But at least the father realised it could have been no ordinary woman whose going caused the shock which--even after a life of three weeks' continual emotion--could prostrate his young Hercules. She must have been worth something--this tiger Queen. And one day, contrary to his usual custom, he addressed Tompson: "What sort of a looking woman, Tompson?" And Tompson, although an English valet, did not reply, "Who, Sir Charles?"--he just rounded his eyes stolidly and said in his monotonous voice: "She was that forcible-looking, a man couldn't say when he got close, she kind of dazzled him. She had black hair, and a white face, and--and--witch's eyes, but she was very kind and overpowering, haughty and generous. Any one would have known she was a Queen." "Young?" asked Sir Charles. Tompson smoothed his chin: "I could not say, Sir Charles. Some days about twenty-five, and other days past thirty. About thirty-three to thirty-five, I expect she was, if the truth were known." "Pretty?" The eyes rounded more and more. "Well, she was so fascinatin', I can't say, Sir Charles--the most lovely lady I ever did see at times, Sir Charles." "Humph," said Paul's father, and then relapsed into silence. "She'd a beast of a husband; he might have been a King, but he was no gentleman," Tompson ventured to add presently, fearing the "Humph" perhaps meant disapprobation of this splendid Queen. "Her servants were close, and did not speak good English, so I could not get much out of them, but the man Vasili, who came the last days, did say in a funny lingo, which I had to guess at, as how he expected he should have to kill him some time. Vasili had a scar on his face as long as your finger that he'd got defending the Queen from her husband's brutality, when he was the worse for drink, only last year. And Mr. Verdayne is so handsome. It is no wonder, Sir Charles--" "That will do, Tompson," said Sir Charles, and he frowned. The fatal letter, carefully sealed up in a new envelope, and the leather case were in his despatch-box. Tompson had handed them to him on his arrival. And one day when Paul appeared well enough to be lifted into a long chair on the side loggia, his father thought fit to give them to him. Paul's apathy seemed paralysing. The days had passed, since the little Italian doctor had pronounced him out of danger, in one unending languid quietude. He expressed interest in no single thing. He was polite, and indifferent, and numb. "He must be roused now," Sir Charles said to the doctor. "It is too hot for Venice, he must be moved to higher air," and the little man had nodded his head. So this warm late afternoon, as he lay under the mosquito curtains--which the coming of June had made necessary in this paradise--his father said to him: "I have a letter and a parcel of yours, Paul: you had better look at them--we hope to start north in a day or two--you must get to a more bracing place."