Before the English General was dismissed, he asked whether he was likely to be detained.

“For the present, yes,” replied M. Flocon, briefly.  He did not care to be asked questions.  That, under the circumstances, was his business.

“Because I should like to communicate with the British Embassy.”

“You are known there?” asked the detective, not choosing to believe the story at first.  It might be a ruse of some sort.

“I know Lord Dufferin personally; I was with him in India.  Also Colonel Papillon, the military attache; we were in the same regiment.  If I sent to the Embassy, the latter would, no doubt, come himself.”

“How do you propose to send?”

“That is for you to decide.  All I wish is that it should be known that my brother and I are detained under suspicion, and incriminated.”

“Hardly that, Monsieur le General.  But it shall be as you wish.  We will telephone from here to the post nearest the Embassy to inform his Excellency—­”

“Certainly, Lord Dufferin, and my friend, Colonel Papillon.”

“Of what has occurred.  And now, if you will permit me to proceed?”

So the single occupant of the compartment b, that adjoining the Englishmen, was called in.  He was an Italian, by name Natale Ripaldi; a dark-skinned man, with very black hair and a bristling black moustache.  He wore a long dark cloak of the Inverness order, and, with the slouch hat he carried in his hand, and his downcast, secretive look, he had the rather conventional aspect of a conspirator.

“If monsieur permits,” he volunteered to say after the formal questioning was over, “I can throw some light on this catastrophe.”

“And how so, pray?  Did you assist?  Were you present?  If so, why wait to speak till now?” said the detective, receiving the advance rather coldly.  It behooved him to be very much on his guard.

“I have had no opportunity till now of addressing any one in authority.  You are in authority, I presume?”

“I am the Chief of the Detective Service.”

“Then, monsieur, remember, please, that I can give some useful information when called upon.  Now, indeed, if you will receive it.”

M. Flocon was so anxious to approach the inquiry without prejudice that he put up his hand.

“We will wait, if you please.  When M. le Juge arrives, then, perhaps; at any rate, at a later stage.  That will do now, thank you.”

The Italian’s lip curled with a slight indication of contempt at the French detective’s methods, but he bowed without speaking, and went out.

Last of all the lady appeared, in a long sealskin travelling cloak, and closely veiled.  She answered M. Flocon’s questions in a low, tremulous voice, as though greatly perturbed.

She was the Contessa di Castagneto, she said, an Englishwoman by birth; but her husband had been an Italian, as the name implied, and they resided in Rome.  He was dead—­she had been a widow for two or three years, and was on her way now to London.