“What!” she exclaimed, “what!”—and bending forward touched my arm. “Tell me again! Tell me again!”
“He is following a clue, Madame de Stämer, which he hopes will lead to the truth.”
“Ah! if I could believe it would lead to the truth,” she said. “If I dared to believe this.”
“Why should it not?”
She shook her head, smiling with such a resigned sadness that I averted my gaze and glanced across at Val Beverley who was seated on the opposite side of the bed.
“If you knew—if you knew.”
I looked again into the tragic face, and realized that this was an older woman than the brilliant hostess I had known. She sighed, shrugged, and:
“Tell me, M. Knox,” she continued, “it was swift and merciful, eh?”
“Instantaneous,” I replied, in a low voice.
“A good shot?” she asked, strangely.
“A wonderful shot,” I answered, thinking that she imposed unnecessary torture upon herself.
“They say he must be taken away, M. Knox, but I reply: not until I have seen him.”
“Madame,” began Val Beverley, gently.
“Ah, my dear!” Madame de Stämer, without looking at the speaker, extended one hand in her direction, the fingers characteristically curled. “You do not know me. Perhaps it is a good job. You are a man, Mr. Knox, and men, especially men who write, know more of women than they know of themselves, is it not so? You will understand that I must see him again?”
“Madame de Stämer,” I said, “your courage is almost terrible.”
