The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain.
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