"It was Miss Poynton herself. It is that which has upset her so. She
recognized him at once."
"Are you sure of this, Madame?" Duncombe asked.
"I myself," the Marquise answered, "accompanied her there. It was
terrible."
Duncombe looked very grave.
"I am indeed sorry to hear this," he said. "There can be no possibility
of any mistake, then?"
"None whatever!" the Marquise declared.
"You will permit me to see her?" Duncombe begged. "If I am not a very
old friend--I am at least an intimate one."
The Marquise shook her head.
"She is not in a fit state to see any one," she declared. "The visit to
the Morgue has upset her almost as much as the affair itself. You must
have patience, Monsieur. In a fortnight or three weeks at the earliest
she may be disposed to see friends. Certainly not at present."
"I may send her a message?" Duncombe asked.
The Marquise nodded.
"Yes. You may write it, if you like."
"And I may wait for an answer?"
"Yes."
Duncombe scribbled a few lines on the back of a visiting-card. The
Marquise took it from him and rose.
"I will return," she said. "You shall be entirely satisfied.
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