"Did you go to Saint-Germain?" asked Heathcote. "There is not much to see in the chateau where poor old James Stuart shed the light of exiled royalty; but the old town, and the terrace, and the forest are delightful."
"No; we did not go to Saint-Germain. We had arranged to go yesterday, but Julian mistook the time at which the train started, and we reached the station too late for the only train that would have suited us."
"You have never been to Saint-Germain?" asked Heathcote.
"O yes; I was there with my mother years ago," answered Dora. "We stayed at the Henri Quatre for a week. I have ridden and rambled all over the forest. I was charmed with the place. I should like to have gone there again with Julian."
"There may be time when we return from Switzerland," said her husband.
"Why not delay your journey for a day, and let us all go to Saint-Germain to-morrow?" said Heathcote. "Suppose you dine with me at the Henri Quatre. I have a morbid interest in that hotel, and in the forest."
Instead of any verbal answer, Heathcote took from his pocket the photograph of Marie Prévol, and handed it to Mrs. Wyllard. She and her husband looked at it together. She had drawn closer to him after dinner, as they sat at the small round table, and now they were sitting side by side, like lovers.
There was a silence as they looked at the portrait.
"What an exquisite face!" exclaimed Dora at last. "I don't think I ever saw lovelier eyes or a sweeter expression. Who is the original? Do you know her?"
"She has been dead ten years. I never saw her," answered Heathcote gravely.
"But what has this portrait to do with your morbid interest in the forest of Saint-Germain?" asked Dora.
"It is the likeness of a woman who was cruelly murdered there just ten years ago. She was an actress known as Marie Prévol. The murder made a great sensation at the time. You must have heard of it, Mr. Wyllard; for I think you were a resident in Paris in '71?"
"I was a resident in Paris till '73. Yes, I perfectly remember the murder of Marie Prévol and her admirer. But it was one of those crimes which do not excite any deep or lasting interest. The case was too common, the motive too obvious. An outbreak of jealous fury on the part of a jilted lover. Had the murderer and his victims belonged to the working classes, society would scarcely have heard of the crime, certainly would have taken no notice of it. But because she was an actress and her admirer a man of fashion, there was a fuss."