“I don’t know whether the facts about this bank business are known here yet,” he said, “but if they are you’ll understand, Aston, when I tell you that I and my old uncle are the only male relations of William Romayne’s wife.” A quick flash of grave intelligence passed across Dr. Aston’s face. He hesitated, and glanced dubiously at the younger man. “When did you leave London?” he said abruptly. “Yesterday morning,” was the somewhat surprised reply. “You’ve come in good time, my boy,” said Dr. Aston very gravely. “Mrs. Romayne wants a relation with her if ever she did in her life. Was her husband ever a friend of yours, Dennis?” “I have never met him. I know very little even of his wife. What is it, doctor?” “William Romayne shot himself yesterday morning!” A short, sharp exclamation broke from Falconer, and then there was a moment’s total silence between the two men as the sudden, unspeakable horror in Falconer’s face resolved itself into a shocked, almost awestruck gravity. “I am thankful to have met you,” he said at last in a low, stern voice; “and I am more than thankful that I came.” He held out his hand as he spoke, as though what he had heard impelled him to go on his way, and Dr. Aston wrung it with warm sympathy. “We shall meet again,” he said. “Let me know if I can be of any use. I am staying at the Français.” Grave and stern, but not apparently shaken or rendered nervous by the news he had heard, or by the prospect of the meeting before him, as a sympathetic or emotional man must have been, Dennis Falconer strode out of the station. Grave and stern he reached his destination, and enquired for Mrs. Romayne. His question was answered by the proprietor himself, supplemented by half-audible ejaculations from attendant waiters, in a tone in which sympathetic interest, familiarity, and even a certain amount of resentment were inextricably blended. Monsieur would see Madame Romayne--_cette pauvre madame_, of a demeanour so beautiful, yes, even in these frightful circumstances, so beautiful and so distinguished? Monsieur had but just arrived from England--monsieur had then perhaps not heard? Monsieur was aware? He was a kinsman of madame? Monsieur would then doubtless appreciate the so great inconvenience occasioned, the hardly-to-be-reckoned damage sustained by one of the first hotels in Nice, by the event? Monsieur would see madame at once? But yes, madame was visible. There was, in fact, a monsieur with her even now--an English monsieur from the English Scotland Yard. Madame had sent---- But monsieur was indeed in haste. Monsieur left no possibility of doubt on that score. The waiter, told off by a wave of the proprietor’s hand on the vigorous demonstration to that effect evoked by the mention of the monsieur from Scotland Yard, had to hasten his usual pace considerably to keep ahead of those quick, firm footsteps, and it was almost breathlessly that he at last threw open a door at the end of a long corridor.