The report of the pistol was deadened by her muff, but nevertheless it sounded to her own ears unnaturally loud. For a moment, after he had toppled forward and then fallen slowly with a dull thud to the floor, she did not look at him, but listened only for the noise of footsteps outside, for the sound of voices of people asking questions, demanding what had happened.

But there was no sound of any sort. Emilie knew exactly what she had to do next. Everything fell into place in her mind as clearly as if she had planned it for a long time. She must gather up the notes, drag Henry Dulton’s body into her bedroom and hide him in the closet.

Later, when it was dark, she and Jeanne would get him out of the hotel.

On every floor of the Hotel there was a wheel-chair left for the use of guests who came to Monte Carlo, not only for the pleasure of visiting the Casino but also for their health. There were special baths to be had under the hotel, and those who were crippled by rheumatism or other complaints could go downstairs in the comfort of a wheel-chair, descending in the luggage lift at the far end of the corridor.

There was a man in attendance on the lift who pulled the rope to make it rise and descend. He was old, inclined to be deaf.

He would take little notice of an invalid, wrapped in rugs and perhaps a shawl, accompanied by two elderly women. Besides the lift was unlit and only as they passed the gas brackets on each floor would whoever sat in the wheel chair be illuminated. They could slip out of the hotel by a side door. The gardens of the Casino were but a stone’s throw away. No one would be interested in three elderly people taking an evening walk.

They would lay Henry Dulton amongst the flowering shrubs and it was more than likely that his body would not be discovered until the morrow. She would leave the pistol beside him.

Suicides in Monte Carlo were invariably hushed up by the Police and the authorities. There were too many people in the world already decrying the vice of gambling for them to invite further comment by the newspapers.

Henry Dulton was of no importance except to himself.

Emilie drew a deep breath, then she bent down and took up the notes as they lay sprawled over the hearthrug. The ugly wound in Henry Dulton’s temple was bleeding and without flinching she wiped away the blood which would have dripped on to the carpet.