And Francis Markrute went on:

"You have a miserable position--hardly enough to eat at times, one
understands. You do not suppose I took the trouble to send for you from
Paris last week, for nothing, do you? You guessed I had some plan in my
head, naturally."

"Naturally," she said, with fine contempt. "I did not mistake it for
philanthropy."

"Then it is well, and we can come to the point," he went on. "I am sorry
I have had to be away, since your arrival, until yesterday. I trust my
servants have made you comfortable?"

"Quite comfortable," she answered coldly.

"Good: now for what I want to know. You have no doubt in your mind that
your husband, Count Ladislaus Shulski, is dead? There is no possible
mistake in his identity? I believe the face was practically shot away,
was it not? I have taken the precaution to inform myself upon every
point, from the authorities at Monte Carlo, but I wish for your final
testimony."

"Ladislaus Shulski is dead," she said quietly, in a tone as though it
gave her pleasure to say it. "The woman Féto caused the fray, Ivan
Larski shot him in her arms; he was her lover who paid, and Ladislaus
the _amant du coeur_ for the moment. She wailed over the body like a
squealing rabbit. She was there lamenting his fine eyes when they sent
for me! They were gone for ever, but no one could mistake his curly
hair, nor his cruel, white hands. Ah! it was a scene of disgust! I have