"Are you sure? How and where did she die?"
"In Avignon. In a house close behind the Pope's Palace. Surely you remember? You were there."
"I wasn't there. I swear I was not. When we were in Avignon we were all happy together. Alice with me, and you with Lilla."
"My dear boy, your memory is at fault. Did you not stay in Avignon while Lilla and I motored to Paris? Now think! Did you not take an apartment in the Rue Cardinale, and remain after our departure? Alice, your wife, died there! Why, only a few minutes ago you deplored her loss!"
"Yes. But how can I be certain that she is dead?" asked the other dubiously.
"Because I tell you she is. I'm not a liar!" cried Boyne fiercely, again assuming an overbearing attitude.
"But I want to go home—to see my home again—the garden—the flowers—and Alice."
"You'll never see her again. And you are safer here. So you had better go back to your room and keep a still tongue. And be careful not to make a noise. You made a horrible row the other night."
"I didn't!"
"Yes, you did. I could hear you moving about above me. You should move your bed across to the other side, near the trap-door that goes out on to the roof of which you are so fond."