“I do not question you as to the reason for your getting it,” he answered.  “Very shortly afterwards you left your carriage in Pall Mall, and without even asking for your husband you called at his hotel—­you stole up into his room.”

“I took some roses there and left them,” she said “What of that?”

“Only that you were the last person seen to enter Mr. Sabin’s rooms before Duson was found there dead.  And Duson died from a dose of that same poison, a packet of which you procured secretly from Emil Sachs.  An empty wineglass was by his side—­it was one generally used by Mr. Sabin.  I know that the English police, who are not so foolish as people would have one believe, are searching now for the woman who was seen to enter the sitting-room shortly before Mr. Sabin returned and found Duson there dead.”

She laughed scornfully.

“It is ingenious,” she admitted, “and perhaps a little unfortunate for me.  But the inference is ridiculous.  What interest had I in the man’s death?”

“None, of course!” the Prince said.  “But, Lucille, in all cases of poisoning it is the wife of whom one first thinks!”

“The wife?  I did not even know that the creature had a wife.”

“Of course not!  But Duson drank from Mr. Sabin’s glass, and you are Mr. Sabin’s wife.  You are living apart from him.  He is old and you are young.  And for the other man—­there is Reginald Brott.  Your names have been coupled together, of course.  See what an excellent case stands there.  You procure the poison—­secretly.  You make your way to your husband’s room—­secretly.  The fatal dose is taken from your husband’s wineglass.  You leave no note, no message.  The poison of which the man died is exactly the same as you procured from Sachs.  Lucille, after all, do you wonder that the police are looking for a woman in black with an ermine toque?  What a mercy you wore a thick veil!”

She sat down suddenly.

“This is hideous,” she said.

“Think it over,” he said, “step by step.  It is wonderful how all the incidents dovetail into one another.”

“Too wonderful,” she cried.  “It sounds like some vile plot to incriminate me.  How much had you to do with this, Prince?”

“Don’t be a fool!” he answered roughly.  “Can’t you see for yourself that your arrest would be the most terrible thing that could happen for us?  Even Sachs might break down in cross-examination, and you —­well, you are a woman, and you want to live.  We should all be in the most deadly peril.  Lucille, I would have spared you this anxiety if I could, but your defiance made it necessary.  There was no other way of getting you away from England to-night except by telling you the truth.”

“Away from England to-night,” she repeated vaguely.  “But I will not go.  It is impossible.”

“It is imperative,” the Prince declared, with a sharp ring of authority in his tone.  “It is your own folly, for which you have to pay.  You went secretly to Emil Sachs.  You paid surreptitious visits to your husband, which were simply madness.  You have involved us all in danger.  For our own sakes we must see that you are removed.”