“You think there is some connection between her death and the letters?” put in Craig.

“Of course I can’t say, yet,” answered Herndon dubiously.  “The papers seem to think it was a suicide.  But then why should she commit suicide?  My man found out that among the girls it was common gossip that she was to marry Jean Pierre, the Fifth Avenue jeweller, of the firm of Lang goods by Americans abroad.  Well, the chief of our men in Paris cables me that Pierre is known to have made extraordinarily heavy purchases of made-up jewellery this season.  For one thing, we believe he has acquired from a syndicate a rather famous diamond necklace which it has taken years to assemble and match up, worth about three hundred thousand.  You know the duty on made-up jewellery is sixty per cent., and even if he brought the stones in loose it would be ten per cent., which on a valuation of, say, two hundred thousand, means twenty thousand dollars duty alone.  Then he has a splendid ‘dog collar’ of pearls, and, oh, a lot of other stuff.  I know because we get our tips from all sorts of sources and they are usually pretty straight.  Some come from dealers who are sore about not making sales themselves.  So you see there is a good deal at stake in this case and it may be that in following it out we shall kill more than one bird.  I wish you’d come along with me up to Mademoiselle Violette’s and give me an opinion.”

Craig had already risen from the bench and we were walking up the Avenue.

The establishment of Mademoiselle Violette consisted of a three-story and basement brownstone house in which the basement and first floor had been remodelled for business purposes.  Mademoiselle’s place, which was on the first floor, was announced to the world by a neat little oval gilt sign on the handrailing of the steps.

We ascended and rang the bell.  As we waited I noticed that there were several other modistes on the same street, while almost directly across was a sign which proclaimed that on September 15 Mademoiselle Gabrielle would open with a high class exhibition of imported gowns from Paris.

We entered.  The coroner and an undertaker were already there, and the former was expecting Herndon.  Kennedy and I had already met him and he shook hands cordially.

Mademoiselle Violette, it seemed, had rented the entire house and then had sublet the basement to a milliner, using the first floor herself, the second as a workroom for the girls whom she employed, while she lived on the top floor, which had been fitted for light housekeeping with a kitchenette.  It was in the back room of the shop itself on the first floor that her body had been discovered, lying on a davenport.

“The newspaper reports were very indefinite,” began Herndon, endeavouring to take in the situation.  “I suppose they told nearly all the story, but what caused her death?  Have you found that out yet?  Was it poison or violence?”