As I stood there—the watchful caretaker with his eye upon me, wondering no doubt—I again took in every detail. My return held me more than ever puzzled.
“What is the room beyond?” I asked.
“Oh! That’s the mistress’s bedroom,” he replied. “A curious fancy to have her room next to the library. But it’s one of the best rooms in the house. The master hates London. He lives all the time in Italy, and is only over here just for a week or two in spring, and a week or so before Christmas.”
“I’d like to see that room,” I said, affecting ignorance.
He took me in.
In a second I saw that nothing had been changed since I had stood there at the death-bed of Gabrielle Engledue a little over a month ago.
There was the handsome bed-chamber with its inlaid cupboards, its great dressing-table, and its fine bed—the bed upon which the beautiful young woman had been lying dead. But now the bed had been re-made and its quilted coverlet of pale pink silk was undisturbed.
The corpse had been removed and buried upon my certificate!
I sniffed to see whether I could detect that curious odour of pot-pourri, but in vain. The air seemed fresh and not stifling as it had been on that well-remembered night.
Upon a side table stood a large photograph in a silver frame. I bent to look at it, whereupon the caretaker said: