“Yolande de Foville!” he repeated, with knit brows. “She was a friend of yours once, if I mistake not?” he added, looking me straight in the face.
“Yes, Dick, she was,” I responded. “I told you of her long ago.”
“You loved her once?”
“Yes,” I answered with difficulty, “I loved her once.”
“And how did the unfortunate affair occur?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. “Tell me the whole story.”
“I called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her,” I said. “Then I left and returned straight to the Embassy—”
“You left her here?” he inquired, interrupting. “Yes, in this very room. But it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead.”
“Curious!” he ejaculated. “Has a medical man seen her?”
“No. The Countess sent for me as being one of her daughter’s most intimate friends, and I, in turn, sent for you.”
“Where is the poor young lady?”