“Let Stepan return when he will, or never return, it does not matter,” he said impatiently. What did small things like this matter? A carriage stranded, two helpless and drugged women inside, recognised later on. By the time this could be brought home to him, he would be in such a position that he could hush-up all inquiries.
He strolled round to the Villa Quéro. The servant who opened the door knew him well, of course.
“I am grieved to tell you, Excellency, that our dear mistress died in the early hours of the morning.”
“I am very grieved to hear it,” said the hypocritical Zouroff. “I heard that she was taken ill at the Opera yesterday evening. It was sudden, was it not?”
“Very sudden, your Excellency. The doctor seems to think that she was poisoned.”
“Poisoned! Good Heavens!” cried Zouroff. “But who could want to poison such a charming woman, so generally beloved?”
The servant shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, who can tell? Perhaps some envious rival. The post-mortem may possibly tell us something.”
The Prince walked away quite easy in his mind. Yes, no doubt, the post-mortem would tell them something—that la Quéro had been done to death by a very subtle poison. But he had reasoned it all well out.
It would be proved that he had shared a light repast with La Belle Quéro that same evening. It might be proved that he had brought her a box of chocolates, out of which two were missing.