It was only when she had entered a cab in the Strand that she realized exactly what the music was.  She remembered that Fellowes had bought a music-box which could be timed to play at will—­even days ahead, and he had evidently set the box to play at this hour.  It did so, a strange, grim commentary on the stark thing lying on the couch, nerveless as though it had been dead a thousand years.  It had ceased to play before Stafford entered the room, but, strangely enough, it began again as he said over the dead body, “He did not die by his own hand.”

Standing before the fireplace in the drawing-room, awaiting the first guest, Jasmine said to herself:  “No, no, he had not the courage to kill himself.”

Some one had killed him.  Who was it?  Who killed him—­Rudyard—­Ian—­who?  But how?  There was no sign of violence.  That much she had seen.  He lay like one asleep.  Who was it killed him?

“Lady Tynemouth.”

Back to the world from purgatory again.  The butler’s voice broke the spell, and Lady Tynemouth took her friend in her arms and kissed her.

“So handsome you look, my darling—­and all in white.  White violets, too.  Dear, dear, how sweet, and oh, how triste!  But I suppose it’s chic.  Certainly, it is stunning.  And so simple.  Just the weeny, teeny string of pearls, like a young under-secretary’s wife, to show what she might do if she had a fair chance.  Oh, you clever, wonderful Jasmine!”

“My dressmaker says I have no real taste in colours, so I compromised,” was Jasmine’s reply, with a really good imitation of a smile.

As she babbled on, Lady Tynemouth had been eyeing her friend with swift inquiry, for she had never seen Jasmine look as she did to-night, so ethereal, so tragically ethereal, with dark lines under the eyes, the curious transparency of the skin, and the feverish brightness and far-awayness of the look.  She was about to say something in comment, but other guests entered, and it was impossible.  She watched, however, from a little distance, while talking gaily to other guests; she watched at the dinner-table, as Jasmine, seated between her two royalties, talked with gaiety, with pretty irony, with respectful badinage; and no one could be so daring with such ceremonious respect at the same time as she.  Yet through it all Lady Tynemouth saw her glance many times with a strange, strained inquiry at Rudyard, seated far away opposite her; at another big, round table.

“There’s something wrong here,” Lady Tynemouth said to herself, and wondered why Ian Stafford was not present.  Mennaval was there, eagerly seeking glances.  These Jasmine gave with a smiling openness and apparent good-fellowship, which were not in the least compromising.  Lady Tynemouth saw Mennaval’s vain efforts, and laughed to herself, and presently she even laughed with her neighbour about them.

“What an infant it is!” she said to her table companion.  “Jasmine Byng doesn’t care a snap of her finger about Mennaval.”