I need not recount all the rush of incidents that had happened since the tragedy at the Villa des Hortensias on the previous evening.  Most people will remember the tremendous sensation caused by the judicial inquiry—­an inquiry which ended in the tragical Deschamps being incarcerated in the Charenton Asylum.  For aught I know, the poor woman, once one of the foremost figures in the gaudy world of theatrical Paris, is still there consuming her heart with a futile hate.

Rosa would never refer in any way to the interview between Deschamps and herself; it was as if she had hidden the memory of it in some secret chamber of her soul, which nothing could induce her to open again.  But there can be no doubt that Deschamps had intended to murder her, and, indeed, would have murdered her had it not been for the marvellously opportune arrival of Sir Cyril.  With the door of the room locked as it was, I should assuredly have been condemned, lacking Sir Cyril’s special knowledge of the house, to the anguish of witnessing a frightful crime without being able to succor the victim.  To this day I can scarcely think of that possibility and remain calm.

As for Sir Cyril’s dramatic appearance in the villa, when I had learnt all the facts, that was perhaps less extraordinary than it had seemed to me from our hasty dialogue in the underground kitchen of Deschamps’ house.  Although neither Rosa nor I was aware of it, operatic circles had been full of gossip concerning Deschamps’ anger and jealousy, of which she made no secret.  One or two artists of the Opera Comique had decided to interfere, or at any rate seriously to warn Rosa, when Sir Cyril arrived, on his way to London from the German watering-place where he had been staying.  All Paris knew Sir Cyril, and Sir Cyril knew all Paris; he was made acquainted with the facts directly, and the matter was left to him.  A man of singular resolution, originality, and courage, he had gone straight to the Rue Thiers, having caught a rumor, doubtless started by the indiscreet Deschamps herself, that Rosa would be decoyed there.  The rest was mere good fortune.

In regard to the mysterious connection between Sir Cyril and Rosa, I had at present no clue to it; nor had there been much opportunity for conversation between Rosa and myself.  We had not even spoken to each other alone, and, moreover, I was uncertain whether she would care to enlighten me on that particular matter; assuredly I had no right to ask her to do so.  Further, I was far more interested in another, and to me vastly more important, question, the question of Lord Clarenceux and his supposed death.

I was gloomily meditating upon the tangle of events, when the door of the salon opened, and Rosa entered.  She walked stiffly to a chair, and, sitting down opposite to me, looked into my face with hard, glittering eyes.  For a few moments she did not speak, and I could not break the silence.  Then I saw the tears slowly welling up, and I was glad for that.  She was intensely moved, and less agonizing experiences than she had gone through might easily have led to brain fever in a woman of her highly emotional temperament.