“The room was just as m’sieur sees it now,” she answered, with a wave of her hand.
I glanced around, but as far as I could distinguish it was exactly as I had left it.
“There was no mark of violence—nothing to show that mademoiselle had been the victim of foul play?”
“Nothing, m’sieur.”
Could it have been a case of suicide? I wondered. Yolande’s words before I had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man Wolf who had so suddenly arrived in Paris—the man who exercised upon her some mysterious influence, the nature of which I could not guess.
“It was not more than fifteen minutes after I had left, you say?” I inquired.
“No, m’sieur, not more.”
“Mademoiselle had no other visitor?”
“No, m’sieur. Of that we are all certain.”
“And the Countess, where was she during the time I was here?”