“It would have happened somewhere else,” said the Frenchman philosophically. “And now, if Madame la Comtesse will also put her signature to this statement, I shall not trouble you any more, ladies and gentlemen.”
He waited a moment. “By great good luck, Mr. Ponting’s partner happened to be in Monte Carlo this afternoon. One of my men came across him in front of the Casino—they have all grown only too familiar with his appearance. He is, of course, very much distressed, and, what is more, foolishly convinced that his friend did not kill himself!”
“How can anyone feel any doubt about it?” cried Count Polda. “Everything points to the fact that the unhappy man, after leaving us, went off and shot himself. We all thought him very excited, and in a strange kind of mood—did we not?” he glanced at his wife, and at Lily.
“The funeral will take place to-morrow morning at the English cemetery,” went on the police-agent. “And that ends the story.”
“Would you like to interrogate my English niece?” asked the Countess suavely. She was beginning to recover her composure.
“No, I do not think it will be necessary. My chief himself saw the young lady, and heard what she had to say.”
He took his hat from one of the chairs. “And now,” he said politely, “I must bid you au revoir, and I hope it will be a long time before we have occasion to meet again!”
“Would you like to go out by this short way?” asked the Count obligingly. He opened a window, and the man, who Lily now felt sure was “the bloodhound,” passed rapidly through it, with a bow and a smile, and began walking across the lawn.
The Countess suddenly touched her husband’s arm. “Run after him,” she exclaimed, “and ask at what time the funeral will take place. I think it would be a mark of respect on your part to attend.”
He hesitated perceptibly.