuous pumping of his heart from drawing some of the color from his face.
"Who else?" he inquired, never flinching from Steingall's searching gaze.
"No matter who owned the coat, or whom the license was intended for, the murdered man was no Frenchman, but a New York journalist named Henry R. Hunter," said Steingall.
Then Curtis yielded to the swift conviction that he had unwittingly trapped Lady Hermione into a marriage on grounds that were inadequate and false.
"Good God!" he muttered, and, for the moment, it was impossible for his hearers to resist the dreadful inference that, in some shape or form, he was implicated in the outrage which bulked so large in their minds. Mrs. Curtis wanted to scream aloud, but she dared not. Even Devar was staggered by his friend's unaccountable attitude. The only outwardly unmoved individual present was Horace P. Curtis. He turned and pressed an electric bell; Steingall glared at him, so he explained his action.
"I feel like a highball," he said blandly. "I guess Mrs. Curtis could do with one also. In fact, five highballs would be a bully good notion."