“And—­he is dead?” she asked mechanically.

Ruspardi bowed a grave assent.  She paused a moment—­then forced herself to speak again.

“How did it happen?”

In brief, concise words Ruspardi gave the account of the quarrel with Miraudin,—­and Sylvie shrank back as though she had received a blow when she heard that her name had been the cause of the dispute.

“And this morning, hearing no news,” continued Ruspardi, “I made enquiries at the theatre.  There I found everything in confusion; Miraudin and a soubrette named Jeanne Richaud, had left Rome the previous evening so the box-keeper said, and there was no news of either of them beyond a note from the girl saying she had returned alone to Paris by the first morning train.  Nothing had been heard of Miraudin himself;—­I therefore, knowing all the circumstances, drove out to the Campagna by the Porte Pia, the way that Miraudin had gone, and the way I bade the Marquis follow;—­but on the Ponte Nomentano I met some of the Miserecordia carrying two corpses on the same bier,—­two corpses so strangely alike that they might almost have been brothers!—­they were the bodies of the Marquis Fontenelle and,—­Miraudin!”

Sylvie uttered a low cry and covered her face with her hands.

“Miraudin!” exclaimed Madame Bozier in horrified tones.  “Miraudin!  Is he killed also?”

“Yes, Madame!  Both shots must have been fired with deadly aim.  They had no seconds.  Miraudin had hired a common fiacre to escape in from the city, and the police will offer a reward for the discovery of the driver.  My horse, which my unfortunate friend Fontenelle rode, is gone, and if it could be discovered, its possessor might furnish a clue;—­but I imagine it will be difficult, if not impossible to trace the witnesses of the combat.  The woman Richaud is on her way to Paris.  But by this time all Rome knows of the death of Miraudin; and in a few hours all the world will know!”

“And what of the Marquis Fontenelle?” asked Madame Bozier.

“Madama, I posted all the letters he entrusted to my charge.  The one I have brought to the Contessa was enclosed in an envelope to me and marked ‘To be personally delivered in case of my death.’  But among the letters for the post was one to the Marquis’s only sister, the Abbess of a convent in Paris—­she will probably claim her brother’s remains.”

He was silent.  After a pause Sylvie rose unsteadily, and detached a cluster of violets she wore at her neck.

“Will you—­” her voice faltered.

But Ruspardi understood, and taking the flowers, respectfully kissed the little hand that gave them.

“They shall be buried with him,” he said.  “His hand was clenched in death on a small knot of lace—­you perhaps might recognise it,—­ yes?—­so!—­it shall be left as it was found.”

And,—­his melancholy errand being done,—­he bowed profoundly once more, and retired.