might easily be supposed, and this we believe is the view taken at Police Headquarters, that for a motive as yet unknown, a motive the judicial examination will certainly bring to light, the artist has poisoned his patroness; and, in order to put the authorities on the wrong scent (perhaps he hoped she would leave the studio before the death-agony commenced), he has devised this species of tableau, invented the story of the masked men.
In fact, the doctor who first attended him has declared that the puncture, clumsily made, might very well have been done by Jacques Dollon himself.
It is worth noting that not a soul saw the Baroness de Vibray enter Monsieur Dollon's house yesterday evening: as a rule, she comes in her motor-car, and all the neighbourhood can hear her arrival.
It seems evident that Jacques Dollon will abandon the line of defence he has adopted: it can hardly be described as rational.
There is little doubt but that we shall have sensational revelations regarding the crime of the rue Norvins.
Last Hour
Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon, to whom Police Headquarters has telegraphed that a serious accident has happened to her brother, has sent a reply telegram from Lausanne to the effect that she will return to-night.
The unfortunate girl is probably ignorant of all that has occurred. Nevertheless, we believe that two detectives have left at once for the frontier, where they will meet her, and shadow her as far as Paris, in case she should get news on the way of what had occurred, and should either attempt to escape, or make an attempt on her life.
Decidedly, to-morrow promises to be a day full of vicissitudes.
This article, published on the first page of La Capitale, was signed:
Jérôme Fandor.
II
THOMERY'S TWO LOVES
Two days before the sinister drama, details of which Jérôme Fandor had given in La Capitale, the smart little town house inhabited by the Baroness de Vibray, in the Avenue Henri-Martin, assumed a festive appearance.
This did not surprise her neighbours, for they knew the owner of this charming residence was very much a woman of the world, whose reception-rooms were constantly opened to the many distinguished Parisians forming her circle of acquaintances.
It was seven in the evening when the Baroness, dressed for dinner, passed from her own room into the small drawing-room adjoining. Crossing a carpet so thick and soft that it deadened the sound of footsteps, she pressed the button of an electric bell beside the fireplace. A major-domo, of the most correct appearance, presented himself.
"The Baroness rang for me?"
Madame de Vibray, who had instinctively sought the flattering approval of her mirror, half turned:
"I wish to know if anyone called this afternoon, Antoine?"
"For the Baroness?"
"Of course!" she replied, a note of impatience in her voice: "I want to know if anyone called to see me this afternoon?"
"No, madame."
"No one has telephoned from the Barbey-Nanteuil Bank?"
"No, madame."
Repressing a slight feeling of annoyance, Madame de Vibray changed the subject:
"You will have dinner served as soon as the guests arrive. They will not be later than half-past seven, I suppose."
Antoine bowed solemnly, vanished into the anteroom, and from thence gained the servants' hall.
Madame de Vibray quitted the small drawing-room. Traversing the great gallery with its glass roof, encircling the staircase, she entered the dining-room. Covers were laid for three.
Inspecting the table arrangements with the eye of a mistress of the house, she straightened the line of some plates, gave a touch of distinction to the flowers scattered over the table in a conventional disorder; then she went to the sideboard, where the major-domo had left a china pot filled with flowers. With a slight shrug, the Baroness carried the pot to its usual place—a marble column at the further end of the room:
"It was fortunate I came to see how things were! Antoine is a good fellow, but a hare-brained one too!" thought she.
Madame de Vibray paused a moment: the light from an electric lamp shone on the vase and wonderfully enhanced its glittering beauty. It was a piece of faience decorated in the best taste. On its graceful form the artist had traced the lines of an old colour print, and had scrupulously preserved the picture born of an eighteenth-century artist's imagination, with its brilliancy of tone and soft background of tender grey. Madame de Vibray could not tear herself away from the contemplation of it. Not only did the design and the treatment please her, but she also felt a kind of maternal affection for the artist: "This dear Jacques," she murmured, "has decidedly a great deal of talent, and I like to think that in a short time his reputation. … "
Her reflections were interrupted by the servant. The good Antoine announced in a low voice, and with a touch of respectful reproach in his tone:
"Monsieur Thomery awaits the Baroness in the small drawing-room: he has been waiting ten minutes."
"Very well. I am coming."
Madame de Vibray, whose movements were all harmonious grace, returned by way of the gallery to greet her guest. She paused on the threshold of the small drawing-room, smiling graciously.
Framed in the dark drapery of the heavy door-curtains, the soft light from globes of ground glass falling on her, the Baroness de Vibray appeared a very attractive woman still. Her figure had retained its youthful slenderness, her neck, white as milk, was as round and fresh as a girl's; and had the hair about her forehead and temples not been turning grey—the Baroness wore it powdered, a piece of coquettish affection on her part—she would not have looked a day more than thirty.
Monsieur Thomery rose hastily, and advanced to meet her. He kissed her hand with a gallant air:
"My dear Mathilde," he declared with an admiring glance, "you are decidedly an exquisite woman!"
The Baroness replied by a glance, in which there was something ambiguous, something of ironical mockery:
"How are you, Norbert?" she asked in an affectionate tone. … "And those pains?"
They seated themselves on a low couch, and began to discuss their respective aches and pains in friendly fashion. Whilst listening to his complaints, Madame de Vibray could not but admire his remarkable vigour, his air of superb health: his looks gave the lie to his words.
About fifty-five, Monsieur Norbert Thomery seemed to be in the plenitude
