“I do not remember the name. Possibly he is some person we have met while travelling.”
“Yolande knew him, I believe, in Brussels,” I remarked. “He appeared to be acquainted with you.”
“My daughter’s friends are not always mine,” she remarked coldly, with that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once returned to the discussion of Yolande and the probability of her recovery.
This puzzled me. I felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. She had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. What it was, however, I could not determine.
She was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, Dick opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:
“Can I speak with you a moment, Ingram?” She dashed to the door in eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her that Yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.
“Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame,” he urged. “Your daughter, I am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept absolutely quiet. I cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext whatsoever.”
“She will not die, will she?” the woman implored distractedly.
“No,” he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, I thought, “she will not die. Of that you may rest assured.”
Then turning to me, he beckoned, and I followed him out of the room.
Chapter Eight
The Old Love
“I don’t like that woman, old fellow,” were the first words Dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.
“Why not?” I asked, rather surprised. “The Countess de Foville is always charming.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. This is one of mine.”
“And Yolande,” I asked, “what of her?”
“She’s better. But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I did, or she would no doubt have passed away. I never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I’d have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life.”
“But what was the cause of it all?” I demanded. “You surely know the reason?”
“No, we cannot yet tell,” he answered. “The marks puzzle us. That mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. At present we can say nothing.”
“Then why did you call me out?”
“Because I want to consult you,” he replied. “The fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which I don’t like at all. And, moreover, the few seconds during which I’ve seen the Countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth.”
I nodded. This was exactly my own theory. “Do you think Yolande has been the victim of foul play?” I inquired a moment later.
“That’s my suspicion,” he responded. “But only she herself can tell us the truth.”
“You really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?” I cried incredulously.
“Personally, I think there can be no doubt.”
“But by whom? No one called here after my departure.”
“It is that mystery which we must elucidate,” he said. “All I fear is, however, that she may render us no assistance.”
“Why?”
“Because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to preserve the secret. She must not see the Countess before we question her.”
“Is she yet conscious?” I asked in eagerness.
“Yes; but at present we must put no question to her.”
“Thank Heaven!” I gasped. Then I added, fervently grasping my friend’s hand: “You cannot realise, Dick, what great consolation this is to me!”
“I know, my dear fellow – I know,” he answered sympathetically. “But may I speak to you as a friend? You won’t be offended at anything I am about to say, will you?”
“Offended? – certainly not. Our friendship is too firm for that, Dick. What is it you wish to say?”
I saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity.
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think that in this affair you’ve told me exactly the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired quickly.
“I mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not altogether good friends.”
“You are mistaken,” I assured him. “We were as good friends as ever before.”
“No high words passed between you?”
“None.”
“And nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief? Are you quite certain of this?” he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his glasses.
“I made one observation which certainly caused her surprise,” I admitted. “Nothing else.”
“Was it only surprise?” he asked very calmly.
“Surprise mingled with fear.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this admission of mine. “And may I not know the nature of the information you gave her?”
“No, Dick,” I responded. “It is a secret – her secret.”
He was silent.
“You refuse to tell me?” he said disappointedly.
“I am unable,” I replied.
“And if I judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?”
“No, it is not,” I answered. “That’s the most curious part of the whole affair. The very existence of the secret has brought us together again.”
“You mean that you have forsaken Edith and returned to her?” he observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise.
“No; don’t put it in that way,” I implored. “I have not yet forsaken Edith.”
He smiled, just a trifle superciliously, I thought.
“And the Countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret – eh?”
“Of
