"It was a marriage license," he said.
"And the names on it?"
"They were those of a Frenchman, Jean de Courtois, and of an English
lady, Hermione Beauregard Grandison."
"So you have imagined that the man who was killed was this Monsieur
Jean de Courtois?"
For the life of him, Curtis could not prevent the tumultuous pumping of
his heart from drawing some of the color from his face.
"Who else?" he inquired, never flinching from Steingall's searching
gaze.
"No matter who owned the coat, or whom the license was intended for,
the murdered man was no Frenchman, but a New York journalist named
Henry R. Hunter," said Steingall.
Then Curtis yielded to the swift conviction that he had unwittingly
trapped Lady Hermione into a marriage on grounds that were inadequate
and false.
"Good God!" he muttered, and, for the moment, it was impossible for his
hearers to resist the dreadful inference that, in some shape or form,
he was implicated in the outrage which bulked so large in their minds.
Mrs. Curtis wanted to scream aloud, but she dared not. Even Devar was
staggered by his friend's unaccountable attitude. The only outwardly
unmoved individual present was Horace P. Curtis. He turned and pressed
an electric bell; Steingall glared at him, so he explained his action.
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