"Oh, a good deal. I may as well tell it to you, or no doubt Lady Crichton will. People exaggerate so much."
"Why—what is there to exaggerate about?"
"The inquest was held," Valentine answered. "And every effort was made to find the woman who came with Marr to the hotel and evaporated so mysteriously, but there was no one to identify her. The Frenchman had not noticed her features, and the housemaid, as you remember, was a fool, and could only say she was a common-looking person."
"Well," Julian said, rather eagerly, "but what was the cause of death?"
"That was entirely obscure. The body seemed healthy—at least the various organs were sound. There was no obvious reason for death, and the verdict was, simply, 'Died from failure of the heart's action.'"
"Vague, but comprehensive."
"Yes; I suppose we shall all die strictly from the same cause."
"And that is all?"
"Not quite. It appears that a description of the dead man got into the papers and that he was identified by his wife, who read the account in some remote part of the country, took the train to town, and found that Marr was, as she suspected, the man whom she had married, from whom she had separated, and whose real name was Wilson, the Wilson of a notorious newspaper case. Do you remember it?"
"What, an action against a husband for gross cruelty, for incredible, unspeakable inhumanity—some time ago?"