The manager understood that the duty which they owed to the community,

as honest and law-abiding men, was the duty to which Henry now referred.
'I will at once find the means,' he said, 'of conveying the remains

privately out of the house, and I will myself place them in the care
of the police authorities. Will you leave the room with me? or do you

not object to keep watch here, and help me when I return?'
While he was speaking, the voices of the travellers made themselves

heard again at the end of the corridor. Henry instantly consented
to wait in the room. He shrank from facing the inevitable meeting

with Agnes if he showed himself in the corridor at that moment.
The manager hastened his departure, in the hope of escaping notice.

He was discovered by his guests before he could reach the head
of the stairs. Henry heard the voices plainly as he turned the key.

While the terrible drama of discovery was in progress on one side
of the door, trivial questions about the amusements of Venice,

and facetious discussions on the relative merits of French and
Italian cookery, were proceeding on the other. Little by little,

the sound of the talking grew fainter. The visitors, having arranged
their plans of amusement for the day, were on their way out of the hotel.

In a minute or two, there was silence once more.
Henry turned to the window, thinking to relieve his mind by looking

at the bright view over the canal. He soon grew wearied of the
familiar scene. The morbid fascination which seems to be exercised by all

horrible sights, drew him back again to the ghastly object on the floor.
Dream or reality, how had Agnes survived the sight of it?

As the question passed through his mind, he noticed for the first
time something lying on the floor near the head. Looking closer,

he perceived a thin little plate of gold, with three false teeth
attached to it, which had apparently dropped out (loosened by the shock)

when the manager let the head fall on the floor.
The importance of this discovery, and the necessity of not too

readily communicating it to others, instantly struck Henry.
Here surely was a chance--if any chance remained--of identifying

the shocking relic of humanity which lay before him, the dumb witness
of a crime! Acting on this idea, he took possession of the teeth,

purposing to use them as a last means of inquiry when other attempts
at investigation had been tried and had failed.

He went back again to the window: the solitude of the room began
to weigh on his spirits. As he looked out again at the view,

there was a soft knock at the door. He hastened to open it--
and checked himself in the act. A doubt occurred to him. Was it

the manager who had knocked? He called out, 'Who is there?'
The voice of Agnes answered him. 'Have you anything to tell me, Henry?'

He was hardly able to reply. 'Not just now,' he said, confusedly.
'Forgive me if I don't open the door. I will speak to you

a little later.'
The sweet voice made itself heard again, pleading with him piteously.

'Don't leave me alone, Henry! I can't go back to the happy
people downstairs.'

How could he resist that appeal? He heard her sigh--he heard the rustling
of her dress as she moved away in despair. The very thing that he had

shrunk from doing but a few minutes since was the thing that he did now!
He joined Agnes in the corridor. She turned as she heard him,

and pointed, trembling, in the direction of the closed room.
'Is it so terrible as that?' she asked faintly.

He put his arm round her to support her. A thought came to him
as he looked at her, waiting in doubt and fear for his reply.

'You shall know what I have discovered,' he said, 'if you will first put
on your hat and cloak, and come out with me.'

She was naturally surprised. 'Can you tell me your object in going out?'
she asked.

He owned what his object was unreservedly. 'I want, before all things,'
he said, 'to satisfy your mind and mine, on the subject of

Montbarry's death. I am going to take you to the doctor who attended
him in his illness, and to the consul who followed him to the grave.'

Her eyes rested on Henry gratefully. 'Oh, how well you understand me!'
she said. The manager joined them at the same moment, on his way

up the stairs. Henry gave him the key of the room, and then called
to the servants in the hall to have a gondola ready at the steps.

'Are you leaving the hotel?' the manager asked. 'In search of evidence,'
Henry whispered, pointing to the key. 'If the authorities want me,

I shall be back in an hour.'
CHAPTER XXV

The day had advanced to evening. Lord Montbarry and the bridal
party had gone to the Opera. Agnes alone, pleading the excuse

of fatigue, remained at the hotel. Having kept up appearances
by accompanying his friends to the theatre, Henry Westwick slipped

away after the first act, and joined Agnes in the drawing-room.
'Have you thought of what I said to you earlier in the day?'

he asked, taking a chair at her side. 'Do you agree with me
that the one dreadful doubt which oppressed us both is at least set

at rest?'
Agnes shook her head sadly. 'I wish I could agree with you, Henry--

I wish I could honestly say that my mind is at ease.'
The answer would have discouraged most men. Henry's patience

(where Agnes was concerned) was equal to any demands on it.
'If you will only look back at the events of the day,' he said,

'you must surely admit that we have not been completely baffled.
Remember how Dr. Bruno disposed of our doubts:--"After thirty years

of medical practice, do you think I am likely to mistake the symptoms
of death by bronchitis?" If ever there was an unanswerable question,

there it is! Was the consul's testimonydoubtful in any part of it?
He called at the palace to offer his services, after hearing of Lord

Montbarry's death; he arrived at the time when the coffin was in the house;
he himself saw the corpse placed in it, and the lid screwed down.

The evidence of the priest is equally beyond dispute. He remained
in the room with the coffin, reciting the prayers for the dead,

until the funeral left the palace. Bear all these statements
in mind, Agnes; and how can you deny that the question of Montbarry's

death and burial is a question set at rest? We have really
but one doubt left: we have still to ask ourselves whether

the remains which I discovered are the remains of the lost courier,
or not. There is the case, as I understand it. Have I stated

it fairly?'
Agnes could not deny that he had stated it fairly.

"Then what prevents you from experiencing the same sense of relief
that I feel?' Henry asked.

'What I saw last night prevents me,' Agnes answered. 'When we spoke
of this subject, after our inquiries were over, you reproached me

with taking what you called the superstitious view. I don't quite
admit that--but I do acknowledge that I should find the superstitious

view intelligible if I heard it expressed by some other person.
Remembering what your brother and I once were to each other in the

bygone time, I can understand the apparition making itself visible
to me, to claim the mercy of Christian burial, and the vengeance due

to a crime. I can even perceive some faint possibility of truth
in the explanation which you described as the mesmeric theory--

that what I saw might be the result of magnetic influence communicated
to me, as I lay between the remains of the murdered husband above me

and the guilty wife suffering the tortures of remorse at my bedside.
But what I do not understand is, that I should have passed through

that dreadfulordeal; having no previous knowledge of the murdered
man in his lifetime, or only knowing him (if you suppose that I saw

the apparition of Ferrari) through the interest which I took in his wife.
I can't dispute your reasoning, Henry. But I feel in my heart

of hearts that you are deceived. Nothing will shake my belief
that we are still as far from having discovered the dreadful truth

as ever.'
Henry made no further attempt to dispute with her. She had

impressed him with a certain reluctant respect for her own opinion,
in spite of himself.

'Have you thought of any better way of arriving at the truth?'