As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon had not intoxicated him, for although young, he was a practised, unemotional player, and to him gains and losses were alike--at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction beyond a broad smile when his winning number was announced by the croupier. No, of the many theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely, that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent. The _Petit Niçois_, the _Eclaireur_, and the _Phare du Littoral_ were next day full of “The Mystery of the Grand Hotel.” In the article we were referred to as Mademoiselle Y. and Mademoiselle R., as is usual in French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry sarcasm. The _Petit Niçois_, a journal which had on so many recent occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone, declared its disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large sum stated, and concluded by urging the police of Nice to leave no stone unturned in its efforts to discover the murderer, which it added would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal believed that one of us--or both--had conspired to murder him. Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against the cruel calumnies of such torchons. The official inquiry, held next day after the post-mortem examination had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth, so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was no abrasion of the skin--no wound of any kind. On the neck, however, were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to establish that as a fact. He died, it was declared, from some cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, have been a natural death the doctors admitted, but the fact that the notes were missing pointed very clearly and conclusively to murder. That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels, we followed the dead man’s remains to their resting-place in the English Cemetery up in the olive-groves of Caucade, perhaps one of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in all the world. Winter and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the most charming in all the Riviera. The American chaplain performed the last rites, and then we turned sorrowfully away and drove back to Nice silently, full of gloomy thoughts.