In those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of
the darkened room, and I detected the change that had taken place in the
girl's countenance. Her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair
hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged
pillow.
I held my breath. The awful truth was distinctly apparent. I placed my
hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened.
Then a few seconds later I drew back, standing rigid and aghast.
"Why, she's dead!" I gasped.
"Yes," the Countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting
into tears. "My poor Yolande! she is dead--_dead_!"
The discovery appalled me. Only a couple of hours before we had chatted
together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in
the old days, until I had made the announcement of Wolf's presence in
Paris. The effect of that statement upon her had apparently been
electrical. Why, I knew not. Had she not implored me to save her?
This in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear.
Again I bent in order to make further examination, but saw the
unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance. The lower jaw had
dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which I had
snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded. There was
no movement--no life. Yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days,
was dead.
I stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream. So swiftly had she
been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of
realisation.
The Countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly. Truly the scene in
that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one. Never before in
my whole life had I been in the presence of the dead.
"Yolande--Yolande!" I called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken
her, for I could not believe that she was actually dead.
But there was no response. Those blanched lips and the coldness of
those cheeks told their own tale. She had passed to that land which
lies beyond the range of human vision.
How long I stood there I cannot tell. My thoughts were inexpressibly
sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that I scarcely
knew what I said or did. The blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed
me. The affair was mysterious, to say the least of it. Of a sudden,
however, the sobs of the grief-stricken Countess aroused me to a sense
of my responsibility, and taking her hand I led her from the bedside
into an adjoining room.
"How has this terrible catastrophe occurred?" I demanded of her
breathlessly. "Only two hours ago she was well and happy."
"You mean when you saw her?" she said. "What was the object of your
call?"
"To see her," I responded.
"And yet you parted ill friends in Brussels?" she observed in a tone of
distinct suspicion. "You had some motive in calling. What was it?"
I hesitated. I could not tell her that I suspected her daughter to be a
spy.
"In order to assure her of my continued good friendship."
She smiled, rather superciliously I thought.
"But how did the terrible affair occur?"
"We have no idea," answered the Countess brokenly. "She was found lying
upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure
of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. Jean, the valet-de-chambre,
on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead."
"Astounding!" I gasped. "She was in perfect health when I left her."
She shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief,
declared:
"My child has been killed--murdered!"
"Murdered! Impossible!" I cried.
"But she has," she declared. "I am absolutely positive of it!"