Early the next day, in spite of the late session of the night before, Kennedy started me with him on a second visit to Woodbine.  This time he was armed with a letter of introduction from Andrews to Mrs. Phelps.

She proved to be a young woman of most extraordinary grace and beauty, with a superb carriage such as only years of closest training under the best dancers of the world could give.  There was a peculiar velvety softness about her flesh and skin, a witching stoop to her shoulders that was decidedly continental, and in her deep, soulful eyes a half-wistful look that was most alluring.  In fact, she was as attractive a widow as the best Fifth Avenue dealers in mourning goods could have produced.

I knew that ’Ginette Phelps had been, both as dancer and wife, always the centre of a group of actors, artists, and men of letters as well as of the world and affairs.  The Phelpses had lived well, although they were not extremely wealthy, as fortunes go.  When the blow fell, I could well fancy that the loss of his money had been most serious to young Montague, who had showered everything as lavishly as he was able upon his captivating bride.

Mrs. Phelps did not seem to be overjoyed at receiving us, yet made no open effort to refuse.

“How long ago did the coma first show itself?” asked Kennedy, after our introductions were completed.  “Was your husband a man of neurotic tendency, as far as you could judge?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say when it began,” she answered, in a voice that was soft and musical and under perfect control.  “The doctor would know that better.  No, he was not neurotic, I think.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Phelps take any drugs—­not habitually, but just before this sleep came on?”

Kennedy was seeking his information in a manner and tone that would cause as little offence as possible “Oh, no,” she hastened.  “No, never—­absolutely.”

“You called in Dr. Forden the last night?”

“Yes, he had been Montague’s physician many years ago, you know.”

“I see,” remarked Kennedy, who was thrusting about aimlessly to get her off her guard.  “By the way, you know there is a great deal of gossip about the almost perfect state of preservation of the body, Mrs. Phelps.  I see it was not embalmed.”

She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.

“Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me?  Can’t you see Doctor Forden?”

In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow.  She seemed preoccupied.  I could not escape the feeling that she was putting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discovery of the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the real facts concealed.  Was she shielding some one?  It flashed over me that perhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buried the money at the appointed place.  There seemed to be little use in pursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to her relief.