“I fear my uncle will be unable to see you. He is a great invalid.”

“That is a pity, but perhaps you will kindly help me instead. You are Mademoiselle Daviloff, are you not?”

“Yes, I am Sonia Daviloff. What is it you want to know?”

“I am making some inquiries about that sad affair the night before last⁠—the death of M. Gilmour Wilson. What can you tell me about it?”

The girl’s eyes opened wide.

“He died of heart failure⁠—as he was playing chess.”

“The police are not so sure that it was⁠—heart failure, mademoiselle.”

The girl gave a terrified gesture.

“It was true then,” she cried. “Ivan was right.”