Part 18 (1/2)

”Nevertheless, Monsieur Fandor, the more I think over this death, the more remarkable it seems. The Baroness de Vibray was not the kind of person to commit suicide, even if she were unhappy, even if she were ruined. I have often heard her speak of her money affairs; she even used to joke about the expostulations of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil, because she was too fond of gambling. That was our poor friend's weakness: she was a dreadful gambler: she was always betting on horses and gambling on the Bourse.”[8]

[Footnote 8: Stock Exchange.]

”Do you know the Barbey-Nanteuils at all, mademoiselle?”

”A little. I have met them once or twice at Madame de Vibray's--when she had one of her little evenings. Once or twice my brother has asked their advice about investments--very modest investments I can a.s.sure you--and they got one of their friends, a Monsieur Thomery, to buy some of my brother's art pottery.”

”Have you many acquaintances in Paris, mademoiselle?”

”Besides the Baroness we hardly saw anyone except Madame Bourrat, a very nice, kind woman, widow of an inspector of the City of Paris; she keeps a boarding-house at Auteuil, rue Raffet. In fact, I am staying with her now, for I had not the courage to go back to my brother's place: too many dreadful memories are connected with his studio there. I am lucky to find such a sympathetic friend in Madame Bourrat, and such a warm welcome.... I am alone now, and life is sad.”

Fandor went on with his cross-examination:

”Nevertheless, mademoiselle, I must ask you to return in thought to that tragic home of yours. Please tell me what people you knew in your immediate neighbourhood? Acquaintances?”

Elizabeth considered:

”Acquaintances is the word, because we were not on really intimate terms with our neighbours in the Cite; for the most part they are either art students or work-people. However, we saw fairly often a nice man, a stranger, a Dutchman I think he was, called Monsieur Van h.o.e.ren; he manufactures accordions; and lives in a little house opposite ours, with six children; he has been a widower for years! Also there was a Monsieur Louis, an engraver, who used to take tea with us in the evening sometimes, his wife also: he is employed in the Posts and Telegraphs. We had practically no other acquaintances.”

Elizabeth stopped. There was a silence. Fandor asked another question:

”Tell me, mademoiselle, when you entered the studio for the first time after the tragedy, did you notice anything abnormal?”

The poor girl shuddered at the appalling picture before her mind's eye:

”Good Heavens, monsieur,” she cried, ”I did not examine the studio minutely! I had only one thought--to be with my brother, who had been so unjustly accused, so ...”

Fandor interrupted to ask:

”Do you not know that at his preliminary examination your brother declared that he had not received a single visitor during the evening preceding the tragedy? How then do you explain the fact that the Baroness de Vibray was found dead in his studio, and at his side, when no one had seen her enter it? Did your brother make a mistake? Please tell me what you think about it!”

Elizabeth gazed anxiously at the young journalist, then fixed her eyes on the floor. Her hands twitched; she began to twist her fingers feverishly:

”Do trust me!” begged Jerome Fandor. ”Please tell me what you think!”

Elizabeth rose, took several steps, and placed herself in front of the journalist:

”Ah, monsieur, there is something mysterious, which I cannot explain! As a matter of fact, someone must have come to see my brother that evening: I cannot a.s.sert it as a fact beyond dispute certainly: but in my own mind I feel quite sure about it.”

”But you must have more proof of it than that?” cried Fandor.

”But--there is more!” cried Elizabeth, as if enlightened by a sudden discovery: ”There is a fact!...”

”Tell me, do!” cried Fandor, intensely interested.

”Well, just imagine, then! Among the papers scattered over his table, and close to his book, which was open, I noticed a sort of list of names and addresses, written on our own note-paper, and in the kind of green ink we use--so--well ...”