Sabin shook his head.
"I cannot say that it has."
"She knew that you were not here," Passmore continued. "She left
no message. She came closely veiled and departed unrecognised."
Mr. Sabin nodded.
"There were reasons," he said, "for that. But when you say that
she left no message you are mistaken."
Passmore nodded.
"Go on," he said.
Mr. Sabin nodded towards a great vase of La France roses upon a
side table.
"I found these here on my return," he said, "and attached to them
the card which I believe is still there. Go and look at it."
Passmore rose and bent over the fragrant blossoms. The card still
remained, and on the back of it, in a delicate feminine handwriting:
"For my husband,
"with love from
"Lucille."
Mr. Passmore shrugged his shoulders. He had not the vice of
obstinacy, and he knew when to abandon a theory.
"I am corrected," he said. "In any case, a mystery remains as well
worth solving. Who are these people at whose instigation Duson was
to have murdered you--these people whom Duson feared so much that
suicide was his only alternative to obeying their behests?"
Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.
"Ah, my dear Passmore," he said, "you must not ask me that question.
I can only answer you in this way.
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