“Not dead!” she cried, starting up and crossing to it. “Why, he died at Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had.”
“No,” I replied, rather amused. “That is the Honourable Roderick Morgan, member of Parliament.”
“Yes, that was the name,” she said aloud to herself. “Roddy Morgan they called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette.”
“He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo,” I observed, standing beside her.
“You’ve not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?” she said.
“No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me.”
“Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless as he was.”
The idea that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo seemed utterly absurd, nevertheless in order to convince her that he was still very much alive I picked up the paper and pointed to his name in the Parliamentary debate of the previous night.
“It is strange, very strange!” she said, reflecting. “I was in the Rooms when he shot himself. While sitting at one of the tables I saw them carry him away dead.”
“You must have made some mistake,” I suggested.