“Yes,” he replied, “more complications—serious ones.”
“Serious!” her ladyship gasped, turning instantly pale. “Is the truth known?” she demanded quickly. “Tell me at once; don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Be patient for a moment, and I’ll explain my object in calling,” the Doctor said gravely. “Compose yourself, and listen.”
The Countess of Marshfield drew her skirts around her and moved uneasily in her chair. She was well known in London society, a woman whose eccentricities had for years afforded plenty of food for the gossips, and whose very name was synonymous with senile coquetry. Her age was fully sixty-five, yet like many other women of position, she delighted in the delusion that she was still young, attractive, and fascinating. Her attitude towards young marriageable men would have been nauseating were it not so absolutely ludicrous; and the way in which she manipulated her fan at night caused her to be ridiculed by all the exclusive set in which she moved.
The dead earl, many years her senior, had achieved brilliant success in the Army, and his name was inscribed upon the roll of England’s heroes. Ever since his death, twenty years ago, however, she had been notable on account of her foolish actions, her spasmodic generosity to various worthless institutions, her wild speculations in rotten companies, and her extraordinary eccentricities. As she sat waiting for her visitor to commence, her thin blue lips twitched nervously, and between her eyes was the deep furrow that appeared there whenever she was unduly agitated. But even then she could not resist the opportunity for coquetry, for, taking up her small ivory fan, she opened it, and, slowly waving it to and fro, glanced at him across it, her lips parted in a smile.
But of all men Malvano was one of the least susceptible to feminine blandishments, especially those of such a painfully ugly, artificial person as Lady Marshfield; therefore, heedless of her sudden change of manner towards him, he said bluntly—
“The police have already discovered some facts regarding Vittorina.”
“Of her past?” she cried, starting forward.
“No, of her death,” he answered.
“Have they discovered whether or not it was murder?” she inquired, her bejewelled hand trembling perceptibly.