The men of the world who were present, and the women who knew nearly as much of life, smiled and shrugged their shoulders.
"Well, it is all ancient history," said a bland worldling, with smooth, white hair and a smooth, elderly voice. "The romantic friendship, the murder, the marriage with the romantic friend. Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe. Nothing can matter to anybody now."
"Nothing except who killed Signor Provana," said the lady who had declared she would sooner die than tell anybody her theory of the murder.
CHAPTER XXXII
Father Cyprian Hammond sat alone in the winter gloaming after a hard day's work in his parish, which was a large one, covering several of those obscure little slums that lie hidden behind handsome streets in north-western London. The table had been cleared after his short and simple dinner, and he was half reclining in his deep arm-chair while Sabatier's "Life of St. Francis of Assisi" lay open on the table under the candles that made only a spot of light in the lofty room. It was one of the books which he opened often on an evening of fatigue and depression. The "Life" or the "Fioretti" were books that rested his brain and soothed his spirits.
He lay back in his chair with his eyes closed, not asleep, but resting, and listening with a kind of sensuous pleasure to the light fall of wood ashes on the hearth. His winter fire of old ship logs was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself.
"I told you I would see no one to-night," he said, as his servant came into the room.
"It is Mr. Rutherford, Father, only just back from Italy. He said he was sure you would see him."
"Very good, I will see Mr. Rutherford. You can light the lamp. Come in, Claude," he called to the figure standing outside the door.