“Ah! At present I cannot tell,” the other answered dubiously. “It is not at all plain that m’sieur has been murdered.” Both Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly, the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both cross-questioned separately as to Reggie’s identity, what we knew of him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made no secret of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able to trace the culprit--if indeed Reggie had been actually murdered. The fact that he had won that sum and that he had left us in order to change the notes into larger ones seemed to puzzle the police. If robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they agreed, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train or on the street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at all? That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the circumstances formed a complete and most puzzling enigma, but his visit to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all. The thief, whoever he was,--for I inclined towards the theory of theft and murder,--had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly and leave the hotel without detection. Another curious fact was that neither the concierge nor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man’s return. Both agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why? Having concluded the examinations of Ulrica and myself and my Italian maid, Felicita, who had returned from her evening out and knew nothing at all of the matter, the police made a most rigorous search in our rooms. We were present and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search they at least do it thoroughly. “Ah! What is this?” exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed out carefully. In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet of my own note-paper, and upon it in a man’s handwriting was the commencement of a letter: “My dear Miss Rosselli, I have----” There it broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought, had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie’s handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found in his pocket the police pronounced it to be his. What did he wish to tell me? About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald, who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger. When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to the spot. “Reggie dead!” he gasped. “Murdered!”