"How do you explain this?" I demanded of her in a calm and judicial

and yet slightly hostile tone.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "How sad it is! How terribly sad!"

And her voice was so pure and kind, and her glance so innocent, and

her grief so pitiful, that I dismissed forever any shade of a

suspicion that I might have cherished against her. Although she had

avoided my question, although she had ignored its tone, I knew with

the certainty of absolute knowledge that she had no more concern in

Alresca's death than I had.

She came forward, and regarded the corpse steadily, and took the

lifeless hand in her hand. But she did not cry. Then she went abruptly

out of the room and out of the house. And for several days I did not

see her. A superb wreath arrived with her card, and that was all.

But the positive assurance that she was entirely unconnected with the

riddle did nothing to help me to solve it. I had, however, to solve it

for the Belgian authorities, and I did so by giving a certificate that

Alresca had died of "failure of the heart's action." A convenient

phrase, whose convenience imposes perhaps oftener than may be imagined

on persons of an unsuspecting turn of mind! And having accounted for

Alresca's death to the Belgian authorities, I had no leisure (save

during the night) to cogitate much upon the mystery. For I was made

immediately to realize, to an extent to which I had not realized

before, how great a man Alresca was, and how large he bulked in the

world's eye.

The first announcement of his demise appeared in the "Etoile Belgi,"

the well-known Brussels daily, and from the moment of its appearance

letters, telegrams, and callers descended upon Alresca's house in an

unending stream. As his companion I naturally gave the whole of my

attention to his affairs, especially as he seemed to have no relatives

whatever. Correspondents of English, French, and German newspapers

flung themselves upon me in the race for information. They seemed to

scent a mystery, but I made it my business to discourage such an idea.

Nay, I went further, and deliberately stated to them, with a false air

of perfect candor, that there was no foundation of any sort for such

an idea. Had not Alresca been indisposed for months? Had he not died

from failure of the heart's action? There was no reason why I should

have misled these excellent journalists in their search for the

sensational truth, except that I preferred to keep the mystery wholly

to myself.

Those days after the death recur to me now as a sort of breathless

nightmare, in which, aided by the admirable Alexis, I was forever

despatching messages and uttering polite phrases to people I had never

seen before.




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