“My dear sir, what has all this to do with our matters?”
“Bear with me a moment, please.”
“Go on, then.”
“The jewels which my father displayed with seeming recklessness were of very great value—they were worth another sum equal to the amount he had with him in cash. My father was not a person given to needless display, and so you may assume that there was a definite purpose in his conduct in making a display of them, and in his reckless expenditure of money also. All that formed a part of his mission there.”
“I understand you. Well?”
“Now, will you tell me what more you heard about his death?”
“No. I will not say any more on the subject now.”
“Then I will tell you—for I perceive that you hesitate only to spare my feelings, and I honor you for it. While in Paris, he was very much in the company of a woman who had at that time, and has since had, many names. To the police she was known as ‘The Leopard.’ Am I correct?”
“Quite so.”
“My father made his home in a palace which he had taken, furnished, in the Faubourg St. Germain. He was found dead in the library of that palace one afternoon, with a bullet hole in his brain. There was a pistol beside him, and a partly written note on the table near him, telling that he had decided to kill himself. The last person who was in his company before that happened was ‘The Leopard,’ the beautiful young woman in whose company he had been seen so often.