"A man in a mask, Madame," replied the captain, kneeling. He gently
loosed the sword from the stiffening fingers. The master of
twenty-five years was gone.

"In a mask?"

"Yes, Madame."

"And the motive ?"

"Not robbery, since nothing is disturbed about the hôtel save in
monsieur's library. The drawers have all been pulled out."

With a sharp cry she crossed the corridor and entered the library. The
open drawers spoke dumbly but surely.

"Gone!" she whispered. "We are all lost! He was fortunate in dying."
Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the one
impassive and the other cold. She returned to the body and the look
she cast on it was without pity or regret. Alive, she had detested
him; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference. He had died,
leaving her the legacy of the headsman's ax. And his play-woman? would
she weep or laugh? . . . She was free. It came quickly and penetrated
like a dry wine: she was free. Four odious years might easily be
forgiven if not forgotten. "Take him to his room," she said softly.
After all, he had died gallantly.

Soon one of the pursuers returned. He was led into the presence of his
mistress.