'Naturally, I guessed.'

'Ah! she died of typhoid fever. You knew her?'

'I knew her.'

'Of course; I remember. She was in your employ. Yes,' he sighed; 'she
contracted typhoid fever in Paris. It's always more or less endemic
there. And what with this hot summer and their water-supply and their
drainage, it's been more rife than usual lately. Tudor called me in at
once. I am qualified both in England and France, but I practise in
Paris. It was a fairly ordinary case, except that she suffered from
severe and persistent headaches at the beginning. But in typhoid the
danger is seldom in the fever; it is in the complications. She had a
hæmorrhage. I--I failed. A hæmorrhage in typhoid is not necessarily
fatal, but it often proves so. She died from exhaustion.'

'I thought,' said Hugo, in a low, unnatural voice, 'that typhoid marked
the patient--spots on the face.'

'Not invariably. Oh no; but why do you say that?'

'I only meant that I hope her face was not marked.'

'It was not. You mean that you hope her face was not marked because she
was so beautiful?'

'Exactly,' said Hugo. 'And so Tudor brought the body over to England for
burial?'