From the tragedy of Mrs. Rutherford's early death, the conversation somehow took a retrospective cast, and people talked of the murder that had happened a long time before. It is curious how long the interest in a murder may survive if the murderer has not been discovered. There always remains something to wonder about. After nearly half a dozen years the Provana murder could still bear discussion. People's pet theories seemed as fresh as ever, and were discussed with as much animation; while those people who had theories which they would die rather than divulge, were the most interesting of all the theorists, for they could be driven to ground with close questioning, as in the familiar game of "clumps," until they made a resolute stand, and refused to say another word upon the subject. "I dare say it is quite horrid of me to think what I think," said one vivacious lady, "and you would hate me if I were to tell you." "Give us the chance at any rate. It will be a new sensation for you to be hated." "One thing at least I may say. It has always been a mystery to me how those two people could bear to live in that house." "Oh, but you cannot bar a fine house, and your own property, because your husband has been unlucky enough to get himself murdered in it." Here Chorus, who had sat disapproving and even angry while her friends were discussing the murder, chipped in suddenly. "You don't know Vera," she said. "Her memory of Provana was an absolute _culte_, and she loved the house for his sake." "It's a pity she kept her worship for the husband's memory," said somebody. "For the state of things between her and Rutherford for some years was an open secret. Everybody knew all about it." "Nobody knew Vera as I knew her. She had no more of common earth in her composition than if she had been a sylph. People might as well talk scandal about Undine." The men of the world who were present, and the women who knew nearly as much of life, smiled and shrugged their shoulders. "Well, it is all ancient history," said a bland worldling, with smooth, white hair and a smooth, elderly voice. "The romantic friendship, the murder, the marriage with the romantic friend. _Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe._ Nothing can matter to anybody now." "Nothing except who killed Signor Provana," said the lady who had declared she would sooner die than tell anybody her theory of the murder. CHAPTER XXXII