Her Majesty's Minister. Le Queux William

closed it. Then, as I turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small whatnot close by the escritoire. They were of persons whom I did not know – all strangers, save one. This was a cabinet portrait in a heavy silver frame, and as I took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry involuntarily escaped my lips.

      The picture was a three-quarter length representation of a black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his pockets, and smoking a cigarette. There was no mistaking those features. It was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose presence in Paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her – Rodolphe Wolf.

      Chapter Seven

      By a Thread

      I was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when Dick Deane was shown in.

      “What’s the matter, old chap? Are you the man in possession here?” he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand.

      He was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. He had been born in Paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to Edinburgh, where he took his degree. Then he had returned to Paris, taken his French degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the French capital. He was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies.

      “I’m not in possession,” I answered. “A very serious affair has happened here, and we want your assistance.”

      In an instant he became grave, for I suppose my tone showed him that I was in no humour for joking.

      “What’s the nature of the affair?” he asked.

      “Death,” I replied seriously. “A lady here – a friend of mine – has died mysteriously.”

      “A mystery – eh?” he exclaimed, instantly interested. “Tell me about it.”

      “This place,” I replied, “belongs to the Countess de Foville, a lady whom I knew well when I was at the Brussels Embassy, and it is her daughter Yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening.”

      “Yolande de Foville!” he repeated, with knit brows. “She was a friend of yours once, if I mistake not?” he added, looking me straight in the face.

      “Yes, Dick, she was,” I responded. “I told you of her long ago.”

      “You loved her once?”

      “Yes,” I answered with difficulty, “I loved her once.”

      “And how did the unfortunate affair occur?” he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. “Tell me the whole story.”

      “I called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her,” I said. “Then I left and returned straight to the Embassy – ”

      “You left her here?” he inquired, interrupting. “Yes, in this very room. But it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead.”

      “Curious!” he ejaculated. “Has a medical man seen her?”

      “No. The Countess sent for me as being one of her daughter’s most intimate friends, and I, in turn, sent for you.”

      “Where is the poor young lady?”

      “In her room at the end of the corridor,” I answered hoarsely.

      “Is there any suspicion of murder?”

      “Apparently none whatever. She had no visitor after I left.”

      “And no suspicion of suicide?” he asked, with a sharp look. “Did you part friends?”

      “Perfectly so,” I responded. “As to suicide, she had no reason, as far as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life.”

      He gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of dissatisfaction.

      “Now, be perfectly frank with me, Gerald,” he said, suddenly turning to me and placing his hand upon my shoulder. “You loved her very dearly once – was that not so?”

      I nodded.

      “I well remember it,” he went on. “I quite recollect how, on one occasion, you came over to London, and while dining together at Jimmy’s you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. Do you remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?”

      “Perfectly.”

      “And as time went on you suddenly dropped her – for what reason I know not. We are pals, but I have never attempted to pry into your affairs. If she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she heard that you had forsaken her for Edith Austin.”

      “You reproach me,” I said. “But you do not know the whole truth, my dear fellow. I discovered that Yolande possessed a second lover.”

      He nodded slowly, with pursed lips.

      “And that was the reason of your parting?”

      “Yes.”

      “The sole reason?”

      “The sole reason.”

      “And you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because of her love for you? Such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls of a certain temperament.”

      “If she has committed suicide, it is not on my account,” I responded in a hard voice.

      “I did not express that opinion,” he hastened to protest. “Before we discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her. Death may have been due to natural causes, for aught we know.”

      I stood motionless. His suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days had committed suicide because I had forsaken her was a startling one. Surely that could not be so?

      “Come,” my friend said, “let us lose no time. Which is the room?”

      I led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in which she was lying so cold and still. The light of the afterglow fell full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life. But it was only for a few moments. The slanting ray was lost, and the pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of her wondrous hair.

      In silence I stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was now busy with his examination. He opened her eyes and closed them again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering no word. His serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely puzzled.

      One after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks. Upon her neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after time, as though not satisfied as to its cause. Upon her lower lip, too, was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times, comparing it with the mark upon the neck. He was unable to account for either.

      “Curious!” he ejaculated. “Very curious indeed!”

      “What is curious?” I inquired eagerly.

      “Those marks,” he answered, indicating them with his finger. “They are very puzzling. I’ve never seen such marks before.”

      “Do they point to foul play?” I inquired, feeling suspicious that she had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin.

      “Well, no,” he responded, after some hesitation; “that is not my opinion.”

      “Then what is your opinion?”

      “At present I have none. I can have none until I make a thorough examination. There are certainly no outward marks of violence.”

      “We need not inform