But though I was no less convinced than Stroeve that the connection between Strickland and Blanche would end disastrously, I did not expect the issue to take the tragic form it did. The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks. Occupied with other things, I had ceased to think of him and his affairs. Dirk, with his vain lamentations, had begun to bore me, and I avoided his society. It was a sordid business, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further.  
One morning I was working. I sat in my Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl in which the concierge had brought me my cafe au lait and the fragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat. I heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath. There was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the door. In a moment I heard Stroeve's voice asking if I was in. Without moving, I shouted to him to come. He entered the room quickly, and came up to the table at which I sat.
 
"She's killed herself," he said hoarsely.
 
"What do you mean?" I cried, startled.
 
He made movements with his lips as though he were speaking, but no sound issued from them. He gibbered like an idiot. My heart thumped against my ribs, and, I do not know why, I flew into a temper.
 
"For God's sake, collect yourself, man," I said. "What on earth are you talking about?"
 
He made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no words came from his mouth. He might have been struck dumb. I do not know what came over me; I took him by the shoulders and shook him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such a fool of myself; I suppose the last restless nights had shaken my nerves more than I knew.
 
"Let me sit down," he gasped at length.
 
I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt on his shirt-front.
 
"Who's killed herself?"
 
I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He made an effort to collect himself.
 
"They had a row last night. He went away."
 
"Is she dead?"
 
"No; they've taken her to the hospital."
 
"Then what are you talking about?" I cried impatiently. "Why did you say she'd killed herself?"
 
"Don't be cross with me. I can't tell you anything if you talk to me like that."
 
I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation. I attempted a smile.
 
"I'm sorry. Take your time. Don't hurry, there's a good fellow."
 
His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with terror. The magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them.
 
"When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter she could get no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning. The door wasn't locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed. She'd been frightfully sick. There was a bottle of oxalic acid on the table."
 
Stroeve hid his face in his hands............