"Surely I do. It's no insult to the lady's memory to say so. She had a right to receive him in her boudoir if she chose to do so. It's no secret that she was trying to annex him, and he was not entirely unwilling. You see,--the way I dope it out,--she had him up here to show off her stunning jewels, and so tempt him on to a declaration that she couldn't seem to work him up to otherwise. You know she said, 'To-morrow these may all be yours, if you will only----' or some words to that effect. What could all that mean, except as I've indicated? And she said, 'You are the game I'm after,'--those weren't the words, I know, but it meant that." "However, I can't think the Count struck that awful blow that fractured her skull. Villain he may be, even a murderous one, but that black-jack business, to my mind, points to a lower type of brain, a more thick-skinned criminal." Stone spoke musingly, looking about the room as he talked. "Could it be," he went on, "that she was talking to herself? or, say, to a picture,--a photograph of somebody? I don't see any photographs about." Both men looked around, but there were no portraits to be seen. "Funny," said Hardy: "most women have photographs of their family or relatives all over the place. Not even one of Miss Stuart or of her nephew, Loria." "No, nor any of absent friends or school-mates." Stone looked over all the silver paraphernalia of the dressing-table and other tables for even a small framed photograph that might have escaped notice, but found none. On the walls hung only gilt-framed water colors or photographs of famous bits of art or architecture in dark wood frames. Many of these were of old world masterpieces, Italian cathedrals or Egyptian temples. Others were a well-known Madonna, a Venus of Milo, and one at which Hardy exclaimed, "She's a sure enough peach! Who's she?" "That's Cleopatra, starting on her Nile trip," said Stone, smiling at Hardy's evident admiration. "'Tis, eh? Then Loria brought it to her. He's daffy over anything Egyptian. And he's mighty generous. The house is full of the stuff he brings or sends over; and it's his money, Mr. Stone, that pays your damages. Miss Stuart, now, she's none too free-handed, they say." But Fleming Stone paid little heed to this gossip. He was studying the photographs of the dead lady as being of far more interest than pictures on the boudoir walls. "Where's that maid?" he said suddenly; "the one who brought the breakfast tray----" "She's in the sanatorium," returned Hardy; "we told you that, Mr. Stone." "Yes, yes, I know. But where? Can I see her? Now, at once!" "Yes, I suppose so. It's right near here. A small private affair, only a few patients. They needn't really have sent her, but she carried on so, Miss Stuart wouldn't have her about any longer."