"I believe that a gentleman named Henfrey did call, because when I glanced at the card you gave me last night the name struck me as familiar," the servant said. "But whether he actually called, or whether someone at table mentioned his name I really cannot recollect."

"Ah! That's a pity," exclaimed Hugh with a sigh. "As a matter of fact it was in order to make certain inquiries regarding my late father that I called upon Mademoiselle last night."

Giulio Cataldi turned in pretence of rearranging a chair, but in reality to avert his face from the young man's gaze--a fact which Hugh did not fail to notice.

Had he really told the truth when he declared that he could not recollect his father calling?

"How long were you in London with Mademoiselle?" asked Henfrey.

"About six weeks--not longer."

Was it because of some untoward occurrence that the old Italian did not like London, Hugh wondered.

"And you are quite sure that you do not recollect my father calling upon your mistress?"

"As I have said, m'sieur, I do not remember. Yet I recall the name, as it is a rather unusual one."

"And you have never heard of Mr. Benton?"

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Cataldi shook his head.

"Well," Hugh went on, "tell me whether you entertain any suspicions of anyone who might be tempted to kill your mistress. Mademoiselle has enemies, has she not?"

"Who knows?" exclaimed the man with the grey moustache and small, black furtive eyes.

"Everyone has enemies of one sort or another," Walter remarked. "And no doubt Mademoiselle has. It is for us to discover the enemy who shot her."

"Ah! yes, it is, m'sieur," exclaimed the servant. "The poor Signorina! I do hope that the police will discover who tried to kill her."

"For aught we know the attempt upon the lady's life may prove successful after all," said Hugh despairingly. "The doctors hold out no hope of her recovery."

"None. A third doctor has been in consultation--Doctor Bazin, from Beaulieu. He only left a quarter of an hour ago. He told me that the poor Signorina cannot possibly live! Ah! messieurs, how terrible all this is--povera Signorina! She was always so kind and considerate to us all." And the old man's voice trembled with emotion.

Walter Brock gazed around the luxurious room and at the long open window through which streamed the bright morning sun, with the perfume of the flowers outside. What was the mystery concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne? What foundation had the gossips for those constant whisperings which had rendered the handsome woman so notorious?

True, the story of the death of Hugh's father was an unusually strange one, curious in every particular--and stranger still that the secret was held by this beautiful, but mysterious, woman who lived in such luxury, and who gambled so recklessly and with invariable good fortune.




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