The Old Love.
“I don’t like that woman, old fellow,” were the first words Dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.
“Why not?” I asked, rather surprised. “The Countess de Foville is always charming.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. This is one of mine.”
“And Yolande,” I asked, “what of her?”
“She’s better. But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I did, or she would no doubt have passed away. I never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I’d have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life.”
“But what was the cause of it all?” I demanded. “You surely know the reason?”
“No, we cannot yet tell,” he answered. “The marks puzzle us. That mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. At present we can say nothing.”
“Then why did you call me out?”