“Thank God,” I murmured. “Her sorrow was pathetic.”
“Only the pure in heart can thank God,” said Madame, strangely, “but I, too, am glad. I have written, here”—she pointed to a little heap of violet note-paper upon a table placed at the opposite side of the bed—“how glad I am.”
Harley and I stared vaguely across at the table. I saw Val Beverley glancing uneasily in the same direction. Save for the writing materials and little heap of manuscript, it held only a cup and saucer, a few sandwiches, and a medicine bottle containing the prescription which Dr. Rolleston had made up for the invalid.
“I am curious to know what you have written, Madame,” declared Harley.
“Yes, you are curious?” she said. “Very well, then, I will tell you, and afterward you may read if you wish.” She turned to me. “You, my friend,” she whispered, and reaching over she laid her jewelled hand upon my arm, “you have spoken with Ysola de Valera this afternoon, they tell me?”
“With Mrs. Camber?” I asked, startled. “Yes, that is true.”
“Ah, Mrs. Camber,” murmured Madame. “I knew her as Ysola de Valera. She is beautiful, in her golden doll way. You think so?” Then, ere I had time to reply: “She told you, I suppose, eh?”
“She told me,” I replied with a certain embarrassment, “that she had met you some years ago in Cuba.”
“Ah, yes, although I told the fat Inspector it was not so. How we lie, we women! And of course she told you in what relation I stood to Juan Menendez?”
“She did not, Madame de Stämer.”