There had risen before her the scene Angus had described so simply—the unhappy Cristina trying to save Angus, and of course failing, utterly.
“To tell you the truth, Lily, I felt very tired and stupid. The Count had filled up my wineglass rather often,” he added, smiling. “That does not mean that I was drunk. But still, I did feel rather queer!”
“You mean after dinner?”
“Yes. And yet I was very much alive to the fact that you had not fulfilled your promise to come down, and twice the Countess went upstairs to hurry you. Each time she came back she said you were just coming, and of course I believed her. And then—and then—well, Lily, I suppose the drug they had managed to convey to me, either in the food, or in the wine and liqueur, began to act. As I sat on in the drawing-room, I got desperately drowsy, but I cannot tell at what exact time I fell into the sort of sleep which was practically insensibility.”
“I wonder they didn’t kill you in the house,” said Lily in a strained voice.
“It was much safer to put a bullet into me by the side of the grave they had dug, and then tumble me in,” he said in a matter of fact way. “Popeau is convinced that I was the first of their friends they had ever thought of burying. The others were all so arranged as to convey in each case the impression of suicide.”
Lily Fairfield drew a long breath.
“You have told me everything I wanted to know,” she said, “and we’ll make up our minds, here and now, never to speak of it again!”
“I agree,” he answered quietly. “Popeau knows all I have told you, and he didn’t want me to go into it with you, but it would only have worried you to go on wondering what had happened.”