“And yet you parted ill friends in Brussels?” she observed in a tone of distinct suspicion. “You had some motive in calling. What was it?”
I hesitated. I could not tell her that I suspected her daughter to be a spy.
“In order to assure her of my continued good friendship.”
She smiled, rather superciliously I thought.
“But how did the terrible affair occur?”
“We have no idea,” answered the Countess brokenly. “She was found lying upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. Jean, the valet-de-chambre, on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead.”
“Astounding!” I gasped. “She was in perfect health when I left her.”
She shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief, declared:
“My child has been killed—murdered!”
“Murdered! Impossible!” I cried.