"'It is not for me,' said Madame Bertin, as she leaned upon the table and read it. I was laying a sheet upon the body; when I rose she handed it to me. It bore neither name nor address; the poor futile life had blundered out without even this thing completed. It was short, and to some woman. 'Tres-chere amie,' it said; 'once I made a mistake. I have paid for it. You laughed at me once; You would not laugh now. If you could see——'"
The Colonel stopped; the Comtesse was holding out both hands as though supplicating him. Elsie Gray rose and bent over her. The Comtesse put her gently aside.
"You have that letter?" she asked.
The little Colonel passed a hand into a breast pocket and extracted a dainty Russia-leather letter-case. From it he drew a faded writing and handed it to the Comtesse.
"Madame la Comtesse is welcome to the letter," he said. "Pray keep it."
The Comtesse did not read it. She folded it in her thin smooth hands and sighed.
"And then?" she asked.
"This is the end of my tale," said the Colonel. "I took the letter and placed it in my pocket. Madame Bertin watched me imperturbably."
"'I may leave the formalities to you?' she asked me suddenly; 'the notification of death and so on?'"
"I bowed; I had still a difficulty in speaking."