At eight o’clock on the evening of the third day the door of the flat was flung open by Ivan in response to my summons.
“Is the Princess at home?” I asked of the grave-faced old man.
“Alas, m’sieur,” he replied in a grief-stricken voice, “Madame is dead.”
“Dead!” I gasped. “When did she die?”
“She—she has been murdered!” he exclaimed in an awed tone. “I discovered her body two hours ago. The doctor and police are now in her room.”
I rushed along the hall to the apartment in which I heard low voices. It was a large, well-furnished bedchamber dimly illuminated by two candles. Upon a couch near the window lay the body of the Princess wrapped in a white Cashmere shawl, the breast of which was only slightly stained with blood.
Heedless of the doctor and two police inspectors who were conversing together, I went over to the body and gazed upon it.
What I saw amazed me. I staggered, yet by presence of mind managed to conceal my agitation.
The fair, handsome face of the Princess had been slashed with the knife in the form of a cross, and the mutilation gave it a terribly ghastly appearance.