On the following night I sat once more in the salon of Rosa's flat.

She had had Sir Cyril removed thither. He was dying; I had done my

best, but his case was quite hopeless, and at Rosa's urgent entreaty I

had at last left her alone by his bedside.

I need not recount all the rush of incidents that had happened since

the tragedy at the Villa des Hortensias on the previous evening. Most

people will remember the tremendous sensation caused by the judicial

inquiry--an inquiry which ended in the tragical Deschamps being

incarcerated in the Charenton Asylum. For aught I know, the poor

woman, once one of the foremost figures in the gaudy world of

theatrical Paris, is still there consuming her heart with a futile

hate.

Rosa would never refer in any way to the interview between Deschamps

and herself; it was as if she had hidden the memory of it in some

secret chamber of her soul, which nothing could induce her to open

again. But there can be no doubt that Deschamps had intended to murder

her, and, indeed, would have murdered her had it not been for the

marvellously opportune arrival of Sir Cyril. With the door of the room

locked as it was, I should assuredly have been condemned, lacking Sir

Cyril's special knowledge of the house, to the anguish of witnessing a

frightful crime without being able to succor the victim. To this day I

can scarcely think of that possibility and remain calm.

As for Sir Cyril's dramatic appearance in the villa, when I had learnt

all the facts, that was perhaps less extraordinary than it had seemed

to me from our hasty dialogue in the underground kitchen of Deschamps'

house. Although neither Rosa nor I was aware of it, operatic circles

had been full of gossip concerning Deschamps' anger and jealousy, of

which she made no secret. One or two artists of the Opéra Comique had

decided to interfere, or at any rate seriously to warn Rosa, when Sir

Cyril arrived, on his way to London from the German watering-place

where he had been staying. All Paris knew Sir Cyril, and Sir Cyril

knew all Paris; he was made acquainted with the facts directly, and

the matter was left to him. A man of singular resolution, originality,

and courage, he had gone straight to the Rue Thiers, having caught a

rumor, doubtless started by the indiscreet Deschamps herself, that

Rosa would be decoyed there. The rest was mere good fortune.

In regard to the mysterious connection between Sir Cyril and Rosa, I

had at present no clue to it; nor had there been much opportunity for

conversation between Rosa and myself. We had not even spoken to each

other alone, and, moreover, I was uncertain whether she would care to

enlighten me on that particular matter; assuredly I had no right to

ask her to do so. Further, I was far more interested in another, and

to me vastly more important, question, the question of Lord Clarenceux

and his supposed death.




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