By a Thread.
I was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when Dick Deane was shown in.
“What’s the matter, old chap? Are you the man in possession here?” he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.
He was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He had been born in Paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to Edinburgh, where he took his degree. Then he had returned to Paris, taken his French degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the French capital. He was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies.
“I’m not in possession,” I answered. “A very serious affair has happened here, and we want your assistance.”
In an instant he became grave, for I suppose my tone showed him that I was in no humour for joking.
“What’s the nature of the affair?” he asked.
“Death,” I replied seriously. “A lady here—a friend of mine—has died mysteriously.”
“A mystery—eh?” he exclaimed, instantly interested. “Tell me about it.”
“This place,” I replied, “belongs to the Countess de Foville, a lady whom I knew well when I was at the Brussels Embassy, and it is her daughter Yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening.”