words as her husband came into the drawing-room. Then she was sorry that
she had flung the news at him so abruptly, for just too late she read in
his eyes the wistful need of consolation.

"Dead!" he echoed, almost stupidly. He had liked Hannaford, and had
often invited him to play chess in the evenings, hoping with
unconquerable optimism to "wean him from the Casino." The quiet man,
with his black patches, his calm manner and slow smile as unreadable as
the eyes of the Sphinx, had seemed to George Winter a curiously tragic
yet mysteriously attractive figure. "Hannaford dead!" he repeated
slowly.

"I only just heard," Dick explained. "I was down at my hangar tinkering
with the _Flying Fish_, for, you know, I'm taking her to Cannes
to-morrow. Poor Hannaford's hotel isn't far away, and he used to stroll
over and talk to me sometimes. The manager knew that, and sent a boy to
ask me to come in at once. He didn't say what the matter was, except
that something had happened to Hannaford. It seems that lately he's been
in the habit of sleeping through the whole morning, giving orders that
he wasn't to be disturbed till he rang. So when there were no signs of
him to-day at lunch time nobody worried. It was only when two o'clock
came and he hadn't stirred that the _valet de chambre_ began to think it
queer. They have glass transoms over the doors, and they could see his
room was dark. I expect they listened at the keyhole; anyhow, the
landlord was consulted at last, and when they'd knocked and called
without getting any answer, at last they opened the door. Luckily nobody
was about at that time of day--every one out of doors or in the Casino,
so there was no scene. Hannaford was lying as if asleep in bed, but
stone cold; and the doctor they sent for said he must have been dead for
hours. In his hand was a volume of Omar Khayyam, with a faded white rose
for a book marker. There was a bottle half full of veronal tabloids on
the table by the bedside; and he was known to be in the habit of taking
veronal, as he was a bad sleeper. One hopes it was simply--an overdose,
taken accidentally."

"Why should any one suspect the contrary?" Winter asked, his kind voice
sharpened by distress.

Dick was silent, looking at Rose.

"Come and sit by me, dear," she said, holding out her hand to her
husband. He came, sinking down on the sofa with a sense of relief, for
he had been conscious of a weakness in the knees, as if on entering the
room