Two weeks later the following letter came from Judy:

“Dearest Claire,

“This is the last letter I’ll write to you from here, as I’m coming home so soon now. I wish I could bring Stephen with me, but Miss McPherson says he won’t be ready to travel for another week or so, and of course I want to be back in time to spend a few days with Noel before he goes. But Stephen is wonderfully better and quite light-hearted, and, at the prospect of seeing you, light-headed.

“Things have been happening here. Many things.

“In the first place we heard this morning that a Count Somebody—our informant, Mr. Colebridge, couldn’t remember the name—had been found murdered on the Upper Corniche Road. He says it was an Italian name, and he is going to find out all he can about it. I’m almost certain it will prove to be Chiozzi. He was so fearfully jealous of that little dancer Mlle. Pauline. I can quite imagine that he might have tried to kill her and that she might have stabbed him in self-defense. The body, they say—or Mr. Colebridge says—was dropped from a motor. They have a great way of hushing things up here, but we will try to find out all about it. Won’t Connie adore being a widow again? Of course you won’t say anything to anybody yet, as it would be so awfully disappointing if it should turn out to be some one else. How callous I am! But if you could have seen him——!

“Well, Stephen and I have been seeing life, and rolling about in Mr. Colebridge’s car. The man won’t take no for an answer when it comes to going out with him. Yesterday we went to the most wonderful little town—Gourdon, its name was—perched on top of a mountain, like an eagle, and looking over the Mediterranean for endless miles. I saw Italy, and I’m not at all sure I didn’t see Africa. It was really the place of my dreams; the town fifteenth century, I imagine. I was in heaven there. I ran away from Mr. Colebridge and looked over the edge alone—down into the olive orchards. Not a sound but the cooing of pigeons and the far away tinkle of mule bells. And then Mr. C. came, with his cigar in his mouth and his black coat on, and talked about running a funicular up the mountain and having a first-class hotel on the top. I couldn’t speak. Coming to earth with such a bump as that was too much for me. He mistook my silence for something else, and when I saw him take off his hat and remove his cigar from his mouth, I knew what was coming. I’m afraid I was rather ruthless. If he hadn’t called me ‘little girl’ I might have been kinder. At any rate I fled back to Stephen who couldn’t climb the hill leading to the town; and left Mr. Colebridge gazing into space. Probably planning where the funicular should go. No, that’s unfair. Anyhow, I left him, and when he joined us he was silent for once. I do like him, but marry him—oh, no, no! He has made me fall in love with all modest, shy men. With all poor, unlucky men. With any one, in fact, who is sensitive and perceptive.

“Success isn’t attractive in itself. It has to be offset by other attributes. It can’t be good for any one to own as many things as Mr. Colebridge owns. A railroad, endless shares in companies, factories, businesses, even theaters—no, he isn’t a Jew. He’s terrific. I should be just a thing to hang clothes on. He doesn’t know anything about me. I don’t believe he knows what color my eyes are. “He has helped me to make up my mind about Major Crosby, who has written me several charming letters. I’ve written him very nice ones in return; as nice as I dared to write. And, oh, Claire! What do you think Stephen means to do? He means to settle something on me! I don’t know exactly how much. But think of it! So that I can marry a poor man or no one at all, just as I like. I can be independent. I can’t believe it yet. I think I shall marry Chip with it, if what he tries not to say in his letters is true.

“Mr. Colebridge is coming to London, about the same time that I am. Business, he says. I only hope he doesn’t take the same train. I’ve been very definite, but his epidermis is thick. He says he is anxious to meet you. One of the nice things about him is that he admires Stephen.

“Good-by, Claire. I will see you soon. Thanks to you and to Stephen, I feel that life is just beginning for me.

“Devotedly,

“Judy.”

Very satisfactory, thought Madame Claire. No one wants gratitude—no one, except, perhaps, a bully—but when one does get it, how it warms the heart! Callous or not, she couldn’t help hoping, like Judy, that the murdered Italian might prove to be Connie’s entirely superfluous husband. No other man, she felt, could so thoroughly deserve to die such a death, if half the things Connie had told of him were true. And Connie was not an untruthful woman. He was too evil to live … too evil to die, perhaps, but his fate in the next world concerned her less than his activities in this.

Then one more letter from Stephen—the last, he said, from Cannes. “D.V.,” murmured Madame Claire as she read the words.

“You don’t know what you did for me when you lent me Judy,” he wrote. “She has grown very dear to me, and I have persuaded her, I think, to let me settle something on her. As I pointed out to her, if you had married me, as she often says you ought to have done, she would have been, to all practical purposes, my granddaughter. My wants are simple, and I have only my niece Monica and Miss McPherson to think of, and they are already arranged for. Judy has given me an added interest in life, and as I tell her, I feel I’m buying shares in the coming generation. I have every faith in the company and mean to be godfather to all the dividends. You see I am taking it for granted that she will marry the fellow she ran over. If she doesn’t marry him she will need some money of her own all the more. The child says I have poured every good gift into her lap!

“Well, well, I wish I could come back with her, but that tyrant McPherson says no. It will not be long though, Claire, I promise you. I am living on anticipation—unsatisfying fare. You don’t suppose, do you, that I shall have to go on living on it? You don’t suppose that anything could happen to prevent it? What a worrying old fool I am! Of course it can’t and won’t.

“Connie is a widow! Perhaps this is not breaking it gently, but personally I think it is excellent news. Chiozzi died from a stab over the heart. He was motoring from Cannes to Monte Carlo at night along the Upper Corniche Road in Mlle. Pauline’s car. That is all that is known. The lady, her maid, her car and her chauffeur have vanished. I think Judy prepared you for this. Will you tell Connie? Perhaps she has already heard through her solicitors in Paris. I don’t think she will grieve.

“I hope that a telegram to say I am leaving will be the next word you receive from me. Pray that it may.

“Yours,

“Stephen.”