you know the symptoms better than I, although you were not taught the philosophy of the Yogis by a Hindu fakir. What do you say, pretty priestess?"
"Masson was sincerely in love with Miss Denton. He never cared a snap for Marie."
"I believe you. And yet he kissed her—or tried to. There was no mistaking that blush. It is a common error to suppose that French girls are a whit less modest than their English or American sisters. In point of fact, they are often more so,—more ignorant, more innocent. Marie was carefully brought up; she is still a child. But the Latin races have temperament; they soon learn. Marie is a passionate little thing, quick at loving as at hating, full of revenges and regrets."
"But what has that kiss to do with this murder?"
"That's precisely what I'm here to find out. Permit me to resume my meditation, that my astral vision may be released."
Valeska smiled, and kept silent. It was Astro's way of requesting that he was not to be questioned further until he himself had run down his clue.
It was a quarter of an hour before he spoke; then to say in triumph, "Ho! I have found it! I have at least solved half the mystery." He pointed to three parallel scratches on the frieze, above the picture-molding.
Valeska shook her head, puzzled.
He shrugged his shoulders and went to the window, pointing to a tiny spot on the white frame.
"It's blood!" exclaimed Valeska.
"It's blood; and yet Miss Denton was strangled, and no blood was shed,—none, at least, of hers."
