“Your master was in quite good health as he ate his dinner and smoked his cigarette?” I remarked.
“Quite. He came out of the room and standing here I gave him his hat, coat, gloves and stick. After he had put on his coat he drew on his left-hand glove. Suddenly he tore it off again, and rubbing his fingers together impatiently, said: ‘I forgot, Folcker! I’m going to the opera, give me some white gloves.’ They were in the drawer yonder,” the valet said, pointing to a great old carved Flemish cupboard. “So I got them out and handed them to him. He drew one of them on and walked down to the gate to enter the car, when he suddenly fell upon the pavement outside. You see, just yonder,” and he pointed through the open door.
“Why did he rub his fingers together, I wonder?” I remarked. “Was it a habit of his?”
“Not at all, sir. He seemed to have a sudden pain in his fingers.”
“A pain. Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. It has only this moment occurred to me. He flung off the glove and tossed it upon the table. It’s still there—as you see. Then he put on the white gloves and went down the steps and collapsed.”
“His head was affected?”
“Yes, he cried out twice that his head hurt him. The doctors attribute his death to heart failure. But, personally, I doubt it, sir! I’m certain that there was foul play somewhere.”
I crossed to the great carved table which stood on the opposite side of the wide hall, tiled as it was with ancient blue and white Dutch tiles, and from the table took up a pair of well-worn grey suède gloves. They interested me, because after putting one on the Baron had torn it off and rubbed his fingers.
“Is this the glove your master wore when he went to The Hague?” I asked, selecting the left-hand one.