“What is all this about the discovery at Vaux House?” Count Prosper asked.
“Oh, we are to have the whole account to-morrow in the papers,” his sister replied. “We can scarcely trouble Mr. Greetland to go over the story again.”
The Mayfair newsman seemed not disinclined to repeat the recitation to a, perhaps, more appreciative listener; but the Count, accustomed to take his sister’s slightest hint, abandoned any further show of curiosity. But he said presently, “We were at that ball at Vaux House, weren’t we, Alix? Yes; I recollect poor Martindale. Good-looking fellow he was.”
“You remember the sensation his death caused,” Sir Perrott said. “Half the smart women in town, married and single, were supposed to be hit by it.”
Doctor Hallamar’s smile had faded. He was not interested and he showed it.
Baron de Daun and Dormer Greetland rose to go at the same time. Greetland’s adieux were the more lengthy; he had so many social loose ends to tie up. It seemed when he reached the hall that de Daun must have been waiting for him. They went out together.
“Serious thing this about Vaux House,” the Baron remarked, in quite a concerned voice. “I say, Greetland, between ourselves, was the Countess,” he gave a jerk of the head in the direction of the house they had just left, “one of the women talked of with Martindale?”
“I fancy she was,” the other answered, looking straight in front of him.
Tatler as he was, he knew de Daun, and did not care to be pumped to serve the thirst of that blatant young diplomat.