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Title: The Sign of the Seven Sins
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: August 15, 2025 [eBook #76685]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1900
Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS ***
THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS
THE SIGN
OF THE
SEVEN SINS
BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_AUTHOR OF “THE EYE OF ISTAR,”
“THE TEMPTRESS,” “ZORAIDA,”
ETC._
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1901
COPYRIGHT, 1900
BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY,
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IS PURELY PERSONAL 7
II. TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE 14
III. IS A MYSTERY 24
IV. RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS 43
V. DEALS WITH A MILLIONAIRE 56
VI. PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT 69
VII. MAINLY CONCERNS THE OWL 79
VIII. NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT 93
IX. SHOWS THE BIRD’S TALONS 111
X. MAKES ONE POINT PLAIN 124
XI. DESCRIBES A MEETING AND ITS SEQUEL 137
XII. CARRIES ME ON BOARD THE VISPERA 148
XIII. DISCLOSES A MILLIONAIRE’S SECRET 165
XIV. IN WHICH I MAKE A RESOLVE 177
XV. IS ASTONISHING 189
XVI. IS MORE ASTONISHING 204
XVII. CONFIDES THE STORY OF A TABLE 215
XVIII. GIVES THE KEY OF THE CIPHER 229
XIX. PIECES TOGETHER THE PUZZLE 245
XX. REVEALS THE TRUTH 273
XXI. CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION 279
THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
IS PURELY PERSONAL
No; I dare not reveal everything here, lest I may be misjudged. The
narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so amazing, indeed, that
had I not been one of the actual persons concerned therein I would
never have believed that such things could be.
Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though
they may appear, are nevertheless the truth, a combination of unusual
circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic
and tragic. Reader, I would confess all if I dared, but each of us
have skeletons in our cupboards, both you and I--for, alas! I am no
exception to the general rule among women.
If compelled by natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may
also add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances
herein related. It only concerns myself, and no woman cares to afford
food for gossips at her own expense. Briefly, it is my intention to
narrate plainly and straightforwardly all that occurred, in the hope
that those who read may approach it with a perfectly open mind and
afterwards adjudge me fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice
attaching to one whose shortcomings are many, and whose actions have
perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.
My name is Carmela Rosselli. I am of Italian extraction,
five-and-twenty years of age last December, and already--yes, I confess
it freely--I was utterly world-weary. I am an only child. My mother,
one of the Burnetts of Washington, married Romolo Annibale, Marchese di
Pistoja, an impecunious member of the Florentine aristocracy, and after
a childhood at Washington I was sent to the Convent of San Paolo della
Croce at Florence to obtain my education. My mother’s money enabled the
Marchese to live in the reckless style befitting a gentleman of the
Tuscan nobility, but, unfortunately for me, both my parents died when
I was fifteen and left me in the care of a second cousin, a woman but
a few years older than myself; kind-hearted, everything that was most
American and womanly, and--everything most devoted to me.
Thus it was that at the age of eighteen I received the maternal kiss of
the grave-eyed Mother Superior, Suor Maria, and all the good sisters
in turn, and returned to Washington accompanied by my guardian, Ulrica
Yorke.
Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy and, being smart and good-looking,
did not want for admirers. Together we lived for several years amid
that society, diplomatic and otherwise, which circles around the White
House, until one rather dull afternoon in the fall she, Ulrica, made a
most welcome suggestion:
“Carmela, I am ruined morally and physically. I feel that I want a
complete change.”
I suggested New York or Florida for the winter.
“No,” she answered, “I feel that I must build up my constitution as
well as my spirits. Europe is the only place,--say London for a month,
Paris, Monte Carlo for January, then Rome till after Easter.”
“To Europe!” I gasped.
“Why not?” she inquired. “You have money,--what there is left of
it,--and we may just as well go to Europe for a year and enjoy
ourselves as vegetate here.”
“You are tired of Guy?” I observed.
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, pursed her lips, and
contemplated her rings.
“He has become too serious,” she said simply.
“And you want to escape him?” I remarked. “Do you know, Ulrica, that I
really believe he loves you?”
“Well, and if he does?”
“I thought you told me only a couple of months ago that he was the best
looking man in Washington, and that you had utterly lost your heart to
him?”
She laughed.
“I’ve lost it so many times that I began to believe that I don’t
possess that very useful portion of the human anatomy. But,” she added,
“you pity him, eh? My dear Carmela, you should never pity a man. None
of them is really worth sympathy. Nineteen out of every twenty are
ready to declare love to any good-looking woman with money. Remember
your dearest Ernest.”
Mention of that name caused me a twinge.
“I have forgotten him!” I cried hotly. “I have forgiven--all is of the
past!”
She laughed again.
“And you will go to Europe with me?” she said. “You will go to commence
life afresh? What a funny thing life is, isn’t it?”
I responded in the affirmative. Truth to tell, I was glad of that
opportunity to escape from scenes which daily reminded me of the man
whom I loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further
mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.
We sailed from New York, duly landed in Liverpool a week later, and the
same night found ourselves at the Hotel Cecil in London.
I knew little of the English metropolis, but we discovered some friends
of Ulrica’s living out at South Kensington, and the month we passed in
the city of smoke and fog--for it was November--was quite the reverse
of dreary. I had always believed London to be a sad second edition of
New York, but was agreeably surprised at the many nice people we met in
the circle into which Ulrica’s friends introduced us.
In continuation of our pilgrimage we went to Paris, and after a month
there went South.
We were in the salon of the Grand Hotel at Nice on the night of our
arrival when suddenly someone uttered my name. We both turned quickly,
and to our surprise saw two men we knew quite well in Washington
standing before us. One was Reginald Thorne, a dark-haired, more than
usually good-looking youth of about twenty-two or so, while the other
was Gerald Keppel, a thin, fair-mustached young man some seven years
his senior, son of old Benjamin Keppel, the well-known Pittsburg
millionaire. Gerald was an old friend, but the former I knew but
slightly, having met him once or twice at dances, for in Washington he
was among the chief of the eligibles.
“Why, my dear Miss Rosselli!” he cried enthusiastically as we shook
hands, “I’m so awfully glad to meet you. I had no idea you were here.
Gerald was here dining with me, and we caught sight of you through the
glass doors.”
“Then you’re staying here?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, Gerald’s staying with his gov’nor. He has a villa out at Fabron.
Have you been here long?”
“We’ve arrived in Nice to-day,” interposed Ulrica, “and we haven’t
found a single soul we knew until now. I feel sure you’ll take pity
upon our loneliness, Mr. Thorne, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he laughed. “I suppose you go to Monte?”
“You men think of nothing but roulette and dinners at the Paris,” she
responded reproachfully, adding: “But after all, should we be worse if
we had no soul for gambling? Have you had any luck this season?”
“Can’t complain,” he smiled. “I’ve been staying over there ten days or
so. Gerald has had quite a run of good fortune. The other night he won
the maximum on the zero-trois three times.”
“Congratulations, my dear Gerald,” exclaimed Ulrica approvingly. “You
shall both take us over one day and let us try our fortune--if Mr.
Thorne is agreeable?”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” answered the latter, glancing at me, and by
the look he gave me I felt convinced that my suspicions aroused in
Washington about a year before were not quite groundless,--in brief,
that he admired me.
CHAPTER II
TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE
The fault of us women is that we so often over-esteem the value of our
good looks. To my mind the possession of handsome toilettes is quite as
essential to a woman’s well-being and man’s contentment as are personal
attractions. A woman, however beautiful she may be, loses half her
charm to men’s eyes if she dresses dowdily or without taste. Nobody
ever saw a really beautiful Parisienne. For the most part they are
thin-nosed, thin-lipped, scraggy-necked, yellow-faced, and absolutely
ugly, yet are they not, merely by reason of their chic in dress, the
most attractive women in the world? I know that many will dissent from
this estimate, but as my mirror tells me that I have a face more than
commonly handsome, and as dozens of men have further endorsed the mute
evidence of my toilet-glass, I can only confess that all my success
and all my harmless flirtations have had their commencements in the
attraction exercised by the dainty creations of my couturière. We hear
much complaining among women that there are not a sufficient number of
nice men to go round, but, after all, the woman who knows how to dress
need have no lack of offers of marriage. American women can always be
distinguished from the English, and it is certain that to their quiet
smartness in frills and furbelows their success in the marriage mart is
due.
Yes, there was no doubt that Reggie Thorne admired me. I had
suspected it on the night when we had waltzed together at the
Pendymans’ and afterwards gossiped together over ices, but with a
woman dance-flirtations are soon forgotten, and, truth to tell, I had
forgotten him until our sudden and unexpected meeting.
“What awfully good luck we’ve met Gerald and Reggie,” Ulrica said
when half-an-hour later we were seated together in the privacy of
our sitting-room. “Gerald, poor boy, was always a bit gone on me in
Washington, and as for Reggie--well, he’ll make an excellent cavalier
for you. Even if Mother Grundy is dead and buried, it isn’t very
respectable to be constantly trotting over to Monte Carlo without male
escort.”
“You mean that they’ll be a couple of useful males--eh?”
“Certainly. Their advent is quite providential. Some of Gerald’s luck
at the table may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to make my
expenses at Monte.”
“So should I.”
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t,” she went on confidently. “I know
quite a lot of people who’ve won enough to pay for the whole trip to
Europe.”
“Reggie has money, hasn’t he?”
“Of course. The old man was on Wall Street and died very comfortably
off. All of it went to Reggie, with an annuity to his mother. Of
course, he’s spent a good deal since. A man doesn’t live in Washington
as he does, drive tandem, and all that sort of thing on nothing a year.”
“They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn’t a dollar only what the old
man allowed him monthly--and a most niggardly allowance, I’ve heard.”
“That’s quite possible, my dear Carmela,” she answered. “But one’s
position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire.
Old Benjamin is eccentric. I’ve met the old buffer several times. He’s
addicted to my pet abomination in a man--paper collars.”
“Then you’ll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?” I
laughed.
“Yes. I’m self-sacrificing, am I not?”
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel,
and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of
Delight which somebody has suggested might be known by the Sign of the
Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type, pretty, with soft,
wavy chestnut hair, and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host
of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine, yet beneath her
corsets, I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love
and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change, and
flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them.
Neither, indeed, could I, for, living with her ever since my convent
days, I had imbibed her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks
of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the Grand
Hotel, we went over to Monte Carlo by the two o’clock “yellow” express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera--that stretch
of azure sky, azure sea, of golden coasts, purple hills fringed with
olive and pine, rose and geranium running riot over hedge and hollow,
oranges golden and flowers white upon the same branch. The pale
violet of the Alps answers the violet of the valleys; white and gold
marguerites spangle the hill-side where the old rock village of Eze is
perched above; white and gold villas dot the wayside, and white and
gold are the decoration of that Casino wherein is centred all the human
vices--painted tastefully in white and gold--The Sign of the Seven Sins.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smelling
salle-de-jeu where the croupiers were crying in those mechanical,
strident tones “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” and uttering in warning
voice “Rien ne va plus!” I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those
grabbing crowds of smartly dressed people grouped around the tables?
Were they actually civilized beings--beings who had loved, suffered,
and lived, as I had loved, suffered, and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little Place with the red
Hungarian band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and
half the grande monde of Europe lounging about and chattering. How
enchanting was the grim Dog’s Head as a fitting background in dark
purple against the winter sunset, the old bronze Grimaldi rock rising
sheer from the turquoise sea surmounted by the white tower of Monaco
and the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right Villefranche and
San Juan shining in topaz and amber,--the Esterels as a necklace of
radiant jewels,--while to the left Bordighera was lying at the base of
its neck, like a pearl at a fair throat. And beyond there was Italy--my
own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a
paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day
was tempered by the thick curtains and the clink of gold mingled with
the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.
Some years ago--ah! now I am looking back: Ulrica is not at fault this
time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself in writing this
narrative not to think, but to try and forget all past unhappiness.
Try. Ah! would that I could calm my soul--steep it in a draught of
thoughtlessness, such that oblivion would come.
It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer and yet live. What a
blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman’s heart! Men may
look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our
hearts may be breaking we may wear a smile; we can fold our sorrows as
a bird folds its wings, for they are part of our physical being; we can
hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us.
Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all are, alas! a woman’s
heritage. Even in the few years I have lived I have had my share of
them all.
I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel
and the eager crowd of faces around it.
“Vingt! Rouge, pair et passé!” the croupier cried, and a couple of
louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with
the silver, notes, and gold to swell the bank.
I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron and pursed my
lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Florence had taught me
so long ago was very true, Amore non è senza amaro.
The millionaire’s son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was
played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had
once loved--the man whose slave I was--the man whom I had forgiven,
even though he had left me so cruelly.
Only three things could make life to me worth living--the sight of his
face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.
But they could never be, alas! we were parted for ever--for ever.
“Now, play this time,” I heard Reggie beside me exclaim.
“Where?” I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of
my surroundings.
“On the line, there--between the numbers 9 and 12.”
I took a louis from my purse and with the rake carelessly pushed it
upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.
“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier.
A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.
The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the
wheel.
“Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!”
“You’ve won, my dear!” cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments
Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.
“There now,” he said, laughing, “you’ve made your first coup. Try
again.”
I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The
three louis which would not go in I held in indecision in my hand.
“Play on the treize-dix-huit this time!” urged Reggie, and I obeyed him
blindly.
The number 18 came up, therefore I again received another little
handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my
direction, and to me the excitement of winning was an entirely new
sensation.
Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning
a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the
wheel, I began to think roulette not such wearying fun as I had once
believed it to be.
I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew
too well that the bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the
players.
With Reggie at my side I went out and strolled through those beautiful
gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat
on the terrace of the Café de Paris and enjoyed the brilliant sundown.
CHAPTER III
IS A MYSTERY
I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald in to the
orchestral concert.
“What awfully good luck you had!” he observed after we had been
chatting some time. “If you’d had the maximum on each time you’d have
won about four thousand dollars.”
“There are a good many if’s in gambling,” I remarked. “I’ve never had
any luck before in gambles at bazaars and such-like places.”
“When you do have luck, follow it, is my motto,” he laughed. “I should
have advised you to continue playing to-day, only I thought it might
annoy Ulrica,” and he raised his glass to his lips.
“But I might have lost all that I won,” I remarked. “No, I prefer to
keep it. I’d like to be unique among the people and go away with some
of the bank’s money. I intend to keep what I have, and not to play
again.”
“Never?”
“Never!”
“My dear Miss Rosselli, that’s what everyone says here,” he laughed.
“But before you’ve been on the Riviera long you’ll discover that this
is no place for good resolutions. Gambling is one of the sweetest and
most insidious of vices, and has the additional attraction of being
thought chic. Look at the crowd of women here! Why, every one of them
play. If they didn’t, others would believe them to be hard up--and
poverty, you know, is distinctly bad form here. Even if a woman hasn’t
sufficient to pay her hotel bill she must wear the regulation gold
chatelaine,--the gold chain-purse,--if it only contains a couple of
pieces of a hundred sous. And she must play. Fortunes have been won
with only five francs.”
“Such stories, I fear, are only fairy tales,” I said incredulously.
“No. At least one of them is not,” he answered, blowing a cloud of
smoke from his lips and looking at me amusedly. “I was playing here one
night last March when a young French girl won three hundred thousand
francs after having first lost all she had. She borrowed a five-franc
piece from a friend and with it broke the bank. I was present at the
table where it occurred. Fortune is very fickle here.”
“So it seems,” I said. “That is why I intend to keep what I’ve won.”
“You might have a necklace made of the louis,” he said. “Many women
wear coins won at Monte Carlo attached to their bangles.”
“A happy thought!” I exclaimed; “I’ll have one put on my bangle
to-morrow as a souvenir.”
“Are you staying on the Riviera long?” he inquired presently.
“I really don’t know. When Ulrica is tired of it, then we shall move
down to Rome, I suppose.”
“When she’s lost sufficient, you mean,” he smiled. “She’s quite
reckless when she commences. I remember her here several seasons ago.
She lost very heavily. Luck was entirely against her.”
I too remembered her visit. She left me in Washington and went to
the Riviera for a couple of months, and on her return was constantly
bewailing her penury. This, then, was the secret of it. She had never
revealed to me the truth.
“And you think that I shall be stricken with the prevalent epidemic?” I
inquired.
“I hope not,” he answered quickly. “But after all, the temptation is
utterly irresistible. It is sad, indeed, that here in this corner of
God’s earth, which He has marked as the nearest approach to paradise,
should be allowed to flaunt all the vices and the seven deadly sins
which render the world horrible. Monte Carlo is the one blot upon
the Riviera. I’m a gambler,--I make no secret of it, because I find
resistance impossible while I have money in my pocket,--nevertheless,
much as I like a fling here each winter I would gladly welcome the
closing of the Casino. It is, alas! true that those red-carpeted steps
and the wide doors opposite form the entrance-gate to hell.”
I sighed, glancing over to the flight of steps before us, where the gay
wintering world in summer toilettes were passing up and down. He was
possessed of common sense and spoke the truth. Inside those rooms the
perspiring, perfumed crowds were fluttering around the tables as moths
around a candle, going headlong to ruin both moral and financial.
“Yes,” I observed reflectively, “I suppose you’re right. Thousands
have been ruined within that place.”
“And thousands have ended by committing suicide,” he added. “The
average number of suicides within this tiny Principality of Monaco is
more than two a day!”
“More than two a day!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes. Of course, the authorities bribe the press and hush it all
up, but the authentic figures were published not so long ago. The
Administration of the Casino find it cheaper to bury a corpse than to
pay a ruined gambler’s fare to St. Petersburg, London, or New York.
That’s why the poor devils who are cleaned out find the much-talked-of
viatique so difficult to obtain. Human life is held very cheap here, I
can tell you.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” I protested. “You make one feel quite
nervous. Do you mean that murder is often committed?”
“Well--not exactly that. But one must always remember that here, mixing
with the best people of Europe, are the very scum of the world, both
male and female. Although they dress elegantly, live well, play boldly,
and give themselves airs and titles of nobility, they are a very queer
and unscrupulous crowd, I can assure you.”
“Do you know any of them by sight?” I inquired, much interested.
“Oh, one or two,” he answered, laughing indifferently. “Some of them,
of course, are eccentric and quite harmless characters.” Then a moment
later he added: “Do you see that tall, thin old man just ascending the
steps--the one with the soft, white felt hat? Well, his is a curious
story. Twenty years ago he came here a millionaire, and within a month
lost everything he possessed at trente-et-quarante. So huge were the
profits made by the bank, that instead of giving him his viatique to
London they allotted him a pension of a louis a day for life, on the
understanding that he should never again enter the Rooms. For nearly
twenty years he lived in Nice, haunting the Promenade des Anglais
and brooding over his past foolishness. Last year, however, somebody
unexpectedly died and left him quite comfortably off, whereupon he paid
back to Monte Carlo all that he had received and returned again to
gamble. His luck, however, has proved just as bad as before. Yet each
month as soon as he draws his income he comes over, and in a single
day flings it all away upon the red, his favorite color. His history is
only one of many.”
With interest I looked at the tall, thin-faced old gambler as he
painfully ascended the steps, and even as I watched he passed in, eager
to fling away all that stood between himself and starvation.
Truly the little world of Monte Carlo is a very queer place.
Ulrica and Gerald came laughing across the leafy Place and joined us
at our table. It was very pleasant there, with the band playing the
latest waltzes, the gay promenaders strolling beneath the palms, the
bright flowers, and the pigeons strutting in the roadway. Indeed, as
one sat there it seemed hard to believe that this was actually the
much-talked-of Monte Carlo--the plague spot of Europe.
I don’t think that I ever saw Ulrica look so well as on that afternoon
in her white serge dress, which she had had made in Paris; for white
serge is, as you know, de rigueur at Monte in winter, with a white hat
and white shoes. I was also in white, but it never suits me as it does
her; yet one must be smart, even at the expense of one’s complexion.
At Monte Carlo one must at least be respectable, even in one’s vices.
“Come, let’s go back to the Rooms,” suggested Ulrica when she had
finished her tea, flavored with orange-flower water, which is the mode
at the Café de Paris.
“Miss Rosselli won’t play any more,” said Reggie.
“My dear Carmela,” cried Ulrica; “why, surely you’ve the pluck to
follow your good fortune?”
But I was obdurate, and although I accompanied the others I did not
risk a single sou.
The place was crowded and the atmosphere absolutely unbearable, as it
always becomes about five o’clock. The Administration appear afraid of
letting in a little air to cool the heads of the players, hence the
rooms are hermetically sealed.
As I wandered about with Reggie, he pointed out to me other well-known
characters in the Rooms--the queer old fellow who carries a bag purse
made of colored beads; the old hag with a mustache who always brings
her own rake; the bright-eyed, dashing woman known to the croupiers
as “The Golden Hand;” the thin, wizen-faced little hunchback who one
night a few months before had broken the bank at the first roulette
table on the left; men working so-called “systems” and women trying to
snatch up other people’s winnings. Now and then my companion placed a
louis upon a transversale or colonne and once or twice he won, but,
declaring that he had no luck that day, he soon grew as tired of it as
myself.
Ulrica came up to us presently flushed with excitement. She had won
three hundred francs at the table where she always played. Her favorite
croupier was turning the wheel, and he always brought her luck. We both
had won, and she declared it to be a happy augury for the future.
While we were standing there the croupier’s voice sounded loud and
clear “Zero!” with that long roll of the “r” which habitués of the
Rooms know so well.
“Zero!” cried Reggie. “By Jove! I must put something on,” and he dashed
over to the table and handed the croupier a hundred-franc note, with a
request to put it on the number 29.
The game was made and the ball fell.
“Vingt-neuf! Rouge, impair et passé!”
“By Jove!” cried Gerald, “he’s won! Lucky devil! How extraordinary that
after zero the number twenty-nine so invariably follows!”
The croupier handed Reggie three thousand-franc notes and quite a
handful of gold. Then the lucky player moved his original stake on to
the little square marked 36.
Again he won--and again and again. The three thousand-franc notes he
had just received he placed upon the middle dozen. The number 18 turned
up, and the croupier handed him six thousand francs--the maximum paid
by the bank on a single coup. Every eye around that table watched him
narrowly. People began to follow his play, placing their money beside
his, and time after time he won, making only a few unimportant losses.
We stood watching him in silent wonder. The luck of the man with whom
I had been flirting was simply marvellous. Sometimes he distributed
his stakes on the color, the dozen, and the “pair,” and in that manner
often won in several places at the same coup. The eager, grabbing crowd
surged around the table, and the excitement quickly rose to fever-heat.
The assault Reggie was making upon the bank was certainly a formidable
one. His inner pockets bulged with the handfuls of notes he crammed
there, while the outer pockets of his jacket were heavy with golden
louis.
Ulrica stood behind him, but uttered no word. To speak to a person
while playing is believed by the gambler to bring evil fortune. When he
could cram no more notes into his pockets he passed them to Ulrica, who
held them in an overflow bundle in her hand.
He tossed a thousand francs on the red, but lost, together with the
dozens of others who had followed his play.
He played again with no better result.
A third time he played on the red, which had not been up for nine times
in succession, a most unusual run.
Black won.
“I’ve finished,” he said, turning to us with a laugh. “Let’s get out of
this; my luck has changed.”
“Marvellous!” cried Ulrica. “Why, you must have won quite a fortune.”
“We’ll go across to the Café and count it,” he said, and we all walked
out together. Then while sitting at one of the tables we assisted him
to count the piles of gold and notes.
He had, we found, won over sixty thousand francs.
At his invitation we went along to Gast’s, the jewellers in the
Galerie, and he there purchased for each of us a ring as a little
souvenir of the day. Afterwards we turned into Ciro’s and dined.
Yes, life at Monte Carlo is absolutely intoxicating. Now, however, that
I sit here reflecting on the events of that day when I first entered
the Sign of the Seven Sins, I find that even though the display of such
wealth as one sees upon the tables is dazzling, yet my first impression
of it has never been altered. I hated Monte Carlo from the first--I
hate it now.
The talk at dinner was, of course, the argot of the Rooms. At Monte
Carlo the conversation is always of play. If you meet an acquaintance,
you do not ask after her health, but of her luck and her latest
successes.
The two bejewelled worlds, the monde and the demi-monde, ate, drank,
and chattered in that restaurant of world-renown. The company was
cosmopolitan, the conversation polyglot, the dishes marvellous. At
the table next us there sat the Grand Duke Michael of Russia with his
wife, and beyond a British Earl with a couple of smart military men.
The United States Ambassador to Germany was at another table with a
small party of friends, while La Juniori, Derval, and several other
well-known Parisian beauties were scattered here and there.
I was laughing at a joke of Reggie’s when suddenly I raised my eyes and
saw a pair of new-comers. The man was tall, dark, handsome, with a face
a trifle bronzed--a face I knew, alas! too well.
I started and must have turned pale, for I knew from Ulrica’s
expression that she noticed it.
The man who entered there, as though to taunt me with his presence,
was Ernest Cameron, that man whom I had loved,--nay, whom I still
loved,--the man who had a year ago cast me aside for another, and left
me to wear out my young heart in sorrow and suffering.
That woman was with him--the tow-haired woman whom they told me he
had promised to make his wife. I had never seen her before; she was
rather petite, with a fair, fluffy coiffure, blue-gray eyes, and
pink-and-white cheeks. She had earned, I afterwards heard, a rather
unenviable notoriety in Paris on account of some scandal or other, but
the real truth of it I could never ascertain.
Our eyes met as she entered, but she was unaware that she gazed upon
the woman who was her rival and who hated her. She had stolen Ernest
from me, and I felt that I could rise there, in that public place, and
crush the life from her slim, fragile frame.
Ernest himself brushed past my chair, but without recognizing me, and
went down the room gayly with his companion.
“Do you notice who has just entered?” asked Ulrica.
I nodded. I could not speak.
“Who?” inquired Reggie quickly.
“Some friends of ours,” she answered carelessly.
“Oh, everyone meets friends here,” he laughed, and swallowed his
champagne unsuspectingly.
Reader, if you are a woman you will fully understand how sight of that
man who held me in a fatal fascination caused within me a whirl of
passions. I hated and loved at the same instant. Even though we were
parted, I had never ceased to think of him. For me the world had no
longer any charm, for the light of my life had now gone out, and I was
suffering in silence, just as all women do who become the sport of fate.
Yes, Ulrica’s notion was, after all, very true. No man whom I had ever
met was really worth consideration. All were egoists. The rich believed
that woman was a mere toy, while the poor were always ineligible.
Reggie spoke to me, but I scarcely heeded him. Now that the man I
loved was near me I felt an increasing desire to get rid of this male
encumbrance. True, he was rich, and I knew by my own feminine intuition
that he admired me, but for him I entertained no spark of affection.
Alas! that we always sigh for the unattainable.
For me, the remainder of the meal was a dismal function. I longed to
get another glimpse of that dark, bronzed face, and of the tow-haired
woman whom he had preferred to me, but they were evidently sitting at
a table in the corner out of sight. Ulrica knew the truth, and took
compassion upon me by hastening the dinner to its end. Then we went
forth again into the cool, balmy night. The moon shone brightly and its
reflection glittered in a long stream of silver brilliance upon the
sea, the Place was gayly lit, and the white façade of the Casino with
its great illuminated clock shone with lights of every hue.
Across to the Hermitage we strolled and took our coffee there. I
laughed at Reggie’s pockets bulging with notes, for, the banks being
closed, he was compelled to carry his winnings about with him.
While we sat there, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him.
“Nearly all these notes are small,” he said suddenly. “I’ll go into the
Rooms and exchange the gold and small notes for large ones. They’ll be
so much easier to carry.”
“Ah!” cried Ulrica. “I never thought of that. Why, of course!”
“Very well,” he answered, “I sha’n’t be ten minutes.”
“Don’t be tempted to play again, old fellow,” urged Gerald.
“No fear of that!” he laughed, and with a cigarette in his mouth
strode away in the direction of the Casino.
We remained there gossiping for fully half-an-hour, yet he did not
return. It was only a walk of a couple of minutes from the Hermitage to
the Casino, therefore we concluded that he had met some friend and been
detained, for he, like Gerald, came there each winter and knew quite
a host of people. One makes a large circle of acquaintances on the
Riviera, many interesting but the majority undesirable.
“I wonder where he’s got to?” Gerald observed presently. “Surely he
isn’t such an idiot as to resume play.”
“No. He’s well enough aware that there’s no luck after dinner,”
remarked Ulrica. “We might, however, I think, take a last turn through
the Rooms and see whether he’s there.”
This suggestion was carried out, but although we searched every table
we failed to discover him. Until ten o’clock we lounged about, then
returned by the express to Nice.
That he should have left us in that abrupt manner was certainly
curious, but as Gerald declared he was always erratic in his movements,
and that his explanation in the morning would undoubtedly be found
entirely satisfactory, we returned together to the hotel, where we
wished our companion good-night and ascended in the elevator to our own
sitting-room on the second floor.
My good fortune pleased me, but my heart was nevertheless overburdened
with sorrow. Sight of Ernest had reopened the gaping wound which I
had so strenuously striven to heal by the aid of lighter loves. I now
thought only of him.
Ulrica, who was in front of me, gayly pushed open the door of our
sitting-room and switched on the light, but ere she crossed the
threshold she drew back quickly with a loud cry of horror and surprise.
In an instant I was at her side.
“Look!” she gasped, terrified, pointing to the opposite side of the
room. “Look!”
The body of a man was lying face downward upon the carpet, half hidden
by the round table in the centre of the room.
Together we dashed forward to his assistance and tried to raise him,
but were unable. We succeeded, however, in turning him upon his side,
and then his white, hard-set features became suddenly revealed.
“My God!” I cried, awe-stricken. “What has occurred? Why--it’s Reggie!”
“Reggie!” shrieked Ulrica, kneeling quickly and placing her gloved hand
eagerly upon his heart. “Reggie!--and he’s dead!”
“Impossible!” I gasped, petrified at the hideous discovery.
“It is true!” she went on, her face white as that of the dead man
before us. “Look! there’s blood upon his lips. See! the chair over
there is thrown down and broken. There has apparently been a fierce
struggle.”
Next instant a thought occurred to me, and bending I quickly searched
his inner pockets. The bank-notes were not there!
Then the ghastly truth became entirely plain.
Reginald Thorne had been robbed and murdered.
CHAPTER IV
RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS
The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.
The favorite of Fortune, who only a couple of hours before had been so
full of life and buoyant spirits, and who had left us with a promise to
return within ten minutes, was now lying still and dead in the privacy
of our own room. The ghastly truth was so strange and unexpected as to
utterly stagger belief. A mysterious and dastardly crime had evidently
been committed there.
I scarce knew what occurred during the quarter of an hour that
immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is
that Ulrica, with her face blanched to the lips, ran out into the
corridor and raised the alarm. Then there arrived a crowd of waiters,
chambermaids, and visitors, everyone excitedly asking strings of
questions, until the hotel manager came and closed the door upon them
all. The discovery caused the most profound sensation, especially when
the police and doctor arrived, quickly followed by two detectives.
The doctor, a short, stout Frenchman, at once pronounced that
poor Reggie had been dead more than half-an-hour, but the cursory
examination he was enabled to make was insufficient to establish the
cause of death.
“Do you incline to a theory of death through violence?” one of the
detectives inquired.
“Ah! At present I cannot tell,” the other answered dubiously. “It is
not at all plain that m’sieur has been murdered.”
Both Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant
position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was
sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly,
the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both
cross-questioned separately as to Reggie’s identity, what we knew of
him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made
no secret of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able
to trace the culprit--if indeed Reggie had been actually murdered.
The fact that he had won that sum and that he had left us in order to
change the notes into larger ones seemed to puzzle the police. If
robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they
agreed, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train or on the
street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at
all?
That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the
circumstances formed a complete and most puzzling enigma, but his visit
to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all.
The thief, whoever he was,--for I inclined towards the theory of theft
and murder,--had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly and leave
the hotel without detection. Another curious fact was that neither the
concierge nor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man’s return. Both
agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why?
Having concluded the examinations of Ulrica and myself and my Italian
maid, Felicita, who had returned from her evening out and knew nothing
at all of the matter, the police made a most rigorous search in our
rooms. We were present and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best
gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not
a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search
they at least do it thoroughly.
“Ah! What is this?” exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the
open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he
smoothed out carefully.
In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet
of my own note-paper, and upon it in a man’s handwriting was the
commencement of a letter:
“My dear Miss Rosselli, I have----”
There it broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had
been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought,
had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie’s
handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found
in his pocket the police pronounced it to be his.
What did he wish to tell me?
About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald,
who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger.
When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to
the spot.
“Reggie dead!” he gasped. “Murdered!”
“Undoubtedly,” answered Ulrica. “The mystery is inexplicable, but with
your aid we must solve it.”
“With my aid!” he cried. “I fear I cannot help you. I know nothing
whatever about it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But now tell us what is your theory? You were
his best friend, and would therefore probably know if he had any enemy
who desired to wreak revenge upon him.”
“He hadn’t a single enemy in the world, to my knowledge,” Gerald
answered. “The motive of the crime was robbery, without a doubt. Most
probably he was followed from Monte Carlo by someone who watched his
success at the tables. There are always some desperate characters among
the crowd there.”
“Do you think, then, that the murderer was actually watching us ever
since the afternoon?” I inquired in alarm.
“I think it most probable,” he responded. “At Monte Carlo there is a
crowd of all sorts and conditions of outsiders. Many of them wouldn’t
hesitate to commit murder for the sum which poor Reggie had in his
pockets.”
“It’s terrible!” ejaculated Ulrica.
“Yes,” he sighed, whilst his face grew heavy and thoughtful. “This
awful news has upset me quite as much as it has you. I have lost my
best friend.”
“I hope you will spare no effort to clear up the mystery,” I said, for
I had rather liked the poor boy ever since chance had first thrown
us together in Washington, and on the renewal of our acquaintance a
few days previously my estimate of his character and true worth had
considerably improved. It was appalling that he should be thus struck
down so swiftly and in a manner so strange.
“Of course, I shall at once do all I can,” he declared. “I’ll see the
police and state all I know. If this had occurred in England or in
America there might be a chance of tracing the culprit by the numbers
on the bank-notes. In France, however, the numbers are never taken, and
stolen notes cannot be recovered. However, rest assured, both of you,
that I’ll do my very best.”
There was a tap at the door at that moment, and opening it, I was
confronted by a tall, dark-bearded Frenchman, who explained that he was
an agent of police.
To him Gerald related all he knew regarding poor Reggie’s
acquaintances and movements while on the Riviera, and afterwards in
company with the detective he went to the rooms we had abandoned and
there gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.
This sudden tragic event had cast a gloom over both Ulrica and myself.
We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the mysterious
reason which caused Reggie to enter our sitting-room in our absence.
Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not have returned
straight there and commenced that mysterious letter of explanation.
As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon
had not intoxicated him, for although young, he was a practised,
unemotional player, and to him gains and losses were alike--at least,
he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction beyond a broad smile when
his winning number was announced by the croupier. No, of the many
theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely,
that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent.
The _Petit Niçois_, the _Eclaireur_, and the _Phare du Littoral_ were
next day full of “The Mystery of the Grand Hotel.” In the article we
were referred to as Mademoiselle Y. and Mademoiselle R., as is usual in
French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs
in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry
sarcasm. The _Petit Niçois_, a journal which had on so many recent
occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone,
declared its disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large
sum stated, and concluded by urging the police of Nice to leave no
stone unturned in its efforts to discover the murderer, which it added
would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly
a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal
believed that one of us--or both--had conspired to murder him.
Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against
the cruel calumnies of such torchons.
The official inquiry, held next day after the post-mortem examination
had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death
puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth,
so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had
been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was
no abrasion of the skin--no wound of any kind. On the neck, however,
were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which
pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to
establish that as a fact. He died, it was declared, from some cause
which could not be determined. It might, indeed, have been a natural
death the doctors admitted, but the fact that the notes were missing
pointed very clearly and conclusively to murder.
That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels,
we followed the dead man’s remains to their resting-place in the
English Cemetery up in the olive-groves of Caucade, perhaps one of the
most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in all the world. Winter
and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over
the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the
most charming in all the Riviera.
The American chaplain performed the last rites, and then we turned
sorrowfully away and drove back to Nice silently, full of gloomy
thoughts.
The puzzling incident had crushed all gayety from our hearts. I
suggested that we should leave and go on to Mentone, but Ulrica
declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the
police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve the inscrutable
mystery. Thus, the days which followed were days of sadness and
melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious,
for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out
of the hotel we overheard many whisperings.
As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of
deep thought and sadness I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who
might perhaps have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense
that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion,
clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men
of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament.
When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I
could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved
Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would
ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favor
of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all
hazards see him again.
I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon
the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said:
“Curious that we’ve seen nothing further of Ernest. I suppose, however,
you’ve forgotten him.”
“Forgotten him!” I cried, starting up. “I shall never forget
him--never!”
In that instant I seemed to see his dark, handsome face before me, as
of old. It was in the golden blaze of a summer sunset. I heard his
rich voice in my ears. I saw him pluck a sprig of jasmine, emblem of
purity, and give it to me, at the same time whispering words of love
and devotion. Ah, yes, he loved me then--he loved me.
I put up my hand to shut out the vision. I rose and staggered. Then I
felt Ulrica’s soft hand upon my waist.
“Carmela! Carmela!” she cried. “What’s the matter? Tell me, dear!”
“You know,” I answered hoarsely, “you know, Ulrica, that I love him!”
My voice was choked within me, so deep was my distress. “And he is to
marry--to marry that woman!”
“My dear, take my advice and forget him,” she said lightly. “There are
lots of other men whom you could love quite as well. Poor Reggie, for
instance, might have filled his place in your heart. He was charming,
poor fellow. Your Ernest treated you as he has done all women. Why make
yourself miserable and wear out your heart regarding a past which it
is quite unnecessary to recall? Live as I do, for the future, without
mourning over what must ever be by-gones.”
“Ah! that’s all very well,” I said sadly. “But I can’t help it. That
woman loves him--every woman loves him. You yourself admired him long
ago.”
“Certainly. I admire lots of men, but I have never committed the folly
of loving a single one.”
“Folly!” I cried angrily. “You call love folly?”
“Why, of course,” she laughed. “Do dry your eyes, or you’ll look an
awful sight when Gerald comes. He said he would go for a walk with us
on the Promenade at four, and it’s already half-past three. Come, it’s
time we dressed.”
I sighed heavily. Yes, it was true that Ulrica was utterly heartless
towards those who admired her. I had with regret noticed her careless
attitude times without number. She was a smart woman who thought only
of her own good looks, her own toilettes, and her own amusements. Men
amused her by their flattery, and she therefore tolerated them. She had
told me so long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her
example.
“Ulrica,” I said at last, “forgive me--forgive me; but I am so unhappy.
Don’t let us speak of him again. I will try to forget, indeed I will--I
will try and regard him as dead. I forgot myself--forgive me, dear.”
“Yes, forget him, there’s a dear,” she said, kissing me. “And now call
Felicita and let us dress. Gerald hates to be kept waiting, you know.”
CHAPTER V
DEALS WITH A MILLIONAIRE
One evening, about ten days later, we dined at old Benjamin Keppel’s
invitation at the Villa Fabron.
Visitors to Nice know the great white mansion. High up above the sea,
beyond the Magnam bridge, it stands in the midst of extensive grounds
shaded by date-palms, olives, and oranges, approached by a fine
eucalyptus avenue, and rendered bright with flowers, its dazzlingly
white walls relieved by the green persiennes, a residence magnificent
even for Nice, the town of princes. Along the whole front of the great
place there runs a broad marble terrace, from which are obtained
marvellous views of Nice on the left, the gilt-domed Jetée Promenade
jutting out into the azure bay, the old château, Mont Boron, and the
snow-capped Alps, while on the right lies the valley of the Var and
that romantic chain of dark-purple mountains which lie far away beyond
Cannes, a panorama almost as magnificent as that from the higher
Corniche.
The interior was, we found, the acme of luxury and comfort. Everywhere
was displayed the fact that its owner was wealthy, yet none on
entering there would believe him to be so simple in tastes and
curiously eccentric in manner. Each winter he came to Nice in his
splendid steam-yacht, the Vispera, which was now anchored as usual in
Villefranche harbor, and with his sister, a small, wizen-faced old
lady, and Mr. Barnes, his secretary, he lived there from December until
the end of April.
Ulrica had met him several times in New York, and he greeted us both
very affably. He was, I found, a queer old fellow. Report had certainly
not lied about him, and I could hardly believe that this absent-minded,
rather ordinary-looking old gentleman with disordered gray hair and
beard and dark, deep-set eyes was Gerald’s father, the great Benjamin
Keppel, of Pittsburg.
Dinner, even though a stately affair, was quite a pleasant function,
for the old millionaire was most unassuming and affable. One of his
eccentricities displayed itself in his dress. His dining-jacket was
old and quite glossy about the back and elbows, he wore a paper collar,
his white tie showed unmistakable signs of having done duty on at
least a dozen previous occasions, and across his vest was suspended
an albert, not of gold but of rusty steel. There had never been any
pretence about Ben Keppel in his earlier days, as all the world knew,
and there was certainly none in these days of his affluence. He had
amassed his fabulous fortune by shrewdness and sheer hard work, and he
despised the whole of that chattering little ring which calls itself
Society.
Ere I had been an hour in this man’s society I grew to like him for his
honest plain-spokenness. He possessed none of that sarcastic arrogance
which generally characterizes those whose fortunes are noteworthy,
but in conversation spoke softly, with a carefully cultivated air
of refinement. Not that he was refined in the least. He had gone to
the States as an emigrant from a little village in Norfolk, and had
succeeded by reason of several striking inventions in the manufacture
of steel in amassing the third largest fortune in the United States.
He sat at the head of the table in his great dining-room, while Ulrica
and myself sat on either hand. As a matter of course, our conversation
turned upon the mysterious death of poor Reggie, and both of us gave
him the exact version of the story.
“Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated. “Gerald has already explained the
painful facts to me. There seems no doubt whatever that the poor fellow
was murdered for the money. Yet to me the strangest part of the whole
affair is why he should have left you so suddenly at the Hermitage. If
he changed the money for large notes, as we may suppose he did, why
didn’t he return to you?”
“Because he must in the meantime have met someone,” I suggested.
“That’s just it,” he said. “If the police could but discover the
identity of the friend, then I feel convinced that all the remainder
would be plain sailing.”
“But, my dear guv’nor, the police hold the theory that he did not meet
anyone until he arrived in Nice,” Gerald observed.
“The police here are a confounded set of idiots,” cried the old
millionaire. “If it had occurred in New York or Chicago, or even in
Pittsburg, they would have arrested the murderer long before this.
Here, in France, there’s too much confounded controle.”
“I expect if the truth were known,” observed Miss Keppel in her thin,
squeaky voice, “the authorities of Monaco don’t relish the idea that
a man should be followed and murdered after successful play, and they
won’t help the Nice police at all.”
“Most likely,” her brother said. “The police of the Prince of Monaco
are elegant blue-and-silver persons who look as though they would
hesitate to capture a prisoner for fear of soiling their white kid
gloves. But surely, Miss Rosselli,” he added, turning to me, “the Nice
police haven’t let the affair drop, have they?”
“I cannot say,” I responded; “the last I saw of any of the detectives
was a week ago. The man who called upon me then admitted that no clue
had so far been obtained.”
“Then all I have to say is that it’s a public scandal!” Benjamin Keppel
cried angrily. “The authorities here entertain absolutely no regard for
the personal safety of their visitors. It appears to me that in Nice
year by year prices have increased until hotel charges have become
unbearable, and people are being driven over the frontier to Bordighera
and San Remo. During these past two years absolutely no regard has been
paid by the Nice authorities to the comfort of the visitors who bring
them their wherewithal to live!”
“The guv’nor’s disgusted,” laughed Gerald across to me. “He’s taken
like this sometimes.”
“Yes, my boy, I am disgusted. All I want in winter is quiet, sunshine,
and good air. That’s what I come here for. And I can get all that at
San Remo, for the air is better even than here.”
“But it isn’t so fashionable,” I observed.
“To an old man like me it does not matter whether a place is
fashionable or not, my dear Miss Rosselli,” he said with a serious
look. “I leave all that sort of thing to Gerald. He has his clubs, his
horses, his fine friends, and all the rest of it. But all the people
know Ben Keppel, of Pittsburg. Even if I belonged to the most swagger
of the clubs and mixed in good society,--among lords and ladies of the
aristocracy, I mean,--I’d still be the same. I couldn’t alter myself as
some of ’em try to and do.”
We laughed. The old man was so blunt that one could not help admiring
him. He had the reputation of being niggardly in certain matters,
especially regarding Gerald’s allowance, but, as Ulrica remarked, there
were no doubt plenty of people who would be anxious to lend money to
the millionaire’s heir upon post-obits, so that after all it didn’t
much matter. If inclined to be economical in one or two directions, he
certainly kept a remarkably good table, but although there were choice
wines for us, he drank only water.
When, with Gerald, he joined us in the great drawing-room, he seated
himself near me and suddenly said:
“I don’t know, Miss Rosselli, whether you would like to remain here
and gossip or whether you’d like to stroll round the place. You are a
woman, and there may be something to interest you in it.”
“I shall be delighted, I’m sure,” I said, and together we went forth to
wander about the great mansion which all the world on the Riviera knows
as the home of the renowned Steel King.
He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied,
the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the
great conservatory, whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked
down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and
that flash of white brilliance which ever and anon shoots across the
tranquil sea and marks the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely--one of those dry, bright, perfect nights which
occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always
damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous
even to those with the most delicate constitutions.
“How beautiful!” I ejaculated, standing at his side and watching the
great white moon slowly rising from the sea. “What a fairyland!”
“Yes. It is beautiful. The Riviera is, I believe, the fairest spot
that God has created on this earth,” and then he sighed as though
world-weary.
Presently, when we had been chatting a few minutes, he suggested that
we should re-enter the house, as he feared that I, being in décolleté,
might catch a chill.
“I have a hobby,” he said, “the only thing which prevents me from
becoming absolutely melancholy. Would you care to see it?”
“Oh, do show it to me,” I said, at once interested.
“Then come with me,” he exclaimed, and led me through two long passages
to a door which he unlocked with a tiny master-key upon his chain.
“This is my private domain,” he laughed. “No one is allowed here, so
you must consider yourself very privileged.”
“That I certainly do,” I responded, and as he entered he switched on
the electric light, displaying to my astonished gaze a large place
fitted up as a workshop with lathes, tools, wheels, straps, and all
sorts of mechanical contrivances.
“This room is a secret,” he said with a smile. “If the fine people who
sometimes patronize me with visits thought that I actually worked here
they’d be horrified.”
“Then do you actually work?” I inquired, surprised.
“Certainly. Having nothing otherwise to occupy my time when I severed
myself from the works, I took to turning. I was a turner by trade years
ago, you know.”
I looked at him in wonderment. People had said he was eccentric,
and this was evidently one of his eccentricities. He had secretly
established a great workshop within that princely mansion.
“Would you like to see how I can work?” he asked, noticing my look of
wonder. “Well, watch--excuse me,” and he threw off his jacket, and
having raised a lever which set one of the lathes at work he seated
himself at it, selected a piece of ivory, and placed it in position.
“Now,” he laughed, looking towards me, “what shall I make you?
Ah, I know, an object useful to all you ladies is a box for your
powder-puff--eh?”
“You seem to be fully aware of feminine mysteries, Mr. Keppel,” I
laughed.
“Well, you see, I was married once,” he answered. “But in those days my
poor Mary didn’t want face-powder, bless her!”
And at that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving
ivory with a harsh, sawing sound that rendered further conversation
impossible.
I stood behind watching him. His grand old head was bent keenly over
his work as he hollowed out the box to the desired depth, carefully
gauged it, finished it, and quickly turned the lid until it fitted
with precision and exactness. Then he rubbed it down, polished it in
several ways, and at last handed it to me complete, saying,--
“There is a little souvenir, Miss Rosselli, of your first visit to me.”
“Thank you ever so much,” I answered, taking it and examining it
curiously. Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal
wealth was remarkable even among the many millionaires in the United
States.
“I ask only one favor,” he said, as we passed out and he locked the
door of his workshop behind us,--“that you will tell no one of my
hobby--that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald’s sake I am
compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer
if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd
moments.”
“Do you earn money?” I inquired, amazed.
“Certainly. A firm in Bond Street, London, buy all my ivory work, only
they are not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn’t do,
you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It
has done so ever since I left the factory,” he added simply.
“I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I’ll tell no one if you wish it to
remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings.”
“You don’t blame me, surely?” he said.
“Certainly not,” I answered.
It seems, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his
great houses in New York and Pittsburg, his shooting-box in Scotland,
his yacht, acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa
on the Riviera, should toil at turning in order to earn a pound or two
a week as pocket-money.
“When I worked as a turner in England in the old days I earned sixteen
shillings a week making butter and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad
spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I’ve paid
for the ivory and the necessary things for the ‘shop,’” he explained.
Then he added: “You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you
place yourself for a moment in my position--that of a man without
further aim or ambition--you will not be surprised that I have, after
the lapse of nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I
served my apprenticeship.”
“I quite understand,” I responded, “and I only admire you that you do
not, like so many other rich men, lead a life of easy indolence.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “It isn’t in me to be still. I must be
at work, or I’m never happy. Only I have to be discreet for Gerald’s
sake,” and the old millionaire smiled--rather sadly, I thought.
CHAPTER VI
PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT
Day by day for many days we went over to Monte Carlo, why, I can
scarcely tell. All visitors to Nice drift there as if by the natural
law of gravitation, and we were no exception. Even though our memories
of the Sign of the Seven Sins were painful on account of poor Reggie’s
mysterious death, we nevertheless found distraction in the Rooms, the
crowds, and the music. Sometimes Gerald would act as escort, and at
other times we went alone after luncheon and risked a few louis on the
tables with varying success. We met quite a host of people we knew,
for the season was proceeding apace, and the nearness of the Carnival
attracted our compatriots from all over Europe.
And as the days passed my eyes were ever watchful. Truth to tell, Monte
Carlo had an attraction for me, not because of its picturesqueness or
its play, but because I knew that in that gay, fevered little world
there lived and moved the one man who held my future in his hands.
In the Rooms, in the “Paris,” in the Place, and in the Gardens I
searched for sight of him, but, alas! always in vain. I bought the
various visitors’ lists, but failed to discover his name as staying at
any of the villas or hotels. Yet I knew he was there, for had I not
seen him smile upon that woman who was my rival?
The papers continued to comment upon the mystery surrounding poor
Reggie’s tragic death, yet beyond a visit from the United States
Consul, who obtained a statement from us regarding his friends in
Philadelphia and took possession of certain effects found in his room,
absolutely nothing fresh transpired.
It was early in February, that month when Nice puts on its annual
air of gayety in preparation for the reign of the King of Folly;
when the streets are bright with colored decorations, great stands
are erected in the Place Massena, and the shops of the Avenue de la
Gare are ablaze with carnival costumes in the two colors previously
decided upon by the fêtes committee. Though Nice may be defective from
a sanitary point of view and her authorities churlish towards foreign
visitors, nevertheless, in early February it is certainly the gayest
and most charming spot on the whole Riviera. The very streets are
full of life and movement, sweet with the perfume of roses and violets
and mimosa, and at a time when the rest of Europe is held frost-bound
summer costumes and sunshades are the mode, while men wear their straw
hats and flannels upon that finest of all sea-walks, the palm-planted
Promenade des Anglais.
Poor Reggie’s brother, a doctor in Chicago, had arrived to obtain a
personal account of the mystery, which, of course, we gave. Gerald also
conducted him to the grave in the English Cemetery, whereon he laid a
beautiful wreath and gave orders for a handsome monument. Then, after
remaining three days, he returned to Genoa and thence by the North
German Lloyd to America.
We became, meanwhile, frequent guests at the Villa Fabron, dining there
often, and being always received cordially by the old millionaire.
The secretary, Barnes, appeared to me to rule the household, for he
certainly placed himself more in evidence than his employer, and
I could see that the relations between Gerald and this factotum
of his father were somewhat strained. He was a round-faced man of
about thirty-five, dark, clean-shaven, with a face that was quite
boyish-looking, but with a pair of small eyes that I did not like. I
always distrust people with small eyes.
From his manner, however, I gathered that he was a shrewd, hard-headed
man of business, and even Gerald himself had to admit that he fulfilled
the duties of his post admirably. Of course, I came into contact with
him very little. Now and then we met on the Promenade or in the Quai
St. Jean Baptiste, and he raised his hat in passing, or he would
encounter us at the Villa when we visited there, but beyond that I had
not spoken with him a dozen words.
“He has the face of a village idiot with eyes like a Scotland Yard
detective,” was Ulrica’s terse summary of his appearance, and it was an
admirable description.
On the Sunday afternoon when the first Battle of Confetti was fought
we went forth in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold--the colors
of that year--and had glorious fun pelting all and sundry with paper
confetti or whirling serpentines among the crowd in the Avenue de
la Gare. Those who have been in Nice during Carnival know the wild
gayety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque
figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the
maskers, the careless, buoyant fun, and the good humor of everybody in
that huge cosmopolitan crowd. Gerald was with us, as well as another
young American named Fordyce, whom we had known at home and who was now
staying at the Métropole over at Cannes. With our sacks containing the
confetti slung over our shoulders and the hoods of our bright dominoes
drawn over our heads and wearing half-masks of black velvet, we mixed
with the gay crowd the whole of that afternoon, heartily participating
in the fun.
I confess that I enjoyed, and shall always, I hope, enjoy, the Nice
Carnival immensely. Many constant visitors condemn it as a tawdry
tinsel show, and leave Nice for a fortnight in order to escape the
uproar and boisterous fun, but after all, even though the air of
recklessness would perchance shock some of the more puritanical in
our own land, there is, nevertheless, an enormous amount of harmless,
healthy fun to be derived from it. It is only soured spinsters and the
gouty who really object to Carnival. The regular visitor to the Riviera
condemns it merely because it is good form to condemn anything vulgar.
They once enjoyed it, until its annual repetition became wearisome.
After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got
sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel, and while
Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us we
dressed.
Quite a host of people dined at the Villa Fabron that evening,
including several pretty English girls. A millionaire never lacks
friends. Old Benjamin Keppel was something of a recluse, and it was
not often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a
dinner he spared no expense, and that in honor of Carnival was truly a
gastronomic marvel. The table was decorated with mauve and old gold,
the Carnival colors, and the room, draped with satin of the same
shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly striking.
The old millionaire headed the table, and in his breezy, open-hearted
manner made everyone happy at once. Both Ulrica and I wore new
frocks, which we considered were the latest triumphs of our Nice
couturière,--they certainly ought to have been if they were not, for
their cost was ruinous,--and there were also quite a number of bright
dresses and good-looking men.
As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table I looked at the spare,
gray-bearded man at its head and fell into reflection. How strange it
was that this man, worth more millions than he could count upon his
fingers, actually toiled in secret each day at his lathe to earn a few
shillings a week from an English firm as pocket-money. All his gay
friends who sat around his table were ignorant of that fact. He only
revealed it to those in whom he placed trust, and I was one of the
latter.
After dinner we all went forth into the gardens, which were illuminated
everywhere with colored lights and lanterns, wandering beneath the
orange-trees, joking and chattering. A rather insipid young prig was
at first my companion, but presently I found myself beside old Mr.
Keppel, who walked at my side far down the hill until we came to the
dark belt of olives which formed the boundary of his domain. Villas on
the Riviera do not usually possess extensive grounds, but the Villa
Fabron was an exception, for the gardens ran right down almost to that
well-known white sea-road that leads along from Nice to the mouth of
the Var.
“How charming!” I exclaimed, as, turning back, we gazed upon the long
terrace hung with Japanese lanterns, and the moving figures, smoking,
taking their coffee, and chattering.
“Yes,” the old man laughed. “I have to be polite to them now and then,
but after all, Miss Rosselli, they don’t come here to visit me, only to
spend a pleasant evening. Society expects me to entertain, so I have
to. But I confess that I never feel at home among all these folks, as
Gerald does.”
“I fear you are becoming just a little world-weary,” I said, smiling.
“Becoming! Why, I was tired of it all years ago,” he answered, glancing
at me with a serious expression in his deep-set eyes. It seemed as
though he wished to confide in me, and yet dared not do so.
“Why not try a change?” I suggested. “You have the Vispera lying at
Villefranche. Why not take a trip in her up the Mediterranean?”
“Would you like to go on a cruise in her?” he asked suddenly. “If you
would, I should be very pleased to take you. I might invite a party for
a run say to Naples and back.”
“I should, of course, be delighted,” I answered enthusiastically,
for yachting was one of my favorite pastimes, and on board such a
magnificent craft, one of the finest private vessels afloat, life would
be most enjoyable.
“Very well, I’ll see what I can arrange,” he answered, and then we fell
to discussing other things.
He smoked thoughtfully as he strolled beside me, his mind evidently
much preoccupied. The stars were bright overhead, the night balmy and
still, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. It was hard to
believe that it was actually midwinter.
“I fear,” he said at last,--“I fear, Miss Rosselli, that you find me a
rather lonely man, don’t you?”
“You have no reason to be lonely,” I responded. “Surrounded by all
these friends, your life might surely be very gay if you wished.”
“Friends? Bah!” he cried in a tone of ridicule. “There’s an attraction
in money that is irresistible. These people here, all of them, bow down
before the golden calf. Sometimes, Miss Rosselli, I have thought that
there’s no real honesty of purpose in the world.”
“I’m afraid you are a bit of a cynic,” I laughed.
“And if I am, may I not be forgiven?” he urged. “I can assure you I
find life very dull indeed.”
It was a strange confession, coming from the lips of such a man. If
only I had a sixteenth part of his wealth I should, I reflected, be a
very happy woman--unless the common saying were actually true, that
great wealth only created unbearable burdens.
“You are not the only one who finds life wearisome,” I observed
frankly. “I also plead guilty to the indictment on frequent occasions.”
“You!” he cried, halting and regarding me in surprise. “You--young,
pretty, vivacious, with ever so many men in love with you? And you are
tired of it all, tired of it while still in your twenties--impossible!”
CHAPTER VII
MAINLY CONCERNS THE OWL
Ulrica was that night wildly hilarious at my expense. She had noticed
me walking tête-à-tête with old Mr. Keppel, and accused me of flirting
with him.
Now, I may be given to harmless frivolities with men of my own age, but
I certainly have never endeavored to attract those of maturer years.
Elderly men may have admired me,--that I do not deny,--but assuredly
that has been through no fault of my own. A woman’s gowns are always an
object of attention among the sterner sex. If, therefore, she dresses
smartly, she can at once attract a certain section of males, even
though her facial expression may be the reverse of prepossessing. Truth
to tell, a woman’s natural chic, her taste in dress, and her style of
coiffure are by far the most important factors towards her well-being.
The day of the healthful, buxom pink-and-white beauty is long past. The
woman rendered artistic by soft chiffons, dainty blouses, and graceful
tea-gowns reigns in her stead.
“Old Mr. Keppel walked with me because he wanted company, I suppose,” I
protested. “I had no idea such a misconstruction would be placed upon
our conversation, Ulrica.”
“Why, my dear, everyone noticed it and remarked about it! He neglected
his guests and walked with you a whole hour in the garden. Whatever did
you find to talk about all that long time?”
“Nothing,” I responded simply. “He only took me round the place. I
don’t think he cares very much for the people he entertains, or he
wouldn’t have neglected them in that manner.”
“No. But I heard some spiteful things said about yourself,” Ulrica
remarked.
“By whom?”
“By various people. They all said that you had been angling after the
old man for a long time--that you had followed him to Nice, in fact.”
“Oh Ulrica!” I cried indignantly. “How can they say such things? Why,
you know that it was yourself who introduced us.”
“I know,” she answered rather curtly, “but I didn’t expect that you
would make such a fool of yourself as you have done to-night. Have you
already forgotten Ernest?”
“Ah!” I cried, “you have no heart. Would that I had none. Love within
me is not yet dead. Would to God it were. I might then be like you,
cold and cynical, partaking of the pleasures of the world without a
thought of its griefs. As I am, I must love. My love for that man is my
very life. Without it I should die.”
“No, no, my dear,” she said quickly in a kindly tone, “don’t cry, or
your eyes will be a horrid sight to-morrow. I didn’t mean anything, you
know,” and she drew down my head and kissed me tenderly on the brow.
I left and went to my room, but her words rang constantly in my ears.
The idea that the old millionaire had been attracted by me was a novel
one.
The whole theory was ridiculous. It had been started by some lying,
ill-natured woman for want of something else to gossip about, therefore
why should I heed it? I liked him, it was true, but I could never love
him--never.
Reader, you may think it strange that we two young women were
wandering about Europe together without any male relative. The truth
is that that personage so peculiarly British, and known as Mrs.
Grundy, is dead. It is primarily her complete downfall in this age of
emancipation, bicycles, and bloomers that makes the modern spinster’s
lot in many respects an eminently attractive one.
We were discussing it over our coffee on the following morning, when
Ulrica, referring to our conversation on the previous night, said,--
“Formerly, girls married in order to gain their social liberty;
now, they more often remain single to bring about that desirable
consummation.”
“Certainly,” I acquiesced. “If we are permitted by public opinion to go
to college, to live alone, to travel, to have a profession, to belong
to a club, to wear divided skirts,--not that I approve of them,--to
give parties, to read and discuss whatsoever seems good to us, to go
to theatres and even to Monte Carlo without masculine escort, then we
have most of the privileges--and several others thrown in--for which
the girl of twenty or thirty years ago was ready to sell herself to the
first suitor who offered himself and the shelter of his name.”
“I’m very glad, my dear, that at last you are becoming so very
sensible,” she answered approvingly. “Until now you have been far too
romantic and too old-fashioned in your ideas. I really think that I
shall convert you to my views of life in time--if you don’t marry old
Keppel.”
“Kindly don’t mention him again,” I protested firmly. “To a certain
extent I entirely agree with you regarding the emancipation of woman. A
capable woman who has begun a career, and feels certain of advancement
in it, is often as shy of entangling herself matrimonially as ambitious
young men have ever shown themselves to be in like circumstances.”
“Without doubt. The disadvantage of marriage to a woman with a
profession is more obvious than to a man, and it is just the question
of maternity, with all its duties and responsibilities, which is
occasionally the cause of many women forswearing the privileges of the
married state.”
“Well, Ulrica,” I said, “speak candidly, would you marry if you had a
really good offer?”
“Marry? Certainly not!” she answered with a laugh, as though the idea
was perfectly preposterous. “Why should I marry? I have had a host of
offers, just as every woman with a little money always has. But why
should I renounce my freedom? If I married, my husband would forbid
this and forbid that--and you know I couldn’t live without indulging
in my little pet vices of smoking and gambling.”
“Wouldn’t your husband’s love fill the void?” I queried.
“It would be but a poor substitute, I’m afraid. The most ardent love
nowadays cools within six months, it seems, and more often even wanes
with the honeymoon.”
“I have really no patience with you,” I said hastily; “you are far too
cynical.”
She smiled, sighing slightly. She looked so young in her pale pink
peignoir.
“Contact with the world has, alas! made me what I am, my dear.”
“Well,” I said, “to be quite candid, I don’t think that the real cause
why so many women nowadays remain single is to be found in the theories
we have been airing to one another. The fact is that after all we are
only a bundle of nerves and emotions, and once our affections are
involved we are capable of any heroism.”
“You may be one of those, my dear,” was her rather grave response. “I
am afraid, however, that I am not.”
I didn’t pursue the subject further. She was kind and sympathetic in
all else save where my love was concerned. My affection for Ernest was
to her merely an amusing incident. She seemed unable to realize how
terribly serious I was or what a crushing blow had fallen upon me when
he had turned and forsaken me.
Gerald called at eleven, for he had arranged to accompany us over to
the Farrells’ at Beaulieu.
“Miss Rosselli,” he cried as he greeted me, “you are a brick--that you
are!”
“A brick!” I echoed. “Why?”
“Why, you’ve worked an absolute miracle with the guv’nor. Nobody
else could persuade him to set foot on the Vispera except to return
to New York, yet you’ve induced him to arrange for a cruise up the
Mediterranean. What’s more, we are going to leave that cur Barnes
behind.”
“Are you glad?” I asked.
“Glad! I should rather think so. We shall have a most glorious time!
He intends asking the Farrells, Lord Eldersfield, Lord and Lady
Stoneborough, and quite a lot of people. We’ve got you to thank for it.
No power on earth would induce him to put to sea except yourself, Miss
Rosselli.”
The Carnival bal-masqué at the Casino, the great event of the King
Carnival’s reign, took place on the following Sunday night, and we
made to a party to go to it. There were seven of us, and we looked a
grotesque crowd as we assembled in the vestibule of the Grand attired
in our fantastic garbs and wearing those mysterious masks of black
velvet which so effectively concealed our features. Ulrica represented
a Watteau shepherdess with wig and crook complete, while I was en
bébé, a more simple costume surmounted by a sun-bonnet of colossal
proportions. One of the women of the party was a Queen of Folly and
another wore a striking Louis XV. dress, while Gerald represented a
demon, and wore pins in his tail in order to prevent others pulling
that dorsal appendage.
The distance from the hotel to the Casino is only a few hundred yards,
therefore we walked, a merry, laughing group, for the novelty of the
thing was sublime. Among our party only Gerald had witnessed a previous
Carnival ball, and he had led us to expect a scene of wildest merriment.
Certainly we were not disappointed. Having run the gauntlet of a crowd
who smothered us with confetti, we entered the great winter-garden of
the Casino and found it a blaze of color--the two colors of Carnival.
Suspended from the high glass roof were thousands of bannerets of mauve
and old gold, while the costumes of the revellers were of the self-same
shades. Everywhere were colored lights of similar hue, and the fun was
already fast and furious. The side-rooms, which, as most readers will
remember, are ordinarily devoted to gambling,--for gambling in a mild
form is permitted at Nice,--were now turned into handsome supper-rooms,
and in the winter-garden and the theatre beyond the scene was perhaps
one of the liveliest and most animated in the whole world.
All had gone there to enjoy themselves. In the theatre there was wild
dancing, the boxes were filled by the grand monde of Europe, princes
and princesses, grand dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses,
noted actresses from Paris and London, and well-known people of every
nationality, all enjoying the scene of uproarious merry-making. We
viewed it first from our own box, but at length someone suggested that
we should descend and dance, an idea which was promptly acted upon.
Masked as every one was, with the little piece of black lace tacked to
the bottom of the black velvet loup in order to conceal the lower part
of the features, it was impossible to recognize a single person in that
huge, whirling crowd. Therefore immediately we descended to the floor
of the theatre we at once became separated from one another. I stood
for a few minutes bewildered. The blaze of color made one’s head reel.
People in all sorts of droll costumes, false heads, and ugly masks were
playing various kinds of childish antics. Out in the winter-garden
clowns and devils were playing leap-frog and sylphs and angels, joining
hands, were whirling round and round in huge rings playing some game
and screaming with laughter. Almost every one carried miniature
representations of Punch with bells attached, large rattles, or paper
flowers, which when blown elongated to a ridiculous extent.
Never before in all my life had I been amid such a merry, irresponsible
crowd. The ludicrousness of Carnival reaches its climax in the ball
at the Casino, and whatever may be said of it, it is without doubt
one of the annual sights of Europe. I have heard it denounced as a
disgraceful exhibition by old ladies who have been compelled to admit
that they had never been present, but I must say that from first to
last, although the fun was absolutely unbridled, I saw nothing whatever
to offend.
I was standing aside, watching the dancers, when suddenly a tall man
dressed in a remarkable costume representing an owl approached, and
bowing, said in rather good English, in a deep but not unmusical
voice,--
“Might I have the pleasure of this dance with mademoiselle?”
I glanced at him in suspicion. He was a weird-looking creature in his
bird dress of mauve and old gold and the strange mask with two black
eyes peering out at me. Besides, it was not my habit to dance with
strangers.
“Ah!” he laughed. “You hesitate because we have not been introduced.
Here in Nice at Carnival one introduces one’s self. Well, I have
introduced myself, and now I ask you what is your opinion of my
marvellous get-up. Don’t you think me a really fine bird?”
“Certainly,” I laughed. “You’re absolutely hideous.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he answered pleasantly. “To unmask is
forbidden, or I would take off this terrible affair, for I confess I am
half stifled. But if I’m ugly you are absolutely charming. It is a case
of Beauty and the Bird. Aren’t my wings fetching?”
“Very.”
“I knew you were American. Funny how we Frenchmen can always spot
Americans.”
“How did you know that I was American?” I inquired.
“Ah! now that’s a secret,” he laughed. “But hark! it’s a waltz. Come
under my wing, and let’s dance. I know you’d dearly love a turn round.
For this once throw the introduction farce to the winds and let me take
you round. The owl is never a ferocious bird, you know.”
For a moment I hesitated, then, consenting, I whirled away among the
dancers with my strange, unknown partner.
“I saw you up in that box,” he said presently. “I waited for you to
come down.”
“Why?” With a woman’s innate coquetry I felt a delight in misleading
him, just as he was trying to mislead me. There was a decided air
of adventure in that curious meeting. Besides, so many of the
dresses were absolutely alike that now we had become separated it was
impossible for me to discover any of our party. The Nice dressmakers
make dozens of Carnival dresses exactly similar, and when the wearers
are masked it is hard to distinguish one from the other.
“Well,” he said evasively in answer to my question, “I wanted a
partner.”
“And so you waited for me? Surely any other would have done as well?”
“No, that is just it. They wouldn’t. I wanted to dance with you.”
The waltz had ended, and we strolled together out of the theatre into
the great winter-garden with its bright flower-beds and graceful palms,
a kind of huge conservatory which forms a gay promenade each evening in
the season.
“I don’t see why you should entertain such a desire,” I said.
“Besides,” and I paused to gain breath for the little untruth, “I fear
that my husband will be furious if he has noticed us.”
“I might say the same about my wife--if I wished to import fiction into
the romance,” he said.
“Then you have no wife?” I suggested with a laugh.
“My wife is just as real as your husband,” he responded bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you really have a husband it is an extremely surprising
confession.”
“Why surprising?”
“Well, it’s true that husbands are like Somebody’s sewing-machines--no
home being complete without one,” he laughed. “But I really had no idea
that Mademoiselle Carmela Rosselli possessed such a useful commodity.”
“What!” I gasped, glaring at the hideous-looking Owl, “you know me?”
“Yes,” he responded in a deeper voice, more earnestly than before. “I
know quite well who you are. I have come here to-night expressly to
speak with you.”
I started, and stood glaring at him in wonderment.
“I have,” he added in a low, confidential tone, “something important to
say to you--something most important.”
CHAPTER VIII
NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT
“You are a perfect stranger, sir,” I said with considerable hauteur.
“Until you care to give me your name, and make known who you are, I
have no wish to hear this important statement of yours.”
“No,” he answered. “I regret very much that for certain reasons I
am unfortunately unable to furnish my name. I am The Owl--that is
sufficient.”
“No, not for me. I am not in the habit of thus chattering with
strangers at a public ball, therefore I wish you good-evening,” I said,
and turned abruptly away.
In an instant he was again by my side.
“Listen, Miss Rosselli,” he said in a deeply earnest tone. “You must
listen to me. I have something to tell you which closely concerns
yourself--your future welfare.”
“Well?” I inquired.
“I can’t speak here, as someone may overhear. I had to exercise
the greatest precaution in approaching you, for there are spies
everywhere, and a single blunder will be fatal.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired, at once interested. The manner of this
hideously disguised man who spoke such excellent English was certainly
mysterious, and I could not doubt that he was in real earnest.
“Let us walk over there and sit in that corner,” he said, indicating
a seat half hidden in the bamboos. “If there is no one near, I will
explain. If we are watched, then we must contrive to find some other
place.”
“In our box,” I suggested. “We can sit at the back in the alcove where
no one can see us.”
“Excellent!” he answered. “I never thought of that. But if any of your
party should return there?”
“I can merely say that you invited me to dance, and I, in return,
invited you there for a few moments’ rest.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, and a few minutes later we were sitting far
back in the shadow of the box on the second tier, high above the music
and gay revelry.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly when we were seated, “and why did you wish
to see me to-night?”
“First, I have knowledge--which you will not, I think, deny--that you
loved a man in Washington, one Ernest Cameron.”
“Well?”
“And at this moment there is a second man who, although not your lover,
is often in your thoughts. The man’s name is Benjamin Keppel. Am I
correct?”
“I really don’t see by what right you submit me to this cross-examination
upon affairs which are only my own,” I responded in a hard voice,
although I was puzzled to determine the identity of this masked man.
“Marriage with a millionaire is a temptation which few women can
resist,” he said philosophically in a voice undisturbed by my hard
retort. “Temptations are the crises which test the strength of one’s
character. Whether a woman stands or falls at these crises depends very
largely on what she is before the testing comes.”
“And, pray, what concern have you in my intentions or actions?” I
demanded.
“You will discover that in due time,” he continued. “I know that to
the world you, like your companion, Ulrica Yorke, pretend to be a woman
who prefers her freedom and has no thought of love. Yet you are only
acting the part of the free woman. At heart you love as intensely and
hate as fiercely as all the others. Is not that so?”
“You speak remarkably plain, as though you were well acquainted with my
private affairs,” I remarked resentfully.
“I only say what I know to be the truth,” he replied. “You, Carmela
Rosselli, are not heartless, like that emotionless woman who is your
friend. The truth is that you love--you still love--Ernest Cameron.”
I rose in quick indignation.
“I refuse to hear you further, m’sieur,” I cried. “Kindly let me pass.”
His hand was on the door of the box, and he kept it there,
notwithstanding my words.
“No,” he said quite coolly. “You must hear me--indeed, you shall hear
me!”
“I have heard you,” I answered. “You have said sufficient.”
“I have not concluded,” he replied. “When I have done so you will, I
think, only be anxious for me to proceed.” And he added quite calmly:
“If you will kindly be seated so as not to attract attention I will go
on.”
I sank back into my seat without further effort to arrest his words.
The adventure was most extraordinary, and certainly his grotesque
appearance held me puzzled.
“Here in Nice, not long ago,” he continued, “you met a man who believed
himself in love with you, yet a few nights later he was foully murdered
in your sitting-room at the hotel.”
“Reginald Thorne,” I said quickly in a strained voice, for the memory
of that distressing event was very painful.
“Yes, Reginald Thorne,” he repeated in a low, hoarse voice.
“You knew him?” I asked.
“Yes, I knew him,” was his response in a deep, strange tone. “It is to
speak of him that I have sought you to-night.”
“If you are so well aware of who I am, and of all my movements, you
might surely have called upon me,” I remarked dubiously.
“Ah! no. That would have been impossible; none must know that we have
met.”
“Why?”
“Because there are reasons--very strong reasons--why our meeting should
be kept secret,” the voice responded, the pair of sharp black eyes
peering forth mysteriously from the two holes in the owl’s sphinx-like
face. “We are surrounded by spies. Here, in France, they have reduced
espionage to a fine art.”
“And yet the police have failed to discover the murderer of poor Mr.
Thorne,” I observed.
“They will never do that.”
“Why not?”
“They will never solve the mystery without aid.”
“Whose aid?”
“Mine.”
“What?” I cried, starting quickly. “Are you actually in possession of
some fact that will lead to the arrest of the culprit? Tell me quickly.
Is it really certain that he was murdered, and did not die a natural
death?”
“Ah,” he laughed. “I told you a few minutes ago that you would be
anxious to hear my statement. Was I not correct?”
“Of course. I had no idea that you were in possession of any fact or
evidence regarding the crime. What do you know about it?”
“At present I am not at liberty to say--except that the person who
committed the deed was no ordinary criminal.”
“Then he was murdered, and the motive was robbery?”
“That was the police theory, but I can at once assure you that they
were entirely mistaken. Theft was not the motive.”
“But the money was stolen from his pockets?” I said.
“How do you prove that? He might have secreted it somewhere before the
attack was made upon him.”
“I feel certain that the money was stolen,” I answered.
“Well, you are, of course, welcome to your own opinion,” he answered
carelessly. “I can only assure you that, even though the money was not
found upon him, robbery was not the motive of the crime.”
“And you have come to me in order to tell me that?” I said. “Perhaps
you will explain further?”
“I come to you, Miss Rosselli, because a serious responsibility rests
upon yourself.”
“In what manner?”
“The unfortunate young man was attracted towards you; he accompanied
you to Monte Carlo on the day of his death, and he was found dead in
your sitting-room.”
“I know,” I said. “But why did he go there?”
“Because he, no doubt, wished to speak with you.”
“At that late hour? I cannot conceive why he should want to speak with
me. He might have come to me in the morning.”
“No. The matter was pressing,--very pressing.”
“Then if you know its nature, as you apparently do, perhaps you will
tell me.”
“I can say nothing,” the deep voice responded. “I only desire to warn
you.”
“To warn me!” I cried, much surprised. “Of what?”
“Of a danger which threatens you.”
“A danger? Explain it.”
“Then kindly give me your undivided attention for a moment,” the Owl
said earnestly, at the same time peering into my eyes with that air
of mystery which so puzzled me. “Perhaps it will not surprise you to
know that in this matter of the death of Reginald Thorne there are
several interests at stake, and the most searching secret inquiries
have been made on behalf of the young man’s friends by detectives sent
from London and from New York. These inquiries have established one or
two curious facts, but so far from elucidating the mystery, they have
only tended to render it more inscrutable. As I have already said, the
person actually responsible for the crime is no ordinary murderer,
and notwithstanding the fact that some of the shrewdest and most
experienced detectives have been at work, they can discover nothing.
You follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then I will proceed further. Has it ever occurred to you that you
might, if you so desired, become the wife of old Benjamin Keppel?”
“I really don’t see what that has to do with the matter under
discussion,” I said with quick indignation.
“Then you admit that old Mr. Keppel is among your admirers?”
“I admit nothing,” I responded. “I see no reason why you, a perfect
stranger, should intrude upon my private affairs in this manner.”
“The intrusion is for your own safety,” he answered ambiguously.
“And what need I fear, pray? You spoke of some extraordinary warning, I
believe.”
“True, I wish to warn you,” said the man in strange disguise. “I came
here to-night at considerable risk to do so.”
I hesitated. Then after a few moments’ reflection I resolved upon
making a bold shot.
“Those who speak of risk are invariably in fear,” I said. “Your words
betray that you have some connection with the crime.”
I watched him narrowly, and saw him start perceptibly. Then I
congratulated myself upon my shrewdness, and determined to fence with
him further and endeavor to make him commit himself. I rather prided
myself upon smart repartee, and many had told me that at times I shone
as a brilliant conversationalist.
“Ah,” he said hastily, “I think you mistake me, Miss Rosselli. I am
acting in your interests entirely.”
“If so, then surely you may give me your name, and tell me who you are.”
“I prefer to remain unknown,” he replied.
“Because you fear exposure.”
“I fear no exposure,” he protested. “I came here to speak with you
secretly to-night because had I called openly at your hotel my visit
would have aroused suspicion, and most probably have had the effect of
thwarting the plans of those who are endeavoring to solve the enigma.”
“But you give me no proof whatever of your bona-fides,” I declared.
“Simply because I am unable. I merely come to give you warning.”
“Of what?”
“Of the folly of flirtation.”
I sprang to my feet indignantly.
“You insult me!” I cried. “I will bear it no longer. Please let me
pass!”
“I shall not allow you to leave here until I have finished,” he
answered determinedly. “You think that I am not in earnest, but I
tell you I am. Your whole future depends upon your acceptance of my
suggestion.”
“And what is your suggestion, pray?”
“That you should no longer regard old Mr. Keppel as your possible
husband.”
“I have never regarded him as such,” I responded with a contemptuous
laugh. “But supposing that I did,--supposing that he offered me
marriage,--what then?”
“Then a disaster would fall upon you. It is of that disaster that I
come here to-night to warn you,” he said, speaking quickly in a hoarse,
thick voice. “Recollect that you must never become his wife--never.”
“If I did, what harm could possibly befall me?” I inquired eagerly, for
the stranger’s prophetic words were, to say the least, curious.
He was silent for a moment, then said slowly,--
“Remember the harm that befell Reginald Thorne.”
“What?” I cried in alarm, “death?”
“Yes,” he answered solemnly, “death.”
I stood before him for a moment breathless.
“Then, to put it plainly,” I said in an uneven voice, “I am threatened
with death should I marry Benjamin Keppel.”
“Even to become betrothed to him would be fatal,” he answered.
“And by whom am I thus threatened?”
“That is a question I cannot answer. I am here merely to warn you, not
to give explanations.”
“But the person who takes such an extraordinary interest in my private
affairs must have some motive for this threat.”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“How can I tell? It is not myself who is threatening you. I have only
given you warning.”
“There is a reason, then, why I should not marry Mr. Keppel?”
“There is even a reason why you should in future refuse to accept his
invitations to the Villa Fabron,” my strange companion replied. “You
have been invited to form one of a party on board the Vispera, but for
your personal safety I would presume to advise you not to go.”
“I shall assuredly please myself,” I replied. “These threats will
certainly not deter me from acting just as I think proper. If I go
upon a cruise with Mr. Keppel and his son I shall have no fear of my
personal safety.”
“Reginald Thorne was young and athletic. He had no fear. But he
disobeyed a warning, and you know the result.”
“Then you wish me to decline Mr. Keppel’s invitation and remain in
Nice?”
“I urge you for several reasons to decline his invitation, but I do not
suggest that you should remain in Nice. I am the bearer of instructions
to you. If you carry them out they will be distinctly to your benefit.”
“What are they?”
“To-day,” he said, “is the eighteenth of February. Those who have your
welfare at heart desire that you should, after the Riviera season is
over, go to London, arriving there on the first of June next. You are
familiar with London, of course?”
“Yes,” I replied. This stranger seemed vastly well informed regarding
my antecedents.
“Well, on arrival in London you will go to the Hotel Cecil and there
receive a visitor on the following day, the second. You will then be
given certain instructions which must be carried out.”
“All this is very mysterious,” I remarked. “But I really have no
intention of going to London. By June I shall probably be in New York
again.”
“I think not,” was his cold reply. “Because when you fully consider the
whole circumstances you will keep the appointment in London and learn
the truth.”
“The truth regarding the death of Reginald Thorne?” I cried. “Cannot I
learn it here?”
“No,” he replied. “And, further, you will never learn it unless you
take heed of the plain words I have spoken to-night.”
“You tell me that any further friendship between Mr. Keppel and myself
is forbidden,” I exclaimed, laughing. “Why, the whole thing is really
too absurd! I shall, of course, just please myself, as I always do.”
“In that case disaster is inevitable,” he observed with a sigh.
“You tell me that I am threatened with death if I disobey. That is
certainly extremely comforting.”
“You appear to regard what I have said very lightly, Miss Rosselli,”
said the unknown. “It would be well if you regarded your love for
Ernest Cameron just as lightly.”
“He has nothing whatever to do with this matter,” I said quickly. “I
am mistress of my own actions, and I refuse to be influenced by any
threats uttered by a person who fears to reveal his identity.”
“As you will,” he replied with an impatient movement. “I am unknown to
you, it is true, but I think I have shown an intimate knowledge of your
private affairs.”
“If, as you assure me, you are acting in my interests, you may surely
tell me the truth regarding the mystery surrounding poor Reginald’s
death,” I suggested.
“That is unfortunately not within my power,” he responded. “I am in
possession only of certain facts, and have risked much in coming here
to-night and giving you warning.”
“But how can my affairs affect anyone?” I queried. “What you have told
me is, if true, most extraordinary.”
“It is true, and it is, as you say, very extraordinary. Your friend Mr.
Thorne died mysteriously. I only hope, Miss Rosselli, that you will not
share the same fate.”
I paused to look at the curious figure before me.
“In order to avoid doing so, then, I am to hold aloof from Mr. Keppel,
remain in Europe until May, and then travel to London, there to meet
some person unknown?”
“Exactly; but there is still one thing further. I am charged to offer
for your acceptance a small present as some little recompense for the
trouble you must be at in waiting here in the south and in journeying
to London,” and he drew from beneath his strangely grotesque dress a
small box some four or five inches square wrapped in paper. This he
held out to me.
I did not take it. There was something uncanny about it all.
“Do not hesitate, or we may be observed,” he urged. “Take it quickly.
Do not open it until you return to your hotel,” and he thrust it into
my hand.
“Remember what I have said,” he exclaimed, rising quickly. “I must be
gone, for I see that suspicion is aroused in those who are watching.
Act with prudence, and the disaster against which I have warned you
will not occur. Above all, keep the appointment in London on the second
of June.”
“But why?”
“Because for your own safety it is imperative,” he responded, and with
a low bow he opened the door of the box, and the next instant I was
alone with the little packet the stranger had given me resting in my
hand.
CHAPTER IX
SHOWS THE BIRD’S TALONS
For some little time after my mysterious companion had left I sat
forward in the box, gazing down at the wild revelry below, and hoping
that one or other of the party would recognize me.
So great a crowd was there, and so many dresses exactly similar, that
to distinguish Ulrica or Gerald, or, indeed, any of the others, proved
absolutely impossible. They might of course be in one or other of the
supper-rooms, and I saw from the first that there was but little chance
of finding them.
Leaning my elbows on the edge of the box, I gazed down upon the scene
of reckless merriment, but my thoughts were full of the strange words
uttered by the mysterious masker. The packet he had given me I had
transferred to my pocket, and with pardonable curiosity I longed to
open it and see what it contained.
The warning he had given me was extremely disconcerting and worried me.
No woman likes to think that she has unknown enemies ready to take her
life. Yet that was apparently my position.
That life could be taken swiftly and without detection I had plainly
seen in the case of poor Reggie. When I recollected his terrible fate
I shuddered. Yet this man had plainly given me to understand that the
same fate awaited me if I did not adopt the line of conduct that he had
laid down.
Whoever he might be, he certainly was acquainted with all my movements
and knew intimately my feelings. There was certainly no likelihood of
my marriage with old Benjamin Keppel. I scouted the idea. Yet he knew
quite well that the old millionaire had become attracted by me and
reposed in me a confidence that he did not extend to others. The more
I reflected, the more I became convinced that the stranger’s fear of
being recognized arose from the fact that he himself was either the
murderer or an accessory to the murder of poor Reggie.
What did the demand that I should return to London denote? It could
only mean one thing--namely, that my assistance was required.
Whoever were my enemies, they were, I argued, enemies likewise of old
Mr. Keppel. The present which the stranger had pressed upon me was
nothing less than a bribe to secure either my silence or my services.
Try how I would, I could discover absolutely no motive whatever in it
all. It was certain that this man, so cleverly disguised that I could
not distinguish his real height, much less his form or features, had
come there, watched for a favorable opportunity to speak with me, and
then had warned me to sever my friendship with the millionaire.
Leaning there, gazing blankly down upon the crowd screaming with
laughter at the Parisian quadrilles and antics of clown and columbine,
I coolly analyzed my own feelings towards the blunt, plain-spoken old
gentleman with the melancholy eyes. I found--as I had believed all
along--that I admired him for his honest good-nature, his utter lack
of anything approaching “side,” his strenuous efforts to assist in
good works, and his regard for appearances only for his son’s sake.
But I did not love him. No. I had loved one man. I could never love
another--never in all my life.
Yet perhaps he was there disguised beneath a mask and dress of
parti-colored satin! Perhaps he was down there among the dancers,
escorting that woman who had usurped my place. The thought held me in
wonder.
Suddenly I was brought back to a due sense of my surroundings by
the opening of the door of the box and the entry of one of the
theatre-attendants, who, addressing me in French, said:
“I beg m’zelle’s pardon, but the Direction would esteem it a favor if
m’zelle would step down to the bureau at once.”
“What do they want with me?” I inquired quickly with considerable
surprise.
“Of that I have no knowledge, m’zelle. I was merely told to ask you to
go there without delay.”
Therefore, in wonder, I rose and followed the man downstairs and
through the crowd of revellers to the private office of the Direction,
close to the main entrance of the Casino.
In the room I found the Director, an elderly man with short, stiff
gray hair, sitting at a table, while near him stood two men dressed as
pierrots, with their masks removed.
When the door was closed, the Director, courteously offering me a seat,
apologized for disturbing me, but explained that he had done so at the
request of his two companions.
“I may as well at once explain,” said the elder of the two in French,
“that we desire some information which you can furnish.”
“Of what nature?” I inquired with considerable surprise.
“In the theatre, an hour ago, you were escorted by a masker wearing a
dress representing an owl. You danced with him, but were afterwards
lost in the crowd. Search was made through all the rooms for you, but
you could not be found. Where have you been?”
“I have been sitting in the box in conversation with the stranger.”
“All the time?”
“Yes, he took precautions against being seen.”
“Who was he?”
“I have no idea,” I responded, still puzzled at the man’s demand.
“I had better perhaps explain at once to mademoiselle that we are
agents of police,” he said with a smile, “and that the movements of
the individual who met you and chatted with you so affably are of the
greatest interest to us.”
“Then you know who he is?” I exclaimed quickly.
“Yes. We have discovered that.”
“Who is he?”
“Unfortunately, it is not our habit to give details of any case on
which we are engaged until it is completed.”
“The case in question is the murder of Mr. Thorne at the Grand Hotel,
is it not?”
“Mademoiselle guesses correctly. She was a friend of the unfortunate
gentleman’s if I mistake not?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well,” he said in a confidential tone, while his companion, a slightly
younger man, stood by regarding me and tugging at his mustache, “we
should esteem it a favor if you would kindly relate all that has
transpired this evening. When we saw him meet you we were not certain
of his identity. His disguise was puzzling. Afterwards there could be
no doubt, but he had then disappeared.”
“I had thought that the police had relinquished their inquiries,” I
said, nevertheless gratified to know that they were still on the alert.
“It is when we relax our efforts slightly that we have the better
chance of success,” the detective replied. “Did the man give you any
name?”
“No, he refused to tell me who he was.”
“And what was his excuse for accosting you and demanding a tête-à-tête?”
“He said he wished to warn me of an impending peril. In brief, he told
me that my life was in jeopardy.”
“Ah!” the man ejaculated, and exchanged a meaning glance with his
companion. “And his pretence was to give you warning of it. Did he tell
you by whom your life was threatened?”
“No. He refused any details, but he made certain suggestions as to the
course I should pursue.”
“That sounds interesting. What did he suggest?”
I hesitated for a few moments. Then, reflecting that the stranger was
evidently under the observation of the police, and that the latter were
still trying to bring poor Reggie’s assassin to justice, I resolved to
reveal all that had passed between us.
Therefore I gave a brief outline of our conversation, just as I have
written it in the foregoing pages. Both detectives on hearing my story
seemed very puzzled.
“You will pardon my intrusion,” exclaimed the agent of police who
had first spoken, “but as you will see, this is a clue which must
be thoroughly investigated. Will mademoiselle forgive me for asking
whether there is any truth in the man’s surmise that you were about to
become engaged to marry M’sieur Keppel?”
“None whatever,” I answered frankly. “I can only suppose that some
unfounded gossip has arisen, as it so often does, and that it has
reached his ears.”
“Yet he threatens--or at least warns you of peril--if you should become
the wife of this wealthy m’sieur! Ah! there seems some very deep
motive; but what it really is we must seek to discover. When we have
found it we shall have, I feel confident, a clue to the murderer of
M’sieur Thorne.”
“But there is still another rather curious fact,” I went on, now
determined to conceal nothing. “He declared that it was necessary for
my well-being that I should return to London, and there meet some
person who would visit me on the second of next June.”
“Ah! And you intend keeping that appointment, I presume.”
“I intend to do nothing of the kind,” I replied with a laugh. “The
affair is a very ugly one, and I have no desire whatever that my name
should be linked further with it.”
“Of course. I quite understand the annoyance caused to mademoiselle.
It is sufficient to have one’s friend murdered in that unaccountable
manner without being pestered by mysterious individuals who mask
themselves and prophesy all sorts of unpleasant things if their orders
are not obeyed. Did you promise to go to London?”
“I said I would consider the advisability of doing so.”
“You were diplomatic--eh?” he said with a laugh. “It is unfortunate
this fellow has slipped through our fingers so cleverly, very
unfortunate.”
“But if he is known to you there will surely not be much difficulty in
rediscovering him?”
“Ah! that’s just the question, you see. We are not absolutely certain
as to his identity.” Then after a slight pause he glanced at me and
asked suddenly, “Mademoiselle has a friend--or had a friend--named
Cameron--a M’sieur Ernest Cameron? Is that so?”
I think I must have blushed beneath the pieces of black velvet that hid
my cheeks.
“That is correct,” I stammered. “Why?”
“The reason is unimportant,” he answered carelessly. “The fact is
written in the papers concerning the case, and we like always to verify
facts in such a case as this--that’s all.”
“But he has no connection with the tragic affair,” I hastened to
declare. “I haven’t spoken to him for nearly two years--we have been
apart for quite that time.”
“Of course,” said the man reassuringly. “The fact has nothing to do
with the matter. I merely referred to it in order to gain confirmation
of our information. You mentioned something of a proposed yachting
cruise. What did this mysterious individual say regarding that?”
“He warned me not to go on board the Vispera----”
“The Vispera?” he interrupted. “The owner of the yacht is m’sieur the
millionaire, is he not?”
I responded in the affirmative.
“And this M’sieur Keppel has invited you to go with others on a cruise
to Naples?”
“Yes. But how did you know that it was to Naples?” I inquired.
“All yachts sailing from Nice eastward go to Naples,” he answered,
laughing. “I suppose the programme includes a run to the Greek islands,
Constantinople, Smyrna, and Tunis--eh?”
“I think so, but I have not yet heard definitely.”
“You have accepted the invitation, I take it?”
I nodded.
“And that, of course, lends color to the belief that m’sieur the
millionaire is in love with you, for it is well known that although he
has that magnificent yacht he never goes on a pleasure cruise.”
“I can’t help what may be thought by gossips,” I said hastily. “Mr.
Keppel is a friend of mine--nothing further.”
“But this friendship has apparently caused certain apprehensions to
arise in the minds of some persons of whom your mysterious companion
was the mouthpiece--the people who threatened you with death should you
disobey them.”
“Who are those people, do you imagine?” I inquired, deeply in earnest,
for the matter seemed to grow increasingly serious.
“Ah!” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “If we knew that we
should have no difficulty in arresting the assassin of M’sieur Thorne.”
“Well, what do you consider my best course?” I asked, utterly
bewildered by the mysterious events of the evening.
“I should advise you to keep your own counsel and leave the inquiries
to us,” was the detective’s rejoinder. “If this man again approaches
you, make an appointment with him later and acquaint us with the time
and place at once.”
“But I don’t anticipate that I shall see him again.” Then, determined
to render the police agents every assistance, even though they had been
stupidly blind to allow the stranger to escape, I drew from my pocket
the small packet which he had given me.
“This,” I said, “he handed to me at the last instant, accompanied by a
hope that I would not fail to keep the appointment in London.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you permit us to open it?” he inquired, much interested.
“Certainly,” I responded. “I am anxious to see what it contains.”
The detective took it and cut the string with his pocket-knife; then,
while his subordinate and the Director of the Casino craned their necks
to investigate, he unwrapped paper after paper until he came to a
square jewel-case covered in dark-crimson leather.
“An ornament, I suppose?” exclaimed the detective.
Then he opened the box, and from its velvet-lined depths something fell
to the ground which caused us to utter a loud cry of surprise in chorus.
The detective bent and picked it up.
I stood dumfounded and aghast. In his hand was a bundle of folded
French bank-notes--each for one thousand francs.
They were the notes stolen from Reginald Thorne by his assassin.
CHAPTER X
MAKES ONE POINT PLAIN
“Extraordinary!” ejaculated the detective, whose habitual coolness
seemed utterly upset by the unexpected discovery. “This adds an
entirely new feature to the case.”
“What, I wonder, could have been the motive in giving the notes to
mademoiselle?” queried his companion.
“How can we tell?” said the other. “It at least proves one thing,
namely, that the man in the owl’s dress is the individual we suspected.”
“Do you then believe him to be the actual assassin?” I asked.
But the detectives, with the aid of the Director of the Casino, were
busy counting the stolen notes. There were sixty, each for one thousand
francs.
They examined the leather jewelry case, but found no mark upon it nor
upon the paper wrappings. The box was such as might have once contained
a bracelet, but the raised velvet-covered spring in the interior had
been removed in order to admit of the introduction of the bank-notes,
which, even when folded, formed a rather large packet.
“They are undoubtedly those stolen from M’sieur Thorne,” the detective
said. “In these circumstances it is our duty to take possession of them
as evidence against the criminal. I shall lodge them with the Prefect
of Police until we have completed the inquiry.”
“Certainly,” I answered. “I have no desire to keep them in my
possession. The history connected with them is far too gruesome. But
whatever motive could there be in handing them to me?”
“Ah, that we hope to discover later,” the detective responded,
carefully folding them, replacing them in the case, and taking charge
of the wrappings, which it was believed might form some clue. “At
present it would seem very much as though the assassin handed you the
proceeds of his crime in order to convince you that robbery was not the
motive.”
“Then you do believe that the man in the owl’s dress was the real
culprit?” I cried eagerly. “If so, I have actually danced to-night
with poor Reggie’s murderer!” I gasped.
“It is more than likely that we shall be able to establish that fact,”
the subordinate observed in a rather uncertain tone.
“How unfortunate,” ejaculated his superior, “that we allowed him to
thus slip through our fingers--and with the money actually upon him
too!”
“Yes,” observed the Director of the Casino. “You have certainly
to-night lost an excellent opportunity, messieurs. It is curious that
neither of you noticed mademoiselle in the box talking with this
mysterious individual.”
“That was, I think, impossible,” I remarked. “We sat quite back in the
small alcove.”
“What number was your box?” the Director asked.
“Fifteen.”
“Ah! of course,” he said quickly. “There is, I remember, a kind of
alcove at the back. You sat in there.”
“Well,” observed the chief detective, “no good can be done by remaining
here longer, I suppose, so we had better endeavor to trace this
interesting person by other means. The fact that he has given up the
proceeds of the crime is sufficient to show that he means to leave
Nice. Therefore we must lose no time,” and he glanced at his watch.
“Ten minutes to two,” he said. Then turning to his assistant, he
ordered him to drive to the station and see whether the man who had
worn the disguise of the night-bird was among the travellers leaving
for Marseilles at two-thirty.
“Remain on duty at the station until I send and relieve you,” he said.
“There are several special trains to Cannes and Monte Carlo about three
o’clock on account of the ball. Be careful to catch them all. It is my
opinion that he may be going to cross the frontier at Ventimiglia. I’ll
telephone there as soon as I get down to the bureau.”
“Bien, m’sieur,” answered the other, and as they went out, wishing me
good-night, I followed them, asking of the senior of the pair,--
“Tell me, m’sieur, what should be my best course of action. Do you
think the threats are serious?”
“Not at all,” he answered reassuringly. “My dear mademoiselle, don’t
distress yourself in the very least regarding what he has said. He
has only endeavored to frighten you into rendering him assistance. Act
just as you think proper. Your experience to-night has certainly been a
strange one; but if I were in your place I would return to the hotel,
sleep soundly, and forget it all until--well, until we make an arrest.”
“You expect to do so, then?”
“We, of course, hope so. In my profession, you know, everything is
uncertain. So much depends upon chance,” and he smiled pleasantly.
“Then I presume you will communicate with me later as to the further
result of your investigations?” I suggested.
“Most certainly. Mademoiselle shall be kept well informed of our
operations, never fear.”
We were at the door of the Casino, where a great crowd had assembled to
watch the maskers emerging.
“Shall I call you a fiacre?” he asked quite gallantly.
“No, thank you,” I responded. “I’ll walk. It’s only a few steps to the
Grand.”
“Ah, of course,” he laughed. “I had forgotten. Bon soir, mademoiselle.”
I wished him good-night, and next second he was lost in the crowd,
while with my mind full of my extraordinary adventure I walked along
the Quai St. Jean Baptiste to the hotel.
The incidents had been so strange that they seemed beyond belief.
I found the faithful Felicita dozing, but Ulrica had not returned.
When she entered, however, a quarter of an hour later, she was in
the highest of spirits, declaring that she had experienced a most
delightful time.
“My opinion of the Carnival ball, my dear, is that it is by far the
jolliest function on the Riviera,” she declared. Then in the same
breath she proceeded to give me an outline of her movements from the
time we were lost to one another in the crowd. She had, it appeared,
had supper with Gerald and several friends, and the fun had been fast
and furious. Her dress was badly torn in places, and certainly her
dishevelled appearance showed that she had entered thoroughly into the
boisterous merriment of the Carnival.
“And you?” she inquired presently. “What in the world became of you? We
searched everywhere before supper, but couldn’t find you.”
“I met a rather entertaining partner,” I responded briefly.
“A stranger?”
“Yes,” and I gave her a look by which she understood that I intended to
say nothing before Felicita.
Therefore the subject was dropped, and as I resolved to tell her of my
adventure later, she left me for the night.
I am seldom troubled by insomnia, but that night little sleep came to
my eyes.
I lay there thinking it all over. I had now not the slightest doubt but
that the man in the owl’s dress was the assassin of poor Reggie. And I
had chatted amicably with him. I had actually danced with him! The very
thought held me horrified.
What marvellous self-confidence the fellow had displayed; what cool
audacity, what unwarrantable interference in my private affairs, and
what a terrible counter-stroke he had effected in presenting me with
the actual notes filched from the dead man’s pockets! The incident was
rendered none the less bewildering on account of the entire absence of
motive. I lay awake reflecting upon it the whole night long.
When we took our morning coffee together I related to Ulrica all that
had passed. She sat, a pretty, dainty figure, in her lace-trimmed and
beribboned robe-de-chambre, leaning her bare elbows upon the table, and
listening open-mouthed.
“And the police actually allowed him to escape scot-free?” she cried
indignantly.
“Yes.”
“The thing is monstrous. I begin to think that their failure to trace
the murderer is because they are in league with him. Here, abroad,
one never knows. My dear Carmela, depend upon it that in this world
of Monte Carlo the police are bribed just as the press, the railway
men, and porters are bribed by those rulers of the Riviera, the
Administration of the Société des Bains de Mer de Monaco.”
“That may be so,” I observed wonderingly. “But the fact still remains
that last night I danced with Reggie’s assassin.”
“Did he dance well?”
“Oh Ulrica! Don’t treat the thing humorously!” I protested.
“I’m not humorous. The worst of Carnival balls is that they’re such
mixed affairs. One meets millionaires and murderers, and rubs shoulders
with the most notorious women in Europe. Your adventure, however, is
absolutely unique. If it got into the papers what a nice little story
it would make, wouldn’t it?”
“For Heaven’s sake, no!” I cried.
“Well, if you don’t want it to reach the _Petit Niçois_ or the
_Eclaireur_ you’d better be pretty close about it. Poor Reggie’s murder
is a mystery, and the public fondly delight to read anything about a
mystery.”
We discussed it for a long time, until the entrance of Felicita caused
us to drop the subject. Yes, it was, as Ulrica had declared, an
absolute enigma.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, when we had both dressed ready
to go out,--for we had accepted an invitation to go on an excursion
in automobile up to Tourette,--the waiter entered with a card, which
Ulrica took and read.
“Oh,” she sighed, “here’s another detective! Don’t let him keep us,
dear. You know the Allens won’t wait for us. They said four o’clock
sharp, opposite Vogarde’s.”
“But we can’t refuse to see him,” I said.
“Of course not,” she replied, and turning to the waiter ordered him to
show the caller up.
“There are two gentlemen,” he explained.
“Then show them both up,” answered Ulrica. “Be sharp, please, as we are
in a hurry.”
“Yes, madame,” responded the waiter, a young Swiss, and went below.
“I suppose they are the pair I saw last night,” I said. “The police on
the Continent seem always to hunt in couples. One never sees a single
gendarme, either in France or Italy.”
“One goes to keep the other cheerful, I believe,” Ulrica remarked, and
a few moments later the two callers were shown in.
They were not the same as I had seen in the Director’s room at the
Casino.
“I regret this intrusion,” said the elder, a dark-bearded, rather
unwholesome-looking individual with lank black hair. “I have, I
believe, the honor of addressing Mademoiselle Rosselli?”
“That’s me,” I responded briefly, for I did not intend them to cause
me to lose a most enjoyable trip in that most chic of latter-day
conveyances, an automobile.
“We are police agents, as you have possibly seen from my card, and
have called merely to ask whether you can identify either of these
photographs,” and he pulled forth two cabinet pictures from his pocket
and handed them over to me.
One was a prison photograph of an elderly, sad-eyed convict, with
baldish head and scraggy beard, while the other was a well-taken
likeness of a foppishly dressed young man of about twenty-eight, the
upward trend of his mustache giving him a foreign appearance.
Both were strangers to me. I had never seen either of them in the
flesh, at least to my knowledge, and Ulrica was also agreed that she
had never seen any one bearing the slightest resemblance to either.
“Mademoiselle is absolutely certain?” the detective asked of me.
“Absolutely,” I responded.
“Will mademoiselle have the kindness to allow her memory to go back for
one moment to the day of the unfortunate gentleman’s death?” asked the
detective with an amiable air. “At the time M’sieur Thorne was at the
table at Monte Carlo and playing with success there were, I believe,
many persons around him.”
“Yes, a crowd.”
“And near him, almost at his elbow, you did not see this man?” he
inquired, indicating the bearded convict.
I shook my head.
“I really do not recollect any face of that excited crowd,” I
responded. “He may have been there, but I certainly did not see him.”
“Nor did I,” chimed in Ulrica.
“Then I much regret troubling you,” he said, bowing politely. “In this
affair we are, as you of course know, making very searching inquiries
on account of representations made by the Ambassador of the United
States in Paris. We intend, if possible, to solve the mystery.”
“And the man who accosted me at the ball last night,” I said. “Do you
suspect him to be the original of that photograph?”
“At the ball last night? I do not follow mademoiselle.”
“But I made a statement of the whole facts to two agents of your
department at an early hour this morning, before I left the Casino.”
He looked puzzled, and his dark face broadened into a smile.
“Pardon. But I think mademoiselle must be under some misapprehension.
What occurred at the ball? Anything to arouse your suspicion?”
“To arouse my suspicion?” I echoed. “Why, a man attired in the garb of
an owl accosted me, gave me a strange warning, and actually placed in
my hands the sixty thousand francs in notes stolen from the dead man!”
“Impossible!” gasped the detective, amazed. “Where are the notes? You
should have given us information instantly.”
“I handed the notes to two police agents who were waiting in the
Director’s room, and to whom I made a statement of the whole affair.”
“What!” he cried loudly. “You have parted with the money?”
“Certainly.”
“Then mademoiselle has been most cleverly tricked, for the men to whom
you handed the proceeds of the robbery were certainly not agents of the
police!--they were impostors!”
CHAPTER XI
DESCRIBES A MEETING AND ITS SEQUEL
His words staggered me.
“Not agents of police!” I cried, dumfounded. “Why, they were fully
cognizant of every detail of the affair. It was the Director of the
Casino who presented them.”
“Then M’sieur the Directeur was tricked, just as you were,” he answered
gravely. “You say that you actually received from the hands of some
one who wore an effective disguise the sum stolen from the unfortunate
m’sieur? Kindly explain the whole circumstances of your meeting, and
what passed between you.”
“My dear Carmela,” exclaimed Ulrica. “This fresh complication is
absolutely bewildering. You not only danced and chatted with the
murderer, but you were the victim of a very clever plot.”
“That is quite certain,” observed the officer. “The two individuals to
whom mademoiselle inadvertently gave the notes upon the representations
that they were agents of the police, were evidently well acquainted
with the murderer’s intention to give up the proceeds of the robbery,
and had watched you narrowly all through the evening. But kindly give
us exact details.”
In obedience to his demand, I recounted the whole story. It seemed
to me incredible that the two men who had sent for me were bogus
detectives, yet such was the actual fact, as was shown later when the
Director of the Casino explained how they had come to him, telling him
that they were police agents from Marseilles, and had ordered him to
send for me, as they wished to interrogate me regarding “the affair of
the Grand Hotel.” Such, he declared, was their air of authority that he
never for a moment doubted that they were genuine officers of police.
My statement held the two men absolutely speechless. I told them of the
strange appointment in London made by the man with the owl’s face, of
the curious warning he had given me, and of the manner in which he had
presented me with the sum won at the tables by the murdered man.
“You can give us absolutely no idea whatever of his personal
appearance?” he inquired dubiously.
“None whatever,” I answered. “The dress and mask were effectual in
disguising him.”
“And the two men who falsely passed as police agents--will you kindly
describe them?” And he took out a well-worn pocket-book and scribbled
in it.
I described their personal appearance as closely as I could, while on
his part he took down my statement very carefully.
“This is most extraordinary!” Ulrica observed, standing near me in
wonder. “The pair who said they were detectives were exceedingly
clever, and are evidently aware of all that has transpired.”
“Marvellous!” exclaimed the man reflectively. “Only a very clever thief
would dare to walk into the bureau of the Casino and act as they did.”
“Have they any connection with the actual assassin, do you think?”
“I’m inclined to believe so,” he responded. “It was a conspiracy on
their part to obtain possession of the money.”
“Of course, I gave it up in entire innocence,” I said. “I never dreamed
that such a plot could exist.”
“Ah, mademoiselle,” observed the detective, “in this affair we have
evidently to deal with those who have brought crime to a fine art.
There seems something remarkable regarding the appointment in London
on the second of June. It seems as though it were devised to gain time
with some secret object or another.”
“I am absolutely bewildered,” I admitted. “My position in this tragic
affair is anything but enviable.”
“Most certainly. All this must be most annoying and distressing to
mademoiselle. I only hope we shall be successful in tracing the real
perpetrators of the crime.”
“You think there was more than one?”
“That is most probable,” he replied. “At present, however, we still
remain without any tangible clue, save that the proceeds of the crime
have passed from one person to another through the agency of yourself.”
“Their audacity was beyond comprehension!” I cried. “It really seems
inconceivable that I should have danced with the actual murderer, and
afterwards been induced to hand over to a pair of impostors the money
stolen from the unfortunate young man. I feel that I am to blame for
my shortsightedness.”
“Not at all, mademoiselle, not at all,” declared the detective with his
suave Gallic politeness. “With such a set of ingenious malefactors it
is easy to commit an error and fall a victim.”
“And what can be done?”
“We can only continue our investigations.”
“But the man in the owl’s dress? Tell me candidly, do you really
believe that he was the actual murderer?”
“He may have been. It was evident that for some hidden reason he had
some strong motive in passing the stolen notes into your possession.”
“But why?”
“Ah! that is one of the mysteries which we must try and solve. The man
was French, you say?”
“He spoke English admirably.”
“No word of French?”
“Not a single word. Yet he possessed an accent rather unusual.”
“He might have been a foreigner--an Italian or German--for aught you
know?” the detective suggested.
“No,” I answered reflectively. “His gestures were French. I believe
that he was actually French.”
“And the bogus police agents?”
“They too were French, undoubtedly. It would have been impossible to
deceive the Director of the Casino, himself a Frenchman.”
“Mademoiselle is quite right. I will at once see M’sieur le Directeur
and hear his statement. It is best,” he added, “that the matter should
remain a profound secret. Do not mention it, either of you, even to
your nearest friends. Publicity might very probably render futile all
our inquiries.”
“I understand,” I said.
“And mademoiselle will say no word to any one about it?”
I glanced at Ulrica inquiringly.
“Certainly,” she answered. “If m’sieur wishes the affair shall be kept
secret.”
Then, after some further discussion, the police officer thanked us,
gave us an assurance of his most profound respect, and, accompanied by
his silent subordinate, withdrew.
“After all,” I remarked when they had gone, “it will be best, perhaps,
to say nothing whatever to Gerald. He might mention it incautiously,
and thus it might get into the papers.”
“Yes, my dear,” answered Ulrica, “perhaps silence is best. But the
trick played upon you passes comprehension. I don’t like the aspect of
affairs at all, and if it were not for the fact that we have so many
friends here in Nice, and that it is just the centre of the season, I
should suggest the packing of our trunks.”
“We shall leave soon,” I said, “as soon as the yachting party is
complete.”
That same night after our trip to Tourette we accompanied the Allens,
a middle-aged American and his wife, who lived in Paris, over to Monte
Carlo. The Battle of Flowers had taken place there during the day, and
that event always marks the zenith of the gaming season. The Rooms
were crowded, and the dresses, always magnificent at night, were more
daring than ever. Half of fashionable Europe seemed there, including an
English Royal Highness and a crowd of notables. One of De Lara’s operas
was being played in the Casino theatre, and his works, being great
favorites there, always attract a full house.
The display of jewels at the tables was that night the most dazzling I
had ever seen. Some women, mostly gay Parisiennes or arrogant Russians,
seemed literally covered with diamonds, and as they stood around one
risking their louis or five-franc pieces, it seemed strange that with
jewels of that worth upon them they should descend to play with such
paltry stakes. But many women at Monte Carlo play merely because it is
the correct thing so to do, and very often are careless of either loss
or gain.
The usual characters were there: the wizened old man with his
capacious purse; the old hag in black cashmere and rouged face playing
and winning; and, alas! the foolish young man who staked always in
the wrong place until he had flung away his last louis. In all the
world there is no stranger panorama of life than that presented at
ten o’clock at night at the tables of Monte Carlo. It is unique,
indescribable--appalling.
Temptation is spread before the unwary in all its forms, until the
fevered atmosphere of gold and avarice throbs with evil, becomes
nauseous, and one longs for a breath of the fresh night air and a
refreshing drink to take the bad taste out of one’s mouth.
I played, merely because Ulrica and Dolly Allen played. I think I won
three or four louis, but am not certain of the amount. You ask why?
Because seated at the table exactly opposite to where I stood unnoticed
among the crowd was Ernest Cameron.
At his side was the inevitable red and black card whereon he registered
each number as it came up; before him were several little piles of
louis and a few notes; while behind him, leaning now and then over his
chair and whispering, was _that woman_!
At frequent intervals he played, generally upon the dozens, and even
then rather uncertainly. But he often lost. Once or twice he played
with fairly large stakes upon a chance that appeared practically
certain; but he had no luck, and the croupier raked them in.
For fully a dozen times he staked two louis on the last twelve
numbers, but with that perversity which sometimes seems to seize the
roulette-ball, the numbers came up between 1 and 24.
Suddenly the tow-haired woman who had replaced me in his affections
leaned over and said in a voice quite audible to me,--
“Put the maximum on number 6!”
With blind obedience he counted out the sum sufficient to win the
maximum of six thousand francs, and pushed it upon the number she had
named.
“Rien ne va plus!” cried the croupier next instant, and there, sure
enough, I saw the ball drop into the number the witch had prophesied.
The croupier counted the stake quickly, and pushed with his rake
towards the fortunate player notes for six thousand francs, folded in
half, with the simple words,--
“En plein.”
“Enough!” cried the woman prompting him. “Play no more to-night!”
He sighed, and with a strange, preoccupied air, gathered up his coin,
notes, and other belongings, while a player tossed over a five-franc
piece to “mark” his place, or, in other words, to secure his chair when
he vacated it. Then, still obedient to her, he rose with a faint smile
upon his lips.
As he did so, he raised his eyes, and they fell full upon mine, for I
was standing there watching him.
Our gaze met suddenly. Next instant, however, the light died out
from his countenance, and he stood glaring at me as though I were an
apparition. His mouth was slightly opened, his hand trembled, his brows
contracted, and his face grew ashen.
His attitude was as though he were cowed by my presence. He remembered
our last meeting.
In a moment, however, he recovered his self-possession, turned his back
upon me, and strolled away beside that woman who had usurped my place.
CHAPTER XII
CARRIES ME ON BOARD THE VISPERA
Faces, even expressions, may lie, but eyes lie never.
A man may commit follies; but once cured, those follies expand his
nature. With a woman, alas! follies are always debasing. It was, I
knew, a folly to love him.
Life is always disappointing. The shattering of our idols, the
revelation of the shallowness of friendship, the losing faith in those
we love, and the witnessing of their fall from that pedestal whereon we
placed them in our own exalted idealization--all is disappointing.
I stood gazing after him as he strode down the great room with its
bejewelled, excited crowd, where the chevalier d’industrie and the
declassé woman jostled with the pickpocket, the professional thief, and
the men who gamble at Aix, Ostend, Namur, or Spa as the seasons come
and go, that strange assembly of courteous Italians, bearded Russians,
well-groomed Englishmen, and women painted, powdered, and perfumed;
those reckless beings qui péchent à froid, who sin not through the
senses but through indifference.
I held my breath; my heart beat so violently that I could hear it above
the babel of voices about me. I suffered the most acute agony. Of late
I had been always thinking of him--asleep, dreaming--always dreaming of
him. Always the same pang of regret was within my heart, regret that
I had allowed him to go away without a word, without telling him how
madly, despairingly, I loved him.
Life without him was a hopeless blank, yet it was all through my
vanity, my wretched pride, my invincible self-love. I was now careless,
indifferent, inconsequential, my only thought being of him. His
coldness, his disdain, was killing me. Yes, when his eyes had met mine
in surprise, they were strange, Sphinx-like, and mysterious.
Yet at that moment I did not care what he might say to me. I only
wished to hear him speaking to me: to hear the sound of his voice and
to know that he cared enough for me to treat me as a human being.
Ah, I trembled when I realized how madly I loved him, and how fierce
was my hatred of that woman who issued her orders and whom he obeyed.
I turned away with the Allens, while Ulrica cried delightedly that she
had won on 16, her favorite number. But I did not answer. My heart had
grown sick, and I went forth into the bright night air and down the
steps towards the “ascenseurs.”
On the steps a well-dressed young Frenchman was lounging, and as I
passed down I heard him humming to himself that gay, catchy chanson so
popular at the café concert:
“A bas la romance et l’idylle,
Les oiseaux, la forêt, le buisson,
Des marlous, de la grande ville,
Nous allons chanter la chanson!
V’la les dos, viv’nt les dos!
C’est les dos, les gros,
Les beaux,
A nous les marmites!
Grandes ou petites;
V’la les dos, viv’nt les dos;
C’est les dos, les gros,
Les beaux,
A nous les marmit’ et vivent les dos!”
I closed my ears to shut out the sound of those words. I remembered
Ernest--that look in his eyes, that scorn in his face, that disdain in
his bearing.
The truth was, alas! too plain. His love for me was dead. I was the
most wretched of women, of all God’s creatures.
I prayed that I might regard him--that I might regard the world--with
indifference, and yet I was sufficiently acquainted with the world and
its ways to know that to a woman the word indifference is the most evil
word in the language, that it is the most fatal of all sentiments, the
most deadly of all attitudes.
But Ernest, the man whose slave I was, despised me. He commanded my
love. Why could not I command his? Ah! because I was a woman, and my
face had ceased to interest him!
Bitter tears sprang to my eyes, but I managed to preserve my
self-control and enter the station-lift making an inward vow that never
again in my whole life would I set foot in that hated hell within a
paradise called Monte Carlo.
True, I was a woman who amused myself wherever amusement could be
obtained, but I still remained, as I had always been from those sweet
well-remembered days at the gray old convent in Florence, an honest
woman. At Monte Carlo the scum of the earth enjoy the flowers of the
earth. I detested its crowds; I held in abhorrence that wild, turbulent
avarice, and felt stifled in that atmosphere of gilded sin. No. I would
never enter there again. The bitter remembrance of that night would, I
knew, be too painful.
I returned to Nice with a feeling that for me, now that Ernest had
drifted from me to become a placid gambler and was indifferent, life
had no further charm. The recollection of the days that followed can
never be torn from my memory, my brain, my soul. I smiled, though I was
wearing out my heart; I laughed even though bitter tears were ready to
start to my eyes, and I made pretence of being interested in things to
which I was at heart supremely indifferent. I courted forgetfulness,
but the oblivion of my love would not come. I never knew till then how
great was the passion a woman could conceive for a man, or how his
memory could ever arise, a ghost from the past to terrify the present.
That night as we drove from the station to the hotel Ulrica
accidentally touched my hand.
“How cold you are, dear!” she cried in surprise.
“Yes,” I answered, shivering.
I was cold; it was the truth. At thought of the man who had forsaken
me an icy chill had struck my heart--the chill of unsatisfied love, of
desolation, of blank, unutterable despair.
In due course our yachting gowns came home from the dressmaker’s,
--accompanied by terrifying bills, of course,--and a few days later
we sailed out of Villefranche harbor on board the Vispera. The party
was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of youngish people, several
of whom we knew quite well, and ere the second day was over we had all
settled down to the usual routine of life on board a yacht. There was
no sensation of being cramped up, but, on the contrary, the decks were
broad and spacious, and the cabins perfect nests of luxury. The vessel
had been built on the Clyde according to its owner’s designs, and it
certainly was a miniature Atlantic liner.
Our plans had been slightly altered, for as the majority of the guests
had never been to Algiers it was resolved to make a run over there and
then coast along Algeria and Tunis and so on to Alexandria. As we
steamed away from Villefranche the receding panorama of the Littoral,
with its olive-covered slopes and great, purple, snow-capped Alps,
spread out before us, presenting a perfectly enchanting picture. We all
stood grouped on deck watching it slowly sink below the horizon. From
the first moment that we went on board all was gay, all luxurious, for
were we not guests of a man who, although absurdly economical himself,
was always lavish when he entertained? Everyone was loud in praise of
the magnificent appointments of the vessel, and dinner, at which its
owner presided, was a merry function.
I was placed next Lord Eldersfield, a pleasant, middle-aged, gray-eyed
man, who had recently left the army on succeeding to the title. He was,
I found, quite an entertaining companion, full of droll stories and
clever witticisms; indeed, he shone at once as the conversationalist of
the table.
“Have I been in Algiers before?” he repeated, in answer to a question
from me. “Oh, yes. It’s a place where one half the people don’t know
the other half.”
I smiled and wondered. Yet his brief description was, I afterwards
discovered, very true. The Arabs and the Europeans live apart and are
like oil and water, they never mix.
The days passed gayly, and were it not for constant thoughts of that
man who had loved me and forgotten I should have enjoyed myself.
Save for one day of mistral the trip across the Mediterranean proved
delightful, and for six days we remained in the white old City of the
Corsairs, where we went on excursions and had a most pleasant time.
We visited the Kasbah, drove to the Jardin d’Essai and to the pretty
village of St. Eugène, while several of the party went to visit friends
who were staying at the big hotels up at Mustapha. Life in Algiers was,
I found, most interesting after the Parisian artificiality and glitter
of Nice and Monte Carlo, and with Lord Eldersfield as my cavalier we
saw all that was worth seeing. We lounged in those gay French cafés
under the date-palms in the Place du Gouvernement, strolled up those
narrow, ladder-like streets in the old city, or mingled with those
crowds of mysterious-looking veiled Arab women who were bargaining for
their purchases in the market. All was fresh, all diverting.
As for Ulrica, she entered thoroughly into the spirit of the thing,
as she always did, and with Gerald usually as her escort went hither
and thither with her true tourist habit of poking about everywhere,
regardless of contagious diseases or the extensive variety of bad
smells which invariably exists in an Oriental town. Although each day
the party went ashore and enjoyed themselves, old Mr. Keppel never
accompanied them. He knew the place, he said, and had some business
affairs to attend to in the deck-house which he kept sacred to himself.
Therefore he was excused.
“No, Miss Rosselli,” he had explained to me in confidence, “I’m no
sight-seer. If my guests enjoy seeing a few of the towns on the
Mediterranean I am quite contented, but I prefer to remain quiet here
rather than to be driving about in brakes and revisiting places that I
have already visited long ago.”
“Certainly,” I said. “You are under no obligation to these people. They
accept your kind hospitality, and the least they can do is to allow you
to remain in peace when you wish.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I leave them in Gerald’s charge. He knows how to
look after them.”
And his face seemed sad and anxious, as though he were utterly forlorn.
Indeed, after a week at sea we saw but little of him. He lunched and
dined with us in the saloon each day, but never joined our musical
parties after dinner, and seldom, if ever, entered the smoking-room.
All knew him to be eccentric, therefore this apparent disregard for our
presence was looked upon as one of his peculiar habits. Upon Gerald
devolved the duty of acting as entertainer, and assisted by Ulrica,
myself, and old Miss Keppel he endeavored to make every one happy and
comfortable. Fortunately, the ubiquitous Barnes had by Gerald’s urgent
desire been left behind at the Villa Fabron.
As day by day we steamed up that blue, tranquil sea in brilliant
weather, with our bows ever set in the track of dawn, life was one
continual round of merriment from three bells, when we breakfasted,
until eight bells sounded for turning in. A yachting cruise is very apt
to become monotonous, but on the Vispera one had no time for ennui.
After Algiers we put in for a day at Cagliari, then visited Tunis, the
Greek islands, Athens, Smyrna, and Constantinople.
We had already been five weeks cruising--and five weeks in the
Mediterranean in spring are delightful--when one night an incident
occurred which was both mysterious and disconcerting. We were on our
way from Constantinople, and in the first dog-watch had sighted one of
the rocky headlands of Corsica. That evening dinner had been followed
by an impromptu dance which had proved a most successful affair. The
men were mostly dancers, except Lord Stoneborough, who was inclined to
obesity; and with the piano and a couple of violins played by a pair
of rather insipid sisters the dance was quite a jolly one. We even
persuaded old Mr. Keppel to dance, and although his was not a very
graceful terpischorean feat, nevertheless his participation in our fun
put every one in an exceedingly good humor.
Of course, the time had not passed without the usual gossip and
tittle-tattle which are inseparable from a yachting cruise. On board a
yacht people become quickly inventive, and the most astounding fictions
about one’s neighbors are whispered behind fans and books. I had heard
whispers regarding Ulrica and Gerald Keppel. Rumor had it that the old
gentleman had actually given his consent to their marriage, and as
soon as they returned to America the engagement would be announced.
Certain of the guests, with an air of extreme confidence, took me aside
and questioned me regarding it, but I merely responded that I knew
nothing and greatly doubted the accuracy of the rumor. More than once
that evening I had been asked whether it were true, and so persistent
seemed the rumor that I took Ulrica into my cabin and asked her
point-blank.
“My dear,” she cried, “have you really taken leave of your senses? How
absurd! Of course there’s nothing whatever between myself and Gerald.
He is amusing, that’s all.”
“You might do worse than marry him,” I laughed. “Remember, you’ve known
him a long time--four years, isn’t it?”
“Marry him! Never! Go and tell those prying persons, whoever they are,
that when I’m engaged I’ll put a paragraph in the papers all in good
time.”
“But don’t you think, Ulrica,” I suggested--“don’t you think that if
such is the case Gerald is rather too much in your society?”
“I can’t help him hanging around me, poor boy,” she laughed. “I can’t
be rude to him.”
That night I turned and turned in my narrow berth, but could not sleep.
The atmosphere seemed stifling in spite of the ventilators, and I
dare not open the port-hole, fearing a sudden douche, for a wind had
sprung up and we were rolling heavily. The jingle of the glasses on
the toilet-stand, the vibration, the throbbing of the machinery, the
tramping of the sailors overhead, the roar of the funnels, all rendered
sleep utterly impossible.
At last, however, I could stand it no longer, and, rising, I dressed,
putting on a big driving-coat, with a thick shawl about my head, and
went up on deck. The fresh air might perhaps do me good, I thought. At
any rate, it was a remedy worth trying.
The night, so brilliant a couple of hours before, had become dark and
stormy, the wind was so boisterous that I walked with difficulty,
and the fact that the awnings had been reefed showed that Davis, the
skipper, anticipated a squall.
The deck was deserted. Only on the bridge could I see, above the strip
of sheltering canvas, two shadowy figures in oilskins keeping watch
ahead. Save for those heads I was utterly alone. On my way towards
the stern I passed the small deck-house which old Mr. Keppel reserved
as his own den. The green-silk blinds were always drawn across the
port-holes and the door always remained locked. No one ever entered
there, although many had been the speculations regarding the private
cabin when we had first sailed.
The millionaire himself had, however, given an explanation one day at
luncheon.
“I always reserve, both in my houses and here on board the Vispera, one
room as my own. I hope all of you will excuse me this. As you know, I
have a good many affairs to attend to, and I hate to have my papers
thrown into disorder.”
Personally, I suspected him of having a lathe there and of pursuing his
hobby of ivory-turning, but the majority of the guests accepted his
explanation that this deck-house was his study, and that he did not
wish them to pry there.
More than once Ulrica had expressed to me wonder regarding the reason
the cabin remained always closed and its curtains always drawn. Every
woman dearly loves a mystery, and, like myself, Ulrica, when she
discovered anything suspicious, never rested until she had formed some
theory or other.
She had one day mentioned the fact to Gerald, who in my presence had
given what appeared to me the true explanation.
“It’s merely one of the guv’nor’s eccentricities. The fact is that
on the outward voyage from New York he bought some antique Moorish
furniture and ivory carving in Tangier and has it stored in there until
we return. I’ve seen it myself--beautiful things. He says he intends to
sell them at a profit to a dealer in London,” whereat we laughed.
Knowing how the old gentleman practised economy sometimes, I had
accepted this as the truth.
But as, gripping the rail to prevent being thrown down by the rolling
of the ship, I passed along the side of the deck-house I was surprised
to see a light within. The curtains of green silk were still drawn, but
the light could, nevertheless, be seen through them, and it seemed to
me strange that any one should be there at that hour of the night. I
placed my face close to the screwed-down port-hole, but the curtain had
been so well drawn that it was impossible to see within. Then, moving
quietly, I examined the other three round, brass-bound windows, but all
were as closely curtained as the first.
I fancied I heard voices as I stood there and tried to distinguish the
words, but the roar of the funnels and howling of the wind drowned
every other sound.
What if my host caught me prying? His private affairs were surely no
business of mine, therefore I was about to turn away, when suddenly
I experienced an extraordinary desire to peep inside that forbidden
chamber. I walked around it again stealthily, for fortunately I was in
thin slippers.
While standing there in hesitation I noticed that upon the low roof was
a small ventilator which had been raised to admit air. What if I could
get a peep down there? It was an adventurous climb for a woman hampered
by skirts as I was; but I searched for means to mount, and found them
in a low iron staple to which some cords of the rigging were attached
and a brass rail which afforded rather insecure foothold. After some
effort I succeeded in scrambling to the top, but not before I found
myself beneath the eye of the officer on the bridge. Fortunately I was
behind him, but if he had occasion to turn towards the stern he must
discover me.
Having risked so much, however, I was determined to make further
endeavors, and leaning across the small roof I placed my face close to
the open ventilator and peered down into the locked cabin.
Next second I drew back with a start, holding my breath. A loud
exclamation of dismay escaped me, but the sound was swallowed up in the
noises of the boisterous night.
The sight I witnessed below me in that small deck-house held me rigid
as one petrified.
CHAPTER XIII
DISCLOSES A MILLIONAIRE’S SECRET
So heavily was the yacht rolling that I was compelled to hold firmly,
lest I should lose my balance and roll down upon the deck.
My foothold was insecure, and the sight which presented itself as I
peered within was so unexpected and startling, that in the excitement
of the moment I loosened my grip and narrowly escaped being pitched
down headlong. From my position I unfortunately could not obtain a view
of the entire interior, the ventilator being open only a couple of
inches, but what I saw was sufficient to unnerve any woman.
The cabin was brilliantly lit by electricity, but the walls, instead
of being panelled in satinwood, as were most of the others, were
decorated in a manner more rich and magnificent than in any other part
of the vessel. They were of gilt, with white ornamentation in curious
Arabesques, while upon the floor was a thick Turkey carpet with a
white ground and pattern of turquoise blue. The effect was bright
and glaring, and at the first moment it occurred to me that the place
was really a ladies’ boudoir. There was another aft, it was true, but
this one had evidently been intended as a lounge for female guests.
As I looked down old Benjamin Keppel himself passed into that part of
the cabin within the zone of my vision. His hat was off, displaying
his scanty gray hair, and as he turned I caught a glimpse of his face.
His countenance, usually so kind and tranquil, was distorted by abject
fear; his teeth were set, his cheeks hard and bloodless. Both anger and
alarm were depicted upon his rugged countenance. His appearance was
mysterious, to say the least, but it was a further object I saw within
that place which held me in speechless wonderment.
Beside where he stood, lying in a heap at his feet, was a dark-haired,
handsome woman of mature age, who was dressed in a white serge robe--a
stranger.
The old millionaire, with sudden movement, flung himself upon his knees
and touched her face caressingly. Next instant he drew back his hand.
“Dead!” he gasped, in the thick voice of a man grief-stricken. “Dead!
And she did not know--she did not know! It is murder!” he gasped in a
terrified whisper--“murder!”
The wind howled about me weirdly, tearing at my clothes as though it
would hurl me beyond into the raging sea, while the yacht, steaming on,
rose and plunged, shipping huge seas each time her bows met the angry
waves.
For some moments the strange old man bent over the woman in silence. I
was puzzled to discover her identity. Why had she been kept prisoner
in that gilded cabin during the cruise? Why had we remained in total
ignorance of her presence? I alone knew our host’s secret. We had a
dead woman on board.
Keppel touched the woman again, placing his hand upon her face. When
he withdrew it I saw that blood was upon it. He looked at it and,
shuddering, wiped it off upon his handkerchief.
At the same instant a voice, that of a man, sounded from the opposite
side of the cabin, saying:
“Don’t you see that that ventilator is open up above? Shut it, or
somebody may see us. They can see down here from the bridge.”
“Think of her,” the old man exclaimed in a low voice, “not of us.”
“Of her? Why should I?” inquired the gruff voice of the unseen. “You’ve
killed her, and must take the consequences.”
“I?” gasped the old man, staggering unevenly to his feet, and placing
both hands to his eyes as though to shut out from view that hideous
evidence of his crime. “Yes,” he cried in an awe-stricken tone, “she is
dead!”
“And a good job too,” responded the man unseen in a hard, pitiless tone.
“No,” cried Keppel angrily. “At least respect her memory. Remember who
she was.”
“I shall remember nothing of this night’s work,” the other responded.
“I leave all memories of it as a legacy to you.”
“You coward!” cried Keppel, turning upon the speaker, his eyes
flashing. “I have endeavored to assist you, and this is your gratitude.”
“Assist me?” sneered his companion. “Pretty assistance it’s been! I
tell you what it is, Benjamin Keppel, you’re in a very tight place just
now. You killed that--that woman there, and you know what the penalty
is for murder.”
“I know,” wailed the white-faced, desperate man.
“Well, now, if I might be permitted to advise, I’d make a clear sweep
of the whole affair,” said the man.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this: we can’t keep the body very long in this cabin without it
being discovered. And when it is found--well, it will be all up with
both of us. Of that there’s but little doubt. I suggest this: Let us
make at once for one of the Italian ports, say Leghorn, where you will
land to transact some important business, and I’ll land also. Then the
Vispera will sail for Naples, to which port you will go by rail to
rejoin her. On the way there, however, the vessel disappears--eh?”
“Disappears--how? I don’t understand.”
“Is blown up.”
“Blown up!” he cried. “And how about the guests?”
“Guests be hanged!”
“But there are eleven of them, besides the crew.”
“Never mind them. There are the boats, and no doubt they’ll all take
care of themselves. Fools if they don’t.”
“I should feel that I murdered them all,” the old man responded.
“In this affair we must save ourselves,” declared the unseen man very
firmly. “There has been a--well, we’ll call it an ugly occurrence
to-night, and it behooves us to get clear out of it. If the Vispera
goes down the body will go down with it, and the sea will hide our
secret.”
“But I cannot imperil the lives of all in that manner. Besides, by what
means do you suggest destroying the ship?”
“By perfectly simple means. Just give orders to Davis in the morning
to put in at Leghorn with all possible speed, and leave the rest to
me. I’ll guarantee that the Vispera will never reach Naples.” Then he
added: “But just shut that infernal ventilator; I don’t like it being
open.”
Old Keppel, staggering, reached the cord, and in obedience to his
companion’s wish closed the narrow opening with a sudden bang. The
woodwork narrowly escaped coming into contact with my face, and for
some moments I remained there, clutching at my unstable supports and
being rudely buffeted by the gale.
At any moment I might be discovered, therefore after some difficulty I
succeeded in lowering myself again to the deck and making my way back
to my own cabin.
I had been soaked to the skin by the rain and spray, but, still in my
wet things, I sat pondering over the mysterious crime I had discovered.
Who was that unseen man? Whoever he was he held old Benjamin Keppel in
his power, and to his diabolical plot would be due the destruction of
the Vispera and perhaps the loss of every soul on board.
He had suggested an explosion. He no doubt intended to place on board
some infernal contrivance which, after the lapse of a certain number of
hours, would explode and blow the bottom out of the yacht. Whoever that
man was he was a crafty villain. Providentially, however, I had been
led to the discovery of the scheme, and I did not mean that the lives
of my fellow-guests or of the crew should be sacrificed in order to
conceal a crime.
A vision of that white, dead face recurred to me. It was the face of
a woman who had once been very handsome, but to my remembrance I had
never seen it before. The mystery of the woman’s concealment there
was altogether extraordinary. Yet it scarcely seemed possible that
she should have remained in hiding so long without a soul on board
save Keppel being aware of her presence. She had been fed, of course,
and most probably the steward knew of her presence in that gilded
deck-house. But she was dead--murdered by the inoffensive old gentleman
who was the very last person in the world I should have suspected of
having taken human life.
And why had he stroked her dead face so caressingly? Who, indeed, was
she?
My wet clothes clung to me cold and clammily, therefore I exchanged
them for a warm wrap, and entering my berth tried to rest. Sleep was,
however, impossible in that doomed ship amid the wild roaring of the
tempest and the thunder of the waves breaking over the deck above. Once
it occurred to me to go straight to Ulrica and tell her all I had seen
and heard, but on reflection I resolved to keep my own counsel and
narrowly watch the course of events.
The mystery of the hidden man’s identity grew upon me, until I suddenly
resolved to make a further endeavor to discover him. The voice was deep
and low, but the roaring of the wind and hissing of escaping steam
had prevented me hearing it sufficiently clearly to recognize whether
it was that of one of our fellow-guests. I slipped on a mackintosh,
and returning to the deck crept towards the cabin wherein reposed the
remains of the mysterious woman in white serge. But soon I saw that
the light had been switched off. All was in darkness. The guilty pair
had gone below to their own berths. Through the whole night the storm
continued, but the morning broke brightly and the tempest, as is so
frequent in the Mediterranean, was succeeded by a dead calm, so that
when we sat down to breakfast we were steaming in comparatively smooth
water.
“Have you heard?” said Ulrica across to me after we had been exchanging
our sleepless experiences. “Mr. Keppel has altered our course. He has
some pressing business to attend to, so we are going into Leghorn.”
“Leghorn!” exclaimed Lord Eldersfield at my elbow. “Horrid place! I
was there once. Narrow streets, dirty people, primitive sanitation, and
a sorry attempt at a promenade.”
“Well, we don’t stay there long, that’s one comfort,” said Ulrica. “Mr.
Keppel is going to land, and he’ll rejoin us at Naples.”
I looked down the table and saw that the face of the old millionaire
was pale, without its usual composure. He was pretending to be busily
occupied with his porridge.
“Are we going on straight to Naples, Keppel?” inquired Eldersfield.
“Certainly,” answered our host. “I much regret that I’m compelled to
take you all out of our original course, but I must exchange some
telegrams with my agent in New York. We shall be in Leghorn to-night,
and if you are all agreed you may sail again at once.”
“I’d like to see Leghorn,” declared Ulrica. “People who go to Italy
always leave it out of their itinerary. I’ve heard that it is quite
charming in many ways. All the better-class Italians from Florence and
Rome go there for the bathing in summer.”
“Which I fear isn’t much of a recommendation,” observed his Lordship,
who was, I believe, Ulrica’s pet aversion.
“The bathing itself is declared by all the guide-books to be the best
in Europe,” she answered.
“And the heat and mosquitoes in summer greater than in any other place
on the Continent of Europe. Its imports are rags from Constantinople
and codfish from Newfoundland. No wonder its effluvias are not all
roses.”
“Perhaps so. Of course, if you know the place you are welcome to your
own opinion. I don’t know it.”
“When you do, Miss Yorke, you’ll share my opinion; of that I feel
certain,” he laughed, and then continued his meal.
The question was shortly afterwards decided by popular vote whether the
Vispera should remain in Leghorn or not. To the majority of the guests
Leghorn was supposed to be merely a dirty seaport, and although I, who
knew the place well, tried to impress upon them that it possessed many
charms not to be found in other Italian towns, it was decided that the
yacht should only remain there a day, and then go straight on to Naples.
This decision was disconcerting. I had to prevent the trip southward,
and the problem of how to do so without arousing suspicion was an
extremely difficult one to solve. If the vessel sailed from Leghorn,
then she was doomed, with every soul on board.
CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH I MAKE A RESOLVE
The great broad plain which lies between marble-built old Pisa and
the sea was flooded by the golden Italian sunset, and the background
of the serrated Apennines loomed a dark purple in the distance as we
approached the long breakwater which protects Leghorn from the sea.
Leaning over the rail, I gazed upon the white, sun-blanched Tuscan
town, and recognized the gay Passeggio with its avenue of dusty
tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses with their green
persiennes, and Pancaldi’s and the other baths, built out upon the
rocks into the sea. Years ago, when at the convent, we had gone there
each summer, a dozen or so girls at a time, under the kindly care of
Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so
the intolerable heat of July in the Lily City. How well I remembered
that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, but known to those
happy, light-hearted, improvident Livornesi by its ancient name,
the Passeggio. And what long walks we girls used to have over the
rocks beyond Antignano, or scrambling climbs up to the shrine of the
miracle-working Virgin at Montenero. Happy, indeed, were those summer
days with my girl friends--girls who had now, like myself, grown to
be women--who had married, and had experienced all the trials and
bitterness of life. A thought of her who was my best friend in those
past days recurred to me--pretty, black-haired, unassuming Annetta
Ceriani, from Arezzo. She had left the college the same week as myself,
and our parting had been a very hard one. In a year, however, she
had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Cesare Sigismondo,
Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles, was “Principe Romano,
Principe di Pinerolo, Marchese di Casentino, Conte di Lucca, Nobile di
Monte Catina.” Truly the Italian nobility do not lack titles. But poor
Annetta! Her life had been the reverse of happy, and the last letter
I had received from her, dated from Venice, contained the story of a
woman heart-broken.
Yes, as I stood there on the deck of the Vispera approaching the
old sun-whitened Tuscan port many were the recollections of those
long-past careless days which crowded upon me, days before I had known
how weary was the world, or how fraught with bitterness was woman’s
love.
Already the light was shining yellow in the high, square old
light-house, although the sun had not altogether disappeared.
Half-a-dozen fine cruisers of the British Mediterranean Squadron were
lying at anchor in line, and we passed several boats full of sun-tanned
liberty men on their way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the
British man-o’-warsman is always a welcome guest in Leghorn. At last,
when within a quarter of a mile of the breakwater, I heard old Mr.
Keppel, who stood close to me, speaking to the captain.
“I shall send a couple of packets on board in the morning, and also a
box, Davis. Put the latter below in a safe place. Lock it up somewhere.”
“Very well, sir,” answered the man, in his smart uniform, leaning over
the rail of the bridge. “And we sail for Naples after the things are on
board?”
“Yes. And wait there for me.”
“Very well, sir.” And then he turned to give some directions to the
helmsman.
The situation was becoming desperate. How was I to act? At least
I should now ascertain who had been the old man’s companion in the
deck-cabin on the previous night, for they would no doubt go ashore
together.
Old Mr. Keppel was standing near me, speaking again to the captain,
giving him certain orders, when Gerald, spruce as usual in blue serge,
came up and, leaning at my side, said:
“Ulrica says you know Leghorn quite well. You must be our guide. We’re
all going ashore after dinner. What is there to amuse one in the
evening?”
“The gay season hasn’t commenced yet,” I responded. “But there is opera
at the Goldoni always. One pays only a dollar for a box to seat six.”
“Impossible,” he laughed incredulously. “I shouldn’t care to sit out
music at that price.”
“Ah, there I must differ,” I replied. “It is as good as any you’ll find
in Italy. Remember, here is the home of opera. Why, the Livornesi love
music so intensely that it is no unusual occurrence for a poor family
to make shift with a piece of bread and an onion for dinner in order to
pay the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera. Mascagni is Livornese,
and Puccini, who composed ‘La Boheme,’ was also born close here. No. In
‘cara Livorno,’ as the Tuscan loves to call it, one can hear the best
opera for ten cents.”
“Different to our prices in America.”
“And our music, unfortunately, is not so good,” I said.
“Shall we go to this delightfully inexpensive opera to-night? It would
certainly be an experience.”
“I fear I shall not,” I answered. “I am not feeling very well.”
“I’m extremely sorry,” he said with quick apprehension. “Is there
anything I can get you?”
“No, nothing, thank you,” I answered. “A little faintness, that’s all.”
We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and a boat had been
lowered. Four of the crew were in it, ready to take their owner ashore.
“Good-by--good-by, all!” I heard old Benjamin Keppel saying in his
hearty manner, and, turning, met him face to face.
“Good-by, Miss Rosselli!” he shouted to me, laughing as he raised his
cap. “I shall be back with you at Naples.”
I gripped the rail and acknowledged the salute of the man who was
leaving the vessel he had doomed to destruction.
All the guests were on deck, and many were the good wishes sent after
him as he sprang into the boat and the men pulled off towards the port.
Then a few moments later the bell rang for dinner and all descended to
the saloon, eager to get the meal over and go ashore.
On the way down Ulrica took me aside, saying:
“Gerald has told me you are ill, my dear. I’ve noticed how pale and
unlike yourself you’ve been all day. What’s the matter?--tell me.”
“I--I can’t. At least not now,” I managed to stammer, and at once
escaped her.
I wanted to be alone to think. Keppel had gone ashore alone. His
companion of the previous night, the man to whom the conception of that
diabolical plot was due, was still on board. But who was he?
I ate nothing, but was in the first boat that went ashore. I had
excused myself from making one of the party at the opera, after giving
all necessary directions, and on pretence of going to a chemist’s to
make a purchase I separated myself from Ulrica, Gerald, and Lord
Stoneborough in the Via Grande, the principal thoroughfare.
How next to act I knew not. Keppel had expressed his intention of
sending a box on board, and there could be no doubt that it would
contain some explosive destined to send the Vispera to the bottom.
At all hazards the yacht must not sail. Yet how was it possible that
I could prevent it without making a full statement of what I had
overheard?
I entered the pharmacy and purchased the first article that came into
my mind. Then, returning into the street, I wandered on, plunged in my
own distracting thoughts.
The soft, balmy Italian night had fallen, and the white streets and
piazzas of Leghorn were filled, as they always are at evening, with
the merry, light-hearted crowds of idlers: men with their hats stuck
jauntily askew, smoking, laughing, gossiping, and women, dark-haired,
black-eyed, the most handsome in all Italy, each with a mantilla
of black lace or of some bright-colored silk as a head-covering,
promenading and enjoying the refreshing fresco after the toil and
burden of the day. None in all the world can surpass in beauty those
Tuscan women--dark, tragic, with eyes that flash quickly in love or
hatred, with figures perfect, and each with an easy, swinging gait that
a duchess might envy. It was Suor Angelica who had once repeated to me
the rhyme that one of our old Florentine writers had written of them,--
“S’è grande, è oziosa;
S’è piccola, è viziosa;
S’è bella, è vanitosa;
S’è brutta, è fastidiosa.”
Every type indeed is represented in that long single street at
night--the dark-haired Jewess, the classic Greek, the thick-lipped
Tunisian, the pale-cheeked Armenian, and the beautiful Tuscan, the
purest type of beauty in all the world.
Once again, after those years, I heard as I walked onward the soft
sibillations of the Tuscan tongue about me, the gay chatter of that
city of sun and sea, where although half the population are in a state
of semi-starvation their hearts are still as light as in the days
when “cara Livorno” was still prosperous. But, alas! it has sadly
declined. Its manufactures, never very extensive, have died out, its
merchant-princes are ruined, or have deserted it, and its trade has
ebbed until there is no work for those honest brown-faced men who are
forced to idle upon the stone benches in the piazza even though their
wives and children are crying for bread.
The splendid band of the Bersagliéri was playing in the great Piazza
Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag
was waving because the war-ships were in the port. The music was there
in acknowledgment of the fact that the British marine band had played
before the Prefecture on the previous evening. The Consulate was
illuminated, and at the balcony with a large party was Her Britannic
Majesty’s Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson, known to every
English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and
happiest of good fellows. But I hurried on across the great square,
feeling that no time should be lost, yet not knowing what to do.
The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie and the curious events
which followed, coupled with this startling discovery I had made on
the previous night, had completely unnerved me. As I tried to reflect
calmly and logically, I came to the conclusion that it was eminently
necessary to ascertain the identity of the man who held the Steel King
beneath his thrall--the man who had suggested the blowing up of the
yacht. This man intended, without a doubt, to leave the vessel under
cover of night, or if he were actually one of the guests he could, of
course, easily excuse himself and leave the others, as I had done.
I entered the Hotel Giappone, where I had once stayed with some friends
after leaving the convent, and after succeeding in changing some money,
went forth again among the chattering crowd, when suddenly it occurred
to me that if our host intended to leave Leghorn he must leave by
train. Therefore I entered a tram and alighted at the station. Several
trains had, I ascertained, left for Pisa in connection with the main
line from Genoa to Rome since Keppel had landed. Perhaps, therefore, he
had already left.
The great platform was dimly lit and deserted, for no train would
depart, they told me, for another hour. It was the mail, and ran to
Pisa to catch the night express to the French frontier at Modane.
Should I remain and watch?
The idea occurred to me that if the unseen individual who had been
present in the deck-house intended to come ashore he would certainly
meet Keppel somewhere, where the explosive would be prepared and
packed in the box ready to be sent on board early in the morning. Most
probably the pair would contrive to catch this, the last train from
Leghorn. So I resolved to remain.
The time dragged on. The short train was backed into the station, but
no passenger appeared. A controller inquired if I intended to go to
Pisa, but I replied in the negative. At last one or two passengers
approached leisurely, as is usual in Italy, carrying wicker-covered
flasks of Chianti to drink en voyage; the inevitable pair of
white-gloved carabineers strolled up and down, and the train prepared
to start.
Of a sudden, almost before I was aware of it, I was conscious of two
figures approaching. One was that of old Mr. Keppel, hot and hurrying,
carrying his small hand-bag, and the other the figure of a woman
wearing a soft felt hat and long fawn travelling-cloak.
I drew back into the shadow in an instant to allow them to pass without
recognizing me, for I had fortunately put on an old black dress which
I had never worn on board. The miscreant had, it seemed, cleverly
disguised himself as a woman.
Hurrying, they next moment passed me by in search of an empty
first-class compartment. The controller approached them and asked for
their tickets, when Keppel, feeling in his pockets with fidgety air,
answered in English, which, of course, the man did not understand,--
“We’re going to the frontier.”
The man glanced leisurely at the tickets, then unlocked one of the
doors and allowed them to enter.
As the woman mounted into the carriage, however, a ray of light
fell straight across her face, and revealed to my wondering eyes a
countenance that held me absolutely stupefied.
The discovery I made at that moment increased the mystery tenfold.
CHAPTER XV
IS ASTONISHING
The countenance disclosed by the lamp in the great ill-lit station was
not that of a man in female disguise, as I had suspected, but of a
woman. Her identity it was that held me in amazement, for that instant
I recognized her as none other than the dark-haired, handsome woman
whom I had seen lying dead upon the floor of the deck-house on the
previous night.
Why were they leaving the yacht in company? What fresh conspiracy was
there in progress?
I had always believed old Benjamin Keppel to be the soul of honor, but
the revelations of the past few hours caused me utter bewilderment. I
stood there in hesitation, and glancing up at the clock saw that there
were still three minutes before the departure of the train.
Next moment I had made a resolve to follow them and ascertain the
truth. I entered the booking-office, obtained a ticket to Modane, the
French frontier beyond Mont Cenis, and a few moments later was sitting
alone in a compartment at the rear of the train. I had no luggage,
nothing whatever except the small travelling-reticule suspended from my
waist-belt, and I had set out for an unknown destination.
The train moved off, and soon we were tearing through the night across
that wide plain which was the sea-bottom in the mediæval days when the
sculptured town of Pisa was a prosperous seaport, the envy of both
Florentines and Genoese, and past the spot marked by a church where St.
Peter is said to have landed. Well I knew that wide Tuscan plain, with
its fringe of high, vine-clad mountains, for in my girlhood days I had
wandered over it hither and thither in the royal forest and through the
smiling vine-lands.
At last, after three-quarters of an hour, we ran into the busy station
of Pisa, that point so well known to every tourist who visits Italy. It
is the highway to Florence, Rome, and Naples; just as it is to Genoa,
Turin, or Milan, therefore as the traveller in Switzerland must at some
time find himself at Bâle, so does the traveller in Italy always find
himself at Pisa. Yet how few strangers who pass through, or who drive
down to look at the leaning tower and the great old cathedral, white
as a marble tomb, ever take the trouble to explore the country beyond?
They never go up to quiet, gray old Lucca, a town with walls and gates
the same to-day as when Dante wandered there, untouched by the hand
of the vandal, unspoilt by modern progress, undisturbed by tourist
invaders. Its narrow, old-world streets of decaying palaces, its leafy
piazzas, its Lily theatre, its proud, handsome people, all charming to
one who, like myself, loves her Italy and the gay-hearted, mirthful
Tuscan.
Little time was there for reflection, however, for on alighting at Pisa
I was compelled to conceal myself until the arrival of the express on
its way from Rome to Paris. While I waited the thought occurred to
me that the Vispera was still in peril, and I alone could save her
passengers and crew. Yet with the mysterious woman still alive there
could, I pondered, be no motive in blowing up the ship. Perhaps the
idea had happily been abandoned, and some color was lent to this latter
theory by the fact that Keppel had not made any excuse by which to
prevent Gerald from travelling farther in the doomed vessel. No father
could possibly allow his son to sail in a ship which he intended
should never reach port.
Nevertheless, the non-appearance of the individual whose voice I had
heard, but whom I had not seen, was disconcerting. Try how I would,
I could not get rid of the suspicion aroused by Keppel’s flight that
foul play was still intended. If it were not, why had not the old
millionaire continued his cruise? The unknown woman had been concealed
on board for weeks, therefore there was no reason why she should not
have remained there for another three days until we reached Naples. No,
that some curious mystery was connected with the whole affair I felt
confident.
I peered forth from the corner in which I was standing and saw Keppel
and his companion enter the buffet. Then, when they had disappeared,
I made a sudden resolve, and entering the telegraph office wrote the
following message:
_To Captain Davis, S. Y. ‘Vispera,’ in port, Livorno._
“Have altered arrangements. Sail at once for Genoa. Box and packages
I spoke of will join you there. Leave on receipt of this.
“KEPPEL.”
I handed it to the telegraphist, saying in Italian, “I want this
delivered on board to-night most particularly.”
He looked at it and shook his head.
“I fear, Signorina,” he answered with grave politeness, “that delivery
is quite impossible. It is after hours, and the message will remain in
the office and be delivered with letters in the morning.”
“But it must reach the Captain to-night,” I declared.
The man elevated his shoulders slightly and showed his palms, the
Tuscan gesture of regret.
“At Livorno they are not, I am sorry to say, very obliging.”
“Then you believe it to be absolutely useless to send the message,
expecting it to be delivered before morning?”
“The Signorina understands me exactly.”
“But what am I to do?” I cried in desperation. “This message must reach
the Captain before midnight.”
The man reflected for a moment. Then he answered,--
“There is but one way I can suggest.”
“What is that?” I cried anxiously, for I heard a train approaching,
and I knew it must be the Paris express.
“To send a special messenger to Livorno. A train starts in
half-an-hour, and the message can then be delivered by half-past
eleven.”
“Could you find me one?” I asked. “I’m willing to bear all expenses.”
“My son will go, if the Signorina so wishes,” he responded.
“Thank you so much,” I replied, a great weight lifted from my mind. “I
leave the matter entirely in your hands. If you will kindly see that
this message is delivered you will be performing not only myself but a
number of other persons a very great service.”
“The Signorina’s instruction shall be obeyed,” he answered, and having
placed some money to cover expenses upon the counter, I again thanked
him and left, feeling that, although I had been guilty of forgery, I
had, nevertheless, saved the yacht from destruction.
The train with its glaring head-lights swept into the station from its
long journey across Maremma marshes, but I saw with considerable dismay
that there was but one sleeping-car, the only through car for the
frontier. I was therefore compelled to travel in this, even at the risk
of meeting Keppel in the corridor. One cannot well travel in one of
those stuffy cars of the Compagnie International des Wagon-Lits without
being seen by all one’s fellow-travellers, and here my first difficulty
presented itself.
I watched the old gentleman and his companion enter the car, and from
the platform saw them shown their respective berths by the conductor.
Keppel was given a berth in a two-bed compartment with another man,
while the tall, dark woman was shown to one of the compartments set
aside for ladies at the other end of the car.
With satisfaction I watched the old millionaire take his companion’s
hand and wish her good-night, and then, when his door had closed, I
myself mounted into the car and demanded a place.
“The Signorina is fortunate. We have just one berth vacant,” answered
the man in Italian. “This way, please,” and taking me along the
corridor he rapped at the door of the compartment to which he had just
shown the mysterious woman.
There was the sound of quick shuffling within, the door was opened,
and I found myself face to face with her.
I left it to the conductor to explain my presence, and entering, closed
and bolted the door behind me.
“I regret that I have been compelled to disturb you, but this is the
only berth vacant,” I said in English in a tone of apology, for I
noticed that her black eyes flashed inquiringly at me, and therefore
deemed it best to be on friendly terms with her.
“Don’t mention it,” she answered quite affably. “I’m pleased that
you’re English. I feared some horrid foreign woman would be put in to
be my travelling-companion. Are you going far?”
“To the frontier,” I responded vaguely. The extent of my journey
depended upon the length of hers.
Then after a further exchange of courtesies we prepared for the night,
and entered our narrow berths, she choosing the upper one and I the
lower.
As far as I could judge she was nearly fifty, still extremely handsome,
her beauty being of the Southern type, and her black hair and coiffure,
with huge tortoise-shell comb, giving her a Spanish appearance. She
wore several beautiful rings, and I noticed that on her neck, concealed
by day by her bodice, was some tiny charm suspended by a thin golden
chain. Her voice and bearing were those of an educated woman, and she
was buxom without being beefy.
The roar of the train and the grinding of the wheels as we whirled
through those seventy-odd tunnels that separate Pisa from Genoa
rendered sleep utterly impossible, so by mutual consent we continued
our conversation.
She seemed like the “Ancient Mariner”--needing some one to whom she
could tell her story. She needed an audience who could realize the
fine points of her play. From the first she seemed bursting with items
about herself, little dreaming that I was acting as spy upon her. I
secretly congratulated myself upon my astuteness, and proceeded to draw
her out. Her slight accent puzzled me, but it was due, I discovered,
to the fact that her mother had been Portuguese. She seemed to label
everything with her own intellectual acquirements. To me, a perfect
stranger, she chatted during that night journey about her fine figure
and her power over men,--about her ambitions and her friends; but her
guardian interfered with her friends. He, her guardian, was an old man
and jealous, had her money invested in America, and would not allow
her to look at a man. If she did look at men she received no money. She
was not forty, she told me, and he, her guardian, who was also in the
train, was over seventy.
When she was not telling me the story of her loves, and her father,
mother, and step-father, she filled in the time by telling me about
some man whom she called Frank, who had a pretty-faced wife addicted to
the illicit consumption of brandy.
“Trouble?” she wandered on. “Oh, I’ve had such lots and lots of it that
I’m beginning to feel very old already. Troubles I always think are
divided into two classes--one controlled by a big-horned, cloven-hoofed
devil, and the other by the snippy little devil that flashes in and out
of our hearts. The big devil is usually placed upon us by others.”
I laughed, admitting that there was much truth in her words.
“And the other--the little imp?” I asked.
“The other? This insane perversity of human nature gets hold of us
whether we will or not. It makes us for the time ignore all that is
best in ourselves and in others--it is part of us. Though we know
well it is all within ourselves, it will cause our tears to flow and
our sorrows to pile up. It is all a fictitious substance with possibly
a mint of happiness lying below. We are conscious of it all, but the
insanity makes us ignore it for so long that the little imp completes
its work, and the opportunity is lost. But why are we moralizing?” she
added. “Let’s try and get to sleep, shall we?”
To this I willingly acquiesced, for, truth to tell, I did not give
credence to a single word of the rather romantic story she had related
regarding herself, her friends, and her jealous guardian. I had met
women of her stamp many times before. The only way to make them feel is
to tell them the truth, devoid of all flattery.
She struck me as a woman with a past--her whole appearance was of such.
Now a woman with a checkered past and an untrammelled present is always
more or less interesting to women as well as men. She is a mystery.
The mystery is that men cannot quite believe that a smart woman with
knowledge cut loose from all fetters is proof against flattery. She
“queens” it while they study her. Interest in a woman is only one step
from love for her--a fact of which we of the fairer sex are very well
aware.
Ulrica had once expressed an opinion that pasts were not so bad if it
were not for some of the memories that cling to them, not, of course,
that the past of either of us had been anything out of the ordinary.
Memories that cling to others or the hint of a “past” certainly make
you of interest to others, especially to men, and a menace to the
imagination of other women; but the memories that hover about yourself
are sometimes like truths--brutal.
Memories! As I lay there upon my hard, narrow bed, being whirled
through those suffocating tunnels in the cliffs beside the
Mediterranean, I could not somehow get away from memory. The story this
mysterious woman had related had awakened all the sad recollections
of my own life. It seemed as though an avalanche of cruel truths
confronted my mental vision. At every instant those truths struck a
blow that left a scar deep and unsightly as any made by the knife.
There was tragedy in every one. The first that came to me was of a
day long ago. Ah me! I was young then, a child in years, a novice in
experience, on that day when I admitted to Ernest my deep and fervent
affection. How brief it all had been! I had, alas! now awakened to
the hard realities of life and to the anguish the heart is capable of
holding. The sweetest part of love, the absolute trust, had died long
ago. My heart had lost its lightness never to return, for his love for
me was dead. His fond tenderness of those by-gone days was, alas! only
a memory.
Yet he must have loved me! With me it had been the love of my
womanhood--the love that is born with youth, that overlooks, forgives,
and loves again; that gives friendship, truth, and loyalty. What, I
wondered, were his thoughts when we had encountered each other at Monte
Carlo? He showed neither interest nor regret. No, he had cast me aside,
leaving me to endure that crushing sorrow and brain-torture which had
been the cause of my long illness. He remembered nothing. To him our
love was a mere incident. Of a verity, memory is the scar of truth’s
cruel wound.
I lay there wondering to myself if ever again I should feel any
uplifting joy or any heartrending sorrow. Ah! if women could only
outgrow the child part of their natures, hearts would not bleed so
much. One of the greatest surprises in life is to discover how much
sorrow the heart can bear, how acutely it can ache, how it can be
strained to the utmost tension, crowded with agony, and yet not break.
This is moralizing and smacks of sentiment, but it is nature--after you
get acquainted with it.
The train roared on, the woman above me slept soundly, and with the
tears starting in my eyes I tried hard to burn the bridges into the
past and seek forgetfulness in sleep. The process of burning, alas!
can never be accomplished, thanks to one’s too retentive memory, but
slumber came to me at last, and I must have dozed some time, for when
I awoke we were in Genoa, and daylight was already showing through the
chinks of the crimson blinds.
But the woman who had told the curious story slept on. Probably the
concoction of so much romantic fiction had wearied her brain. The story
she had related could not, of course, be true. If she were really old
Keppel’s ward, then what motive had he in concealing her in that gilded
deck-house which was believed to be stored with curios? Who too was
that unseen man whom he had apparently taken into his confidence--the
man who had promised assistance by blowing up the yacht with all hands?
I shuddered at thought of that wicked, dastardly plot.
Yet Keppel had been declared by this unknown person to be the murderer
of the woman now lying in the berth above me. Why?
The train was at a stand-still, and I rose to peep out. As I turned
to re-enter my berth again my eyes fell upon the sleeping form of my
companion. Her face was turned towards me, and her bodice, unhooked,
disclosed a delicate white throat and neck.
I bent quickly to examine more closely what I saw there. Upon the
throat were two dark marks, one on either side,--the marks of a human
finger and a thumb,--the exact counterpart of those puzzling marks
found upon the throat of poor Reggie.
CHAPTER XVI
IS MORE ASTONISHING
So still, so pale, so bloodless were my mysterious companion’s lips,
that at the first moment I feared she might be dead. Her appearance
was that of a corpse, but after careful watching I saw that she was
breathing, lightly but regularly, and thus I became satisfied.
The curious marks, as though a man’s hands had endeavored to strangle
her, were of a pale yellowish brown, like disappearing bruises, the one
narrow and small where the finger had pressed, the other wide and long,
the mark of the thumb.
Again I returned to my berth, and as the express again thundered on its
way northward towards Turin, I tried to form some theory to account for
my discovery of those curious marks upon her.
The hours of early morning crept slowly by. The sun rose over the
beautiful vine-lands of Asti as we whirled forward towards the great
Alpine barrier which happily divides Italy from France; its rays
penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman stirred
not. She seemed as one in a trance.
Close beside me lay her dress-skirt. My eyes had been fixed upon it
a hundred times during the night, and it now occurred to me that by
searching its pocket I might discover something that would give a clue
to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she was still
unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the skirt, and
placing my hand in the pocket drew out the contents.
The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile
leather, hoping to discover her visiting-card therein. But in this
I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few francs in French
money, a couple of receipts from shops in Paris, and a tiny scrap of
card an inch square with several numerals scribbled upon it.
The numbers were unintelligible, but when I chanced to turn the piece
of thin pasteboard over its reverse gave me an instant clue. It was a
piece of one of those red-and-black ruled cards used by gamblers at
Monte Carlo to register the numbers at roulette. This woman, whoever
she was, had evidently been to Monte Carlo, and the numbers scribbled
there were those which she believed would bring her fortune. Every
woman gambler has her strong-rooted fancies, just as she has her
amusing superstitions, and her belief in unlucky days and unlucky
croupiers.
Two facts were plain. First, that she bore marks upon her which were
the exact counterpart of those found on poor Reggie; secondly, that she
herself had been to Monte Carlo.
Her handkerchief was of fine lawn, but bore no mark, while the crumpled
piece of paper--without which no woman’s pocket is complete--proved on
examination to contain only an address of some person in Brussels.
I therefore carefully replaced them all, having failed to ascertain her
name, and then dozed again.
She was already up and dressed when I awoke.
“Ah!” she laughed, “I see you’ve been sleeping well. I’ve had a famous
night; I always sleep well when I travel. But I have a secret. A doctor
friend of mine gave me some little tabloids of some narcotic,--I don’t
know its name,--and if I take one I sleep quite well for six or seven
hours at a stretch.”
“I awoke once, and you were quite sound asleep.”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “But I wonder where we are?”
I looked forth and recognized the name of some small station through
which we dashed.
“We’re nearing Turin,” I responded. Then suddenly recollecting that in
an hour or so I should be compelled to face old Keppel in the corridor,
I resolved on a plan upon which I immediately proceeded to act. “I
don’t feel at all well this morning,” I added. “I think I shall go to
sleep again.”
“I’ve some smelling-salts here,” she said, looking at me with an
expression of sympathy. And she took out a small silver-mounted bottle
from her little reticule.
I took it and sniffed it gladly with a word of thanks. If I did not
wish to meet Keppel, I should be obliged to remain in that stuffy
little den for another twenty hours or so--that is, if they intended to
go on to Paris. The prospect was certainly not inviting, for a single
night in a Continental sleeping-car over a badly laid line gets on
one’s nerves terribly. Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned
in again at Turin, and while my companion went forth and rejoined the
man who had been my host the conductor brought me the usual glass of
hot coffee and a roll.
“I am not well,” I explained to the man when he handed it to me. “Are
you going through to Paris?”
“Sisignorina.”
“Then will you see that I’m not disturbed, either at the frontier or
anywhere else?”
“Certainly--if the Signorina has the keys of her baggage.”
“I have no baggage,” I responded. “Only see that I get something to
eat, and buy me a novel--Italian--French--anything will do, and also
some newspapers.”
“Sisignorina.” And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the man
returned with a couple of novels and half-a-dozen of those four-paged
badly printed Italian newspapers, and with them I managed to while
away the long, tedious hours as we sped through Susa and the beautiful
Alpine valleys.
From time to time my companion looked in to see how I was, offering to
do anything for me that she could; then she returned to old Keppel, who
was sitting on one of the little flap-seats in the corridor smoking.
“The woman in with me is rather young and quite charming,” I heard her
say to him. “She’s been taken queer this morning. I expect the heat has
upset her, poor thing! The berths here are very hot and close.”
“Horribly! I was nearly asphyxiated,” he answered.
Then, about half-an-hour later, I recognized his voice again. He
was evidently standing with his companion close to the door of my
compartment.
“We shall be in Paris about half-past eight to-morrow morning, it
seems,” he said.
“And the Vispera will be awaiting you at Naples?” she laughed.
“Davis is quite used to my erratic movements,” he answered. “A
reputation for eccentricity is very useful sometimes.”
“But shall you rejoin her?”
He hesitated.
“I think it is most unlikely,” he responded. “I’ve had enough of
cruising. You too must be very tired of it.”
“Tired!” she cried. “Imprisoned in that cabin all day long, with the
windows closed and curtained, I felt that if it lasted much longer
I must go mad. Besides, it was only by a miracle that I was not
discovered a dozen times.”
“But, very fortunately, you were not,” he said.
“And all to no purpose,” she observed in a tone of weariness and
discontent.
“Ah! that’s quite another matter--quite another matter.”
“I do wish that you would satisfy my curiosity and tell me what
occurred on the night before we landed,” she said. “You know what I
mean.”
She evidently referred to the attempt upon her life.
“Well,” he responded in hesitation, “I myself am not quite clear as to
what took place. I entered the cabin, you know, and found you lying
unconscious.”
“Yes, I know. I was thrown violently down by a sudden lurching of the
ship, and must have struck my head against something,” she replied.
“But afterwards I remember experiencing a most curious sensation in my
throat, just as though some one with strong, sinewy fingers were trying
to strangle me. I have the marks there now.”
“Absurd!” he laughed. “It was only your imagination. The close
confinement in that place together with the rolling of the ship had
caused you a little light-headedness, without a doubt.”
“But it was more than imagination, of that I feel certain. There was
blood upon my lips, you remember.”
“Because in falling you had cut your lower lip. I can see the place
now.”
“I believe that some one tried to take my life.”
“Rubbish! Why, whom could you suspect? I was the only soul on board who
knew of your presence there. Surely you don’t suspect me of attempted
murder?”
“Of course not,” she answered decisively.
“Then don’t give way to any wild imaginings of that sort. Keep a cool
head in this affair.”
The remainder of the conversation was lost to me, although I strained
my ears to catch every sound. His words made it plain that she was in
ignorance of the knowledge possessed by the unseen man whose voice I
had overheard, and further that both were acting in accord in order to
obtain some object the nature of which was to me a complete mystery.
She came a short time afterwards and inquired kindly how I felt. They
were going to change into the dining-car, and she hoped I would not
starve altogether. As I talked to her I recollected the strange marks
I had seen upon her throat--those distinct impressions of finger and
thumb. I looked again for them, but they were concealed by the lace
of her high-necked bodice. There seemed a strange, half-tragic beauty
about her face. She was certainly fifty, if not more, yet in the broad
daylight I could detect no thread of silver in her hair. She was
extremely well-preserved.
The conductor brought me a cutlet and a bottle of Beaujolais after we
had passed through the Mont Cenis, and for some hours afterwards I lay,
reading and thinking. We were on our way to Paris, but with what motive
I had no idea.
I wondered what they would think on board the Vispera when they found
me missing, and laughed aloud when I reflected that the natural
conclusion would be that I had eloped with old Mr. Keppel. I rather
regretted that I had told Ulrica nothing, but of course a telegram to
her would explain everything on the morrow. The yacht would be lying
safely in Genoa harbor awaiting her owner, who never intended to return.
And where was the unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I could
not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to whom he
might really be.
The day passed slowly and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The
woman with the mysterious marks upon her returned with her escort
from the dining-car and sat chatting with him in the corridor.
Their voices reached me, but I could distinguish little of their
conversation. Suddenly, however, I thought I could hear a third voice
in conversation, the voice of a man.
It sounded familiar; I listened again. Yes, it seemed as though I had
heard that voice somewhere before. Indeed, I knew its tone perfectly
well.
For some minutes I lay listening, trying to catch the words. But
the train was roaring through a deep cutting, and I could only hear
disjointed words or parts of sentences.
In determination to see who it was I carefully opened the door of the
compartment so that I could peer through the chink.
I bent forward until my eyes rested upon the speaker, who, lounging
near, was engaged in serious confidential conversation with Keppel and
my travelling-companion, as though they were old friends.
In an instant I drew back and held my breath. Was this the man who had
suggested the blowing up of the Vispera? Surely not. Perhaps, however,
he had actually travelled with us from Pisa in another carriage, or
perhaps he had joined the train at some intermediate station. But by
whatever means he had come there, the fact of his identity remained the
same.
It was Ernest Cameron, the man I loved.
CHAPTER XVII
CONFIDES THE STORY OF A TABLE
The discovery of Ernest’s presence in the car was an entirely fresh
development of the mystery. I had been ignorant of his acquaintance
with Keppel, but that they were really close friends was evident by the
rapid, rather apprehensive manner in which they were conversing.
I tried, and tried again, to overhear some of the words spoken, but
in vain. Therefore I was compelled to remain in wonderment until the
conclusion of that long, terribly tiring journey half way across Europe.
Arrived at the Gare de Lyon in Paris, I entered a fiacre and followed
them across the city to the Hotel Terminus, that big caravansary
outside the Gare St. Lazare, where they engaged four rooms on the
first floor--a sitting-room and three bedrooms. Having taken every
precaution to prevent being detected by either of them, I ascertained
that the number of the sitting-room was 206, therefore I engaged 205,
the room adjoining, and ordered a light déjeûner to be taken there. I
was faint, nervous, and tired after being cramped up for thirty hours,
and was resting on the couch, when suddenly voices sounding in the next
room caused me to spring up on the alert in an instant.
Keppel and Ernest were speaking together.
“It’s a risk, of course,” the millionaire was saying in a low voice--“a
great risk.”
“But we’ve run greater in this affair,” the other responded. “You know
how near to arrest I have been.”
I held my breath. Arrest! What could he mean?
“It was fortunate that you escaped as you did.”
“Thanks to you. Had you not concealed me on the Vispera and taken me on
that cruise I should now be in the hands of the police.”
“But they seem to possess no clue,” Keppel observed.
“Fortunately for us, they do not,” answered the man to whom I had given
my heart. And he laughed lightly, as though perfectly confident in his
own safety. “It was that transfer of the notes at the Carnival ball
that puzzled them.”
They were speaking of poor Reggie’s murder!
I held my ear close to the dividing door, striving to catch every word.
I was learning their secret! The two men whom I had least suspected
were actually implicated in that dastardly crime. But what, I wondered,
could have been their motive in taking the poor boy’s life? Certainly
robbery was not the incentive, for to the old Pittsburg inventor sixty
thousand francs was but a paltry sum.
Again I listened, but as I did so the woman entered, and then, taking
leave of her, the two men went forth and down the stairs.
In an instant I resolved to follow them, and ere they had gained
the entrance-hall I had put on my hat and descended. They took a
cab, and first drove up the hill behind St. Lazare to the Boulevard
des Batignolles, descending before a large house where, from an old
concierge in slippers, Ernest received two letters. Both men stood in
the door-way and read the communications through. From their faces I
could see that the letters contained serious news, and for some minutes
they stood in indecision.
At length, however, they re-entered the cab and drove back past the
Opera, through the Rue Rivoli, and across the Pont des Arts, turning
into a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets beyond the Seine, and
stopping before a small, uninviting-looking hairdresser’s shop.
They were inside for some ten minutes or so, while I stood watching
a short distance off, my head turned away, so that they should not
recognize me if they came forth suddenly.
When they emerged they were laughing good-humoredly, accompanied to the
door by a rather well-dressed man, evidently a hairdresser, for a comb
protruded from his pocket and his hair was brushed up in that style
peculiar to the Parisian coiffeur.
“Good-day, messieurs,” he said in French, bowing them into the fiacre,
“I understand quite clearly. There is nothing to fear, I assure you,
absolutely nothing.”
In that man’s dark eyes, as he stood watching the cab turning, was a
strange, intense look which struck me as familiar. Yes, I had seen
those eyes before, without a doubt. His face was triangular, with broad
forehead and pointed chin--a rather curious personality. Again I looked
at his peculiarly brilliant eyes, and a strange truth flashed suddenly
upon me. Yes, I remembered that curious expression quite distinctly;
it had riveted itself indelibly upon my memory.
He was the man who had worn the owl’s dress in Carnival--the man
who had returned to me the notes stolen from poor Reggie! He was an
accomplice of these two men, of whom I had never entertained suspicion.
The truth came to me as a staggering blow. Ernest was an assassin!
Had he not admitted how near he had been to arrest and congratulated
himself upon his escape? Had not old Keppel aided him by concealing him
on board the Vispera? Once, alas! I had, in my foolish, rosy days of
youth, believed in the man who had made love to me, who had flattered
and caressed me, and who had declared that I should be his always. Ah!
how well I remembered it! How bitterly all the past came back to me!
And yet, until that very hour of my discovery that he was an assassin,
I had never ceased to love him--never for a single instant. We women
are indeed strange creatures.
I re-entered the cab, but in the Boulevard St. Michel my driver
unfortunately lost sight of them. They must, I think, have turned
suddenly into one of the many side-streets and thus reached the Quai.
For a few minutes I sat back in hesitation. Should I return at once to
the hotel? or should I go boldly to that man whom I had so fortunately
discovered and charge him with having had in his possession the stolen
notes? If I adopted the latter course I saw that I should only raise an
alarm, and the pair I was watching would undoubtedly get clean away.
No, the old proverb that “murder will out” had once more asserted its
truth. I had made a most amazing discovery, and now my love for Ernest
as a man having been transformed to hatred of him as an assassin, I
meant to weave a web slowly about them, and when complete I would give
information to the police and thus avenge the poor boy’s death.
Therefore I drove to the nearest telegraph office and wired to Genoa,
urging both Ulrica and Gerald to come to Paris without delay, for I
sorely needed the counsel of the woman who was my best friend and the
man upon whose father rested the terribly strong suspicion. Then I
returned to the Hotel Terminus, and, hearing no one in the sitting-room
adjoining, lay down to rest, sleeping soundly, for with nerves
unstrung, I was utterly worn out by fatigue and constant watchfulness.
When I awoke it was past eight o’clock and quite dark. There was still
no movement in the sitting-room adjoining, therefore I dressed and
went across to dine at the Duval, at the corner of the Rue du Havre,
preferring that cheap restaurant to the table d’hôte of the hotel,
where I might possibly meet the three persons upon whom I was keeping
observation.
An hour later, just as I was crossing the road to re-enter the hotel,
I saw a man standing alone on the steps in hesitation. He wore a dark
beard, and had on a long drab overcoat such as men generally affect on
race-courses, but notwithstanding the disguise I recognized that it
was Ernest. The beard made him look much older, and by the addition
of a few lines to his face he had entirely altered his appearance.
For some moments he puffed pensively at his cigar, then, glancing at
his watch, descended the steps and strolled slowly away, past the
Café Terminus--which was once the object of a desperate attack by
Anarchists--and continued along the Boulevard des Capucines, where he
stopped before that popular rendezvous of Parisians, the Grand Café,
and selecting one of the tables, the last one towards the Madelaine,
placed against the wall of the Café, he ordered a coffee and liqueur.
The night was bright, and the grand boulevards with their blazing
globes of electricity were full of life and movement.
From where I was sitting, at a small brasserie on the opposite side
of the boulevard, I watched him narrowly. He glanced up and down, as
though in constant expectation of meeting some one, and looked at his
watch impatiently. He tossed off his liqueur at a single gulp, but his
coffee remained untasted, for it was evident that he was in a state of
the greatest agitation. He had feared arrest for the murder of Reginald
Thorne, and had taken refuge secretly on the Vispera. Were not his own
words sufficient to convince me of his guilt?
As I looked I saw him, while in the act of pretending to sip his
coffee, bend down close to the marble table, and after making certain
that he was not observed, he scrutinized it carefully. Twice he bent
to look at it closely. Surely, I thought, there must be something of
interest there. Then he glanced at his watch again, paid, and strolled
off down the boulevard.
Whether to follow or whether to investigate that table I was for the
moment undecided. But I resolved upon the latter course; therefore,
crossing the road, I made straight for the seat he had occupied, and
having ordered a sirop proceeded to examine the table. Very quickly I
discovered what had interested him. Scrawled in pencil upon the marble
were some letters quite unintelligible, but evidently a cipher message.
It ran--
“J. TABAC. 22.”
Another inscription had been written there, but it had been lately
erased by some previous customer, who had apparently dipped his fingers
in the drippings of beer or coffee and smeared it across. The writing
was not very easy to discern in the half light, for the table was so
placed as to be in deep shadow. Was it possible that the person who had
erased the first message had written the second? Could it be that this
person was the man whom I had been watching?
I had seen him bend over the table mysteriously, first glancing round
to make sure that no one was watching. Why had he thus betrayed fear
if that message was not one of importance? Goron, the great chief of
the Paris sureté, had told me, when I had met him at dinner once in
New York, how the criminals of Paris were fond of making the tops of
the café tables the means of secret communications, and how many a
crime had been discovered by the police with the aid of the keys they
possessed to certain secret codes.
I looked again at the initial, the word “tobacco,” and the number
twenty-two scrawled on the marble before me, and was puzzled to know
what meaning they could convey. Had Ernest really written them? The
letters were printed, in order, no doubt, to prevent any recognition of
the handwriting. I remembered that he had sat with his hand upon the
table as though toying idly with the matches, and further I noticed
that the liquid with which the erasure had been made was not yet
entirely dry. I touched it with my gloved finger and placed it to my
nose. There was an odor of coffee.
Now if Ernest had really inscribed that cipher message he had
substituted his for the original one written there. With what purpose?
To whom was this unintelligible word addressed? Having regard to the
fact that the tables of cafés are usually washed down by the waiters
every morning, it seemed certain that the person to whom he intended
to convey the message would come there that night. Indeed, he had
constantly looked at his watch, as though in expectation of the arrival
of some one.
I therefore paid the waiter and left, returning some few minutes later
to my previous place in front of the brasserie opposite, determined
to wait and watch. The waiter brought me some illustrated papers, and
while pretending to be absorbed in them I kept my eye upon the table I
had just vacated. A shabby, wizen-faced little man in a silk hat with
flat brim passed and re-passed where I was sitting, and I thought eyed
me rather suspiciously. But perhaps it was only my fancy, for when one
is engaged in the work of bringing home to a criminal his crime, one
is apt to look with undue suspicion on all and sundry. I think I must
have been there nearly half-an-hour when a ragged, unkempt man, who had
slunk past where I was seated and picked up several cigar-ends with a
stick bearing a sharpened wire point, crossed over to the Grand Café
and recommenced his search beneath the tables there. He had secured
several pieces of smokers’ refuse when, in a moment, he darted to the
table in the shadow, and as he stooped, feigning to pick up a piece of
unconsumed cigar, I saw that he glanced eagerly to see what message was
written there.
Just at that moment the wizen-faced man who had evinced such an
extraordinary interest in myself was standing idly upon the curb close
by. He was undoubtedly watching him.
The quick eyes of the old collector of cigar-ends apparently understood
the message in an instant, for with bent back he continued his active
search, yet betrayed no further interest in that table in the shadow.
If he had really gone there in order to ascertain the nature of the
message, he concealed his real purpose admirably. Probably he was used
to being watched by police agents. I saw him hobble along from café to
café, his shrewd, deep-set eyes peering from beneath his gray, shaggy
brows in search of the tiny pieces discarded by smokers.
With him also disappeared the shabby little man whose interest I
had unwittingly aroused, and I remained there still, irresolute and
wondering.
I had paid, and was just about to rise and go, when of a sudden a
well-appointed victoria pulled up in front of the Grand Café, and
from it stepped a small, well-dressed woman wearing a smart hat and
an elaborate cape of the latest mode. Without hesitation she walked
to the table in question and seated herself. In the darkness I could
not distinguish her face, but I saw that even before the waiter could
attend to her she had examined the table and read the message thereon
written.
Was it, I wondered, intended for her?
The waiter brought what she ordered, a “bock,” that favorite beverage
with both Parisians and Parisiennes, and as I watched her narrowly I
saw something which convinced me that the cipher was intended for her
eye. She dipped her finger in the beer and drew it across the writing.
Was she young or old, I wondered? She was settling her cape and
chiffons preparatory to rising and re-entering her carriage, therefore
I rose and crossed the road. As I stepped upon the asphalte on the
opposite side, she crossed to where her smart turn-out stood, brushing
past me as she did so.
The light as it fell across her face revealed a countenance with which
I was, alas! too familiar.
She was the woman who had usurped my place in Ernest’s heart--the
woman whom I had seen in his company at Monte Carlo--the woman who had
laughed at me in triumph across the roulette table, because she knew
that she held him beneath the spell of her extraordinary beauty.
CHAPTER XVIII
GIVES THE KEY OF THE CIPHER
I walked along the boulevard towards the Opera as one in a dream.
To that woman with the tow-colored hair, the blue eyes, and pink
cheeks--the woman who had replaced me in his affections--he had written
that strange message in cipher--a message of warning, it might be.
I hated her. I really believe that if ever the spirit of murder has
entered my heart it was at that moment. I could have sprung upon her
and killed her as she stepped into her carriage.
She had said no word to her coachman. He apparently knew where to
drive. That cipher was, perhaps, an appointment which he had gone
forward to keep, while she was now following. The thought convulsed me
with anger. This man, Ernest Cameron, the man who had once held me in
his arms and declared that he loved me, was, upon his own admission, an
assassin.
Along the Rue Auber I wandered back to the hotel plunged in my
own distracting thoughts. I had somehow ceased to think of the old
millionaire and the chattering woman whom he had concealed on board the
Vispera. All my thoughts were of the man who had until then held me as
his helpless slave.
It may have been jealousy, or it may possibly have been the revulsion
of feeling that had seized me on becoming aware of the terrible truth
of his guilt, that caused me to vow to leave no stone unturned to
secure his arrest and condemnation. She, that small, slim woman with
the fair hair, had stolen him from me, but I determined that she should
not be allowed to enjoy his society longer. I had discovered the truth,
and the blow that I intended to deal would be fatal to the happiness of
both of them.
I laughed within myself. I was not impatient. No. I would wait and
watch until I had secured ample proof. Then I had but to apply to the
police, and the arrest would be made. He, Ernest Cameron, had murdered
and robbed the poor boy who had admired me and with whom I had so
foolishly flirted. Was it the attention I had allowed him to pay me
that was primarily the cause of his assassination? Did the moral
responsibility rest upon myself?
That night, even though tired out, I slept but little. Times without
number I tried in vain to solve the secret of that cipher message--or
warning, was it?--written upon the table before the Grand Café. But
neither the initial nor the word “tobacco” conveyed to me any meaning
whatsoever. One fact seemed strange, namely, the reason that the ragged
collector of cigar-ends should have searched for it, and, further, that
the word written there should have been “tobacco.” Again, who was the
shabby, wizen-faced individual who had also watched that table with
such eagerness and expectancy? As I reflected I became impressed by the
idea that the table itself was one of those known to be a notice-board
of criminals, and therefore at night observation was kept upon it.
The great Goron, that past-master in the detection of crime, had, I
remembered, told me that in all the quarters of Paris, from the chic
Avenue des Champs Elysées to the lower parts of Montmartre, there were
certain tables at certain cafés used by thieves, burglars, and other
such gentry for the exchange of messages, the dissemination of news,
and the issue of warnings. Indeed, the correspondence on the café
tables was found to be more rapid and far more secret, and to attract
less attention than the insertion of paragraphs in the advertisement
columns of the newspapers. Each gang of malefactors had, he told me,
its own particular table in its own particular café, where any number
could sit and read in silence the cipher notice or warning placed there
without the risk of direct communication with his companions.
Had this man whom I had fondly loved actually allied himself with some
criminal band so that he knew their means of communication and was in
possession of their cipher? It certainly seemed as though he had. But
that was one of the points I intended to clear up before denouncing him
to the police.
Next morning I rose early, eager for activity, but there seemed no
movement in the room adjoining mine. All three took their coffee in
their bedrooms, and it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that I
heard Keppel in conversation with the mysterious woman who had been my
travelling-companion.
“Ernest is running a great risk,” he was saying. “It’s quite
unnecessary, to my mind. The police are everywhere on the alert, for
word has of course come from Nice. If he does, unfortunately, fall into
their hands, he’ll only have himself to blame.”
“But surely you don’t anticipate such a thing?” she asked in genuine
alarm.
“Well, he goes about quite openly, well knowing that his description
has been circulated through every town and village in France.”
“And if he were arrested, where should we be?” inquired the woman in
dismay.
“In a very awkward predicament, I fear,” he responded. “That’s the
very reason why I’m trying to persuade Cameron to act with greater
discretion. He’s well known, you see, and may be recognized at any
moment in the street. If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might be
different.”
“It’s absurd, certainly, for him to run his head into a noose. I must
speak to him at once.”
“He’s out. He went out before six this morning, the chambermaid tells
me.”
“That’s odd! Where’s he gone?”
“I don’t exactly know. Somewhere in the country, I should think.”
“What if he is already arrested?”
“No, don’t let’s anticipate such a contretemps. Matters are, however,
beginning to look serious enough, in all conscience,” he answered.
“Do you think we shall succeed?” she inquired eagerly.
“We have been successful before,” he responded confidently, “why not
now? We have only to exercise just a little more care and cunning than
that exercised by the police. Then, once above suspicion, all the rest
is perfectly plain sailing.”
“Which means that we must make a perfect coup.”
“Exactly. The whole scene must be carried out firmly and without a
hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very evil case.”
“Knowing this should make us desperate,” she observed.
“I’m desperate already,” he replied in a quiet voice. “It will not go
well with any one who tries to thwart us now. It’s a matter of life or
death.”
What new plot had been hatched I could not guess. What was this fresh
conspiracy that was intended? His carefully guarded words aroused
within me an intense curiosity. I had already overheard many things,
and still resolved to possess myself in patience and continue my
ever-watchful vigil. There was, according to the old man’s own words, a
desperate plot in progress, which it was intended to be carried out at
all hazards--even to the taking of another human life.
I wrote down on a piece of paper the cipher which I had found scrawled
upon the table and tried by several means to reduce it to some
intelligible message, but without success. It was evidently in one of
those secret codes used by criminals, therefore how could I hope to
discover a key to what so often had puzzled the cleverest detectives of
the sureté?
The day passed without further incident. I remained in my room awaiting
the return of the man whose strange action had so puzzled me on the
previous night and who was now running such risk of arrest. If he
returned I hoped to overhear his conversation with his companions, but,
unfortunately, he did not come back. All was quiet in the adjoining
chamber, for Keppel and the woman with the strange marks had evidently
gone out in company.
About seven o’clock I myself dressed and went forth, wandering idly
down until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des
Italiens, before the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly
sharks on the look-out for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and
American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these
polyglot swindlers easily fix upon likely victims and track them down.
Suddenly it occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table
before the Grand Café. This I did, but found only the remains of some
cipher which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day,
for the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint
pencil-marks remained.
As I sat there I chanced to glance across the road, and to my surprise
saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the curb. He was
evidently keeping observation upon that table.
In pretence of not seeing him, I drank down my coffee, paid, and rising
walked away. But he at once followed me, therefore I returned to the
hotel. It is not pleasant to a woman to be followed by a strange man,
especially if one is bent upon making secret inquiries or watching
another person, so when I had again returned to my room I presently
bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel--the one which leads
straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare. By this door I
managed to escape the little man’s vigilance, and entering a cab drove
down to the Pont des Arts. I had nothing particular to do, therefore
it occurred to me that if I could find that little coiffeur’s where I
had seen the man with whom I had danced on the night of the Carnival
ball, I might watch and perhaps learn something. That this man was on
friendly terms with both Keppel and Cameron had been proved by that
scrap of confidential conversation I had already overheard.
The difficulty I experienced in recognizing the narrow, crooked street
was considerable, but after nearly an hour’s search through the smaller
thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel my patience was
rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the opposite side.
The place was in darkness, apparently closed. Scarcely had I passed,
however, when some one emerged from the place, and turning I saw it
was the man who had worn the owl’s dress. He was attired smartly, and
seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, none meeting him
in the street would believe him to be a barber.
Almost involuntarily I followed him. He lit a cigarette and then walked
forward at a rapid pace down the boulevard across the Pont Neuf, and
turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering maze to me,
suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large house, and made
some inquiry of the concierge.
“Madame Fournereau?” I heard the old man answer gruffly. “Yes. Second
floor, on the left.”
And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes
went forward and up the stairs.
Madame Fournereau? I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that
name before.
I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there
until the man emerged again, when lifting my eyes I saw the nameplate
at the street-corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the
similarity of the word in the cipher, “Tabac,” occurred to me. Could
it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there?
Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was
named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last
discovered her name and her abode.
I think that at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So
many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during
that past month or so that I believe my actions were characterized
by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been
capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think that I was in
my right senses that night, or I should never have dared to act alone
and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad’s
death and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs was strong upon me.
A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments.
Amor dà per mercede, geliosa è rotta fede.
Had I reminded to reason with myself I should never have entered
that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth and meet
that woman face to face, I entered boldly, and without a word to the
concierge passed up to the second floor.
The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, of a character
superior to what its exterior denoted. The stairs leading to the flats
were thickly carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, whereas
from the street I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate
class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat bonne in a muslin cap
answered my summons.
“Madame Fournereau?” I inquired.
“Oui, madame,” answered the woman, and admitting me to the small but
well-furnished entrance-hall, waved her hand forward, saying: “Madame
is expecting you, I believe. Will you please enter?”
My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men’s hats and women’s
capes, and from the room beyond came quite a babble of voices. I walked
forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was a
private gambling-house. Madame’s guests, a strange and motley crowd,
came there to play games of hazard.
In the room I entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at
Monte Carlo, but around it were some twenty men and women, all intent
upon the game. Notes and gold were lying everywhere upon the numbers
and the simple chances, and the fact that no silver was there was
sufficient testimony that high stakes were usual. The air was close
and oppressive, for the windows were closed and heavily curtained,
and above the sound of excited voices rose that well-known cry of the
unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier in crumpled shirt-front and
greasy black,--
“Messieurs, faites vos jeux!”
Advancing to the table, I stood there unnoticed in the crowd. Those who
saw me enter undoubtedly believed me to be a gambler like themselves,
for it appeared as though Madame’s guests were drawn from various
classes of society. The atmosphere was stifling, but excited as I was I
managed to remain cool and affect an interest in the game by tossing a
louis upon the red.
I won. Strange how carelessness at roulette invariably brings good
fortune.
I glanced about me, eager to discover Madame herself, but saw neither
her nor the barber whom I had followed there. At the end of the room
there were, however, a pair of long, sage-green curtains, and as one
of the players rose from the table and passed between them I saw that
another gaming-room lay beyond, and that in there they were playing
baccarat, the bank being held by a superior-looking old gentleman
with the crimson ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur in the lapel of his
dining-jacket.
Boldly I went forward into that room, and in an instant saw that I was
not mistaken, for there, chatting to a circle of men and women at the
opposite end of the salon, was the small, fair-haired woman whom I had
seen in Ernest’s company at Monte Carlo. The man who had given me the
stolen notes was standing in the crowd about her, and to them she was
recounting the story of a pleasure trip from which she had apparently
only just returned.
A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, and walking straight
to her shook her hand, expressing delight that she had returned to
Paris to resume her entertainments.
“I too am glad to return to all my friends, messieurs,” she laughed. “I
really found Monte Carlo very dull after all.”
“You were not fortunate? That is to be regretted.”
“Ah!” she said, exhibiting her palms. “With such a maximum how can one
hope to gain? It is impossible.”
I stood watching the play. As far as I could see it was perfectly fair,
but some of the players, keen-faced men, were evidently practised
card-sharpers, swindlers, or men who lived on their wits. The amount
of money constantly changing hands surprised me. As I stood there one
young man, scarcely more than a lad, lost five thousand francs with the
most perfect sang-froid. The women present were none of them young, but
were mostly elderly and ugly, of that stamp so eternally prominent in
the Principality of Monaco. The woman, when she turns gambler, always
loses her personal beauty. It may be the vitiated atmosphere in which
she exists, it may be the constant tension of the nerves, or it may,
perchance, be the unceasing, all-consuming avarice, which I know not.
All I am certain of is that no woman can play and at the same time
remain fresh, youthful, and interesting.
Until that moment I had remained there unnoticed in the excited crowd,
for I had turned my back upon Madame Fournereau, lest she should
recognize in me the woman whom Ernest had undoubtedly pointed out to
her either in the Rooms, in Ciro’s, or elsewhere.
But as I advanced to pass back to the adjoining room, where I
considered there would be less risk of recognition, the long green
curtains suddenly opened and Ernest Cameron stood before me.
CHAPTER XIX
PIECES TOGETHER THE PUZZLE....
I stepped back quickly, while he, with eyes fixed upon that fair-haired
woman, who seemed the centre of a miniature court, failed to notice me.
Upon his face was a dark, anxious look, an expression such as I had
never seen there before. Perhaps he was jealous of the attentions shown
by the dozen or so of men who were chatting and laughing with her.
Her appearance was scarcely that of the keeper of an illicit
gambling-house. One would have expected to find some fine, dashing,
handsome woman in a striking gown and profuse display of jewelry.
On the contrary, she was quietly dressed in a pretty, graceful gown
of dove-gray cashmere, the bodice cut low and trimmed with silver
passementerie, a frock which certainly well became her rather tame
style of beauty. Her only ornament was a small half-moon of diamonds in
her hair.
Ernest, on entering, appeared to recognize the situation at a glance,
and with his back turned to her stood watching the baccarat just as
I had feigned to watch. Through the great mirror before him, however,
he could note all her actions. She was laughing immoderately at some
remark made by one of her companions, and I noticed how Ernest’s
face went pale with suppressed anger. How haggard, how thin, how
blanched, nervous, and ill he looked! Usually so smart in attire, his
dress-clothes seemed to hang upon him, his cravat was carelessly tied,
and in place of the diamond solitaire I had bought at Tiffany’s for him
in the early days of our acquaintance,--which he had still worn when we
met at Monte Carlo,--there was only a common, plain pearl stud, costing
perhaps ten centimes. Alas! he had sadly changed. His was, indeed, the
figure of a man haunted by the ever-present shadow of his crime.
Curious, I thought, that he did not approach her, but the reason for
this became plain ere long. I had returned to the adjoining room and
was again watching the roulette, when she brushed past me on her way
out into the corridor, from which led off several other rooms, and
suddenly I heard his well-known voice utter her name in a hoarse
whisper,--
“Julie!”
She stopped, and recognizing him for the first time, gasped,--
“Ernest! You here?”
“Yes,” he responded. “I told you that we should meet, and I have found
you, you see. I must speak to you alone.”
“Impossible,” she responded. “To-morrow.”
“No--to-night--now. What I have to say admits of no delay,” and
he strode resolutely at her side, while she, her face betraying
displeasure at the encounter, unwillingly went forth into the corridor.
“Well?” I heard her exclaim in impatience. “And what is it you have to
say to me? I thought when we parted it was not to meet again.”
“You hoped so, you mean,” he answered hardly. “Come into one of these
rooms where we may be alone. Someone may overhear if we remain here.”
“And is it so strictly confidential, then?”
“Yes,” he answered, “it is.” Then, with great reluctance and
impatience, she opened a door behind them and they passed into what
appeared to be her own petit-salon.
Again the fire of jealousy consumed me, and without thought of the
consequences of my act, I went straightway to the door and entering
faced them.
As I entered Ernest turned quickly, then stood rigid and amazed.
“Carmela!” he gasped. “How came you here--to this place?”
“How I came here matters not,” I answered in a hard tone. “It is
sufficient for you to know that I have entered here to demand an
explanation from you and this woman, your accomplice.”
“What do you mean?” cried his companion in her broken English. “What do
you mean by accomplice?”
“I refer to the murder of Reginald Thorne,” I said, as quietly as I was
able.
“The murder of Monsieur Thorne,” repeated the woman. “And what have I
to do, pray, with the death of that gentleman, whoever he may be?”
Ernest glanced at me strangely, then addressing her in a firm voice
said,--
“The woman who murdered him was yourself--Julie Fournereau.”
I stood dumfounded. Was it possible that he intended to endeavor to fix
the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the admission I
had overheard?
“What!” she shrieked in fierce anger, speaking in French. “You have
sought me here to charge me with the murder?--to bring against me a
false accusation? It is a lie! You know that I am innocent.”
“That point, madame, must be decided by a judge,” he answered with
marvellous coolness.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand!” she exclaimed with a slight
quiver in her voice which betrayed a sudden fear.
“I mean that during the months which have elapsed since the murder
of my friend Thorne at Nice I have been engaged in tracing the
assassin--or, to put it plainly, in tracing you.”
I stood there utterly astounded. If his words were true, why had he
been concealed on board the Vispera in order to avoid arrest?
She laughed, instantly assuming an attitude of defiance.
“Bah!” she said. “You bring me here into this room to make this absurd
and unfounded charge. You dare not say it before my friends. They would
beat you like the hound you are.”
His cheeks were pale, but there was a fierce, determined expression
upon his countenance. The woman whom I had believed he loved was, it
seemed, his bitterest enemy.
“I have no wish whatever to bring upon you any greater exposure or
disgrace than that which must inevitably come,” he said coolly. “For
months I have been awaiting this opportunity, and by the cipher
fortunately discovered your return. I was then enabled to give the
police some highly interesting information.”
“The police!” she gasped, her face instantly blanched to the lips. “You
have told them?”
“Yes,” he responded, gazing steadily upon her, “I have told them.”
“Then let me pass,” she said hoarsely, making towards the door. But in
a moment he had barred her passage, and raising a small whistle quickly
to his lips blew it shrilly.
“So this is your revenge!” cried the miserable woman, turning upon him
with a fierce, murderous light in her eyes. Yet ere the words had left
her mouth there were sounds of scuffling and shouting, a smashing of
glass, and loud imprecations. The whistle had raised the alarm, and the
police had entered the place, barring the egress of the players.
Outside in the corridor there were several fierce scrimmages, but next
instant the door opened and there entered three detectives, of whom
one was the wizen-faced little man who had betrayed such an interest
in myself when at the Grand Café, accompanied by old Mr. Keppel and
the woman who had been my travelling-companion in the wagon-lit.
Certainly the arrangements made by the police to raid the place had
been elaborately prepared, for at the signal given by Ernest the coup
was complete, and the players, nearly all of whom were persons known as
criminals, fell back entrapped and dismayed.
The old millionaire and his companion were as astounded at finding me
present as Ernest had been. But there was no time at that exciting
moment for explanations. The plan had apparently been arranged for the
arrest of the pale, white-faced woman now trembling before us.
“I tell you it’s a lie!” she cried hoarsely. “I did not kill him!”
But Ernest, turning to the shabby little man, said,--
“I demand the arrest of that woman, Julie Fournereau, for the murder of
Reginald Thorne at the Grand Hotel in Nice.”
“You know her,” inquired the detective, “and you have evidence to
justify the arrest?”
“I have evidence that she committed the murder--that the sixty thousand
francs stolen from the dead man’s pockets were in her possession on the
following morning, and, further, that on the night on which the murder
was committed she was staying under another name at the same hotel
wherein Mr. Thorne was found dead.”
“And the witnesses?”
“They are already in Paris, awaiting to be called to give evidence.”
A dead silence fell, and we looked at one another.
The wretched woman who had so suddenly been denounced by the man with
whom she had been so friendly at Monte Carlo was standing in the centre
of the room, swaying to and fro, supporting herself by clutching
the edge of the small table. Her white lips trembled, but no word
escaped them. She seemed rendered speechless by the suddenness of the
overwhelming charge.
The detective’s hard voice broke the silence.
“Julie Fournereau,” he said, advancing a few steps towards her, “in the
name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Reginald Thorne at Nice.”
“I am innocent!” she cried hoarsely, her haggard eyes glaring at us
with a hunted look in them. “I tell you I am innocent!”
“Listen,” said Ernest in a firm tone, although there was a slight catch
in his voice which told how excited he was. “The reasons which have led
me to this step are briefly these. Last December I crossed from New
York to Havre, and went south to spend the winter at Monte Carlo. I
stayed at the Métropole, and amid the cosmopolitan crowd staying there
met the woman before you. One day there arrived at the same hotel from
Paris my friend, Reginald Thorne, whom I knew well in New York, but
who had lived here in Paris for the past year. We were about together
during the day, and in the Rooms that evening he encountered me walking
beside this woman Fournereau. That same night he came to my room,
and in confidence related me a story which at the moment I regarded
as somewhat exaggerated, namely, how he had been induced to frequent
a certain gaming-house in Paris where he had lost almost everything
he possessed, and how he had ultimately discovered that an elaborate
system of sharping had been practised upon him by this woman and a male
accomplice. That woman, he told me, had left Paris suddenly just at the
moment when he discovered the truth, and he had encountered her in the
Rooms with me--her name was Julie Fournereau.”
I glanced at the wretched woman before us. Her wild eyes were fixed
upon the carpet, her fingers were twitching with intense agitation, her
breath came and went in short, quick gasps. Ernest in his exposure was,
indeed, merciless.
“Had she seen him in the Rooms?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he answered. “We had come face to face. He told me that,
having been robbed of nearly all he possessed, he was determined to
give information against her. She was, he told me, an associate of
bad characters in Paris, and urged me to cut her acquaintance. His
story was strange and rather romantic, for he gave me to understand
that this woman had made a pretence of loving him, and had induced
him to play here, in her house, and lose large sums to the men who
were her accomplices. Personally, I was not very charmed with her,”
Ernest went on, glancing at me. “She was evidently, as Thorne had
declared, acquainted with many of the worst characters who frequent
Monte Carlo, and I began to think seriously that my own reputation
would be besmirched by being seen constantly in her company. Still,
I tried to dissuade my friend from endeavoring to bring justice upon
such a person, arguing that, having lost the money in a private
gaming establishment, he had no remedy at law. But he was young and
headstrong--possibly suffering from a fit of jealousy. After several
days, however, fearing that he might create a scene with this notorious
woman, I induced him to go over to Nice and stay at the Grand. While
there, curiously enough, he met the lady who is here present, Miss
Rosselli, and at once fell deeply in love with her.”
“No,” I protested in quick indignation. “There was no love whatever
between us. That I strongly deny.”
“Carmela,” he said, addressing me with a calm, serious look, “in this
affair I must speak plainly and openly. I myself have a confession to
make.”
“Of what?”
“Listen, and I’ll explain everything.” Then, turning to the others,
he went on: “Reginald fell violently in love with Miss Rosselli, not
knowing that she had once been engaged to become my wife. When, the
day after meeting her at the hotel, he told me of his infatuation and
I explained the truth, he seemed considerably upset. ‘She loves you
still,’ he said. ‘I feel certain that she does, for she has given me no
encouragement.’ I affected to take no notice of his words, but to me
the matter was a very painful one. I had broken off the engagement, it
was true, but my heart was now filled with bitter remorse. I had seen
Carmela again, all the old love had come back to me, and I now despised
myself for my mean and unwarrantable action. We had met several times,
but as strangers, and knowing her proud spirit I feared to approach
her, feeling certain that she would never forgive.”
“Forgive!” I cried. “I would have gladly forgiven.”
“Carmela,” he said, turning again to me with a grave, serious
expression, “I regret being compelled to lay bare my secret thus before
you, but I must tell them everything.”
“Yes,” I said. “Now that this woman is to bear the punishment of her
crime, let us know all.” Then I added bitterly, “Speak, regardless of
my feelings, or even of my presence.”
“A few days prior to his tragic end poor Reggie had, as I have
explained, moved over to the Grand at Nice, but, strangely enough, the
same idea had occurred to this woman Fournereau. She preferred to live
in Nice during Carnival, she told me, for she liked all the fun and
gayety. Whether it was for that reason I know not, but at all events
it seems clear, from inquiries recently completed in Nice, that one
afternoon he met this woman at Rumpelmeyer’s, the fashionable lounge
for afternoon tea, and in a sudden fit of anger declared that he would
denounce her as an adventuress and swindler. Now it appears that her
clients, the gamblers who frequent this place, number among them some
of the most notorious and desperate members of the criminal fraternity,
and the natural conclusion is that, fearing his exposure, she killed
him.”
“I deny it!” cried the wretched woman. “It is a false accusation which
you cannot prove!”
“The extreme care and marvellous ingenuity by which the young man’s
death was encompassed is shown by every detail of the case. Not a
single point, apparently, was overlooked. Even the means by which he
was assassinated has remained until now a mystery. But, passing to
the night of the tragedy, it will be remembered that he had won sixty
thousand francs at roulette, and having left Miss Rosselli and her
friends he re-entered the Rooms and changed his winnings into large
notes. Half-an-hour before, this woman, whom I had met earlier in the
evening, and who had dined with me at Ciro’s, had wished me good-by,
and having previously watched his success at the tables, followed him
into the Casino when he re-entered to change the notes. The interval of
about an hour between his leaving Monte Carlo and his arrival at the
Grand Hotel at Nice is still unaccounted for. Nevertheless, we know
that this woman whom he had threatened travelled by the same train from
Monte Carlo to Nice, that she entered the hotel a few minutes later
and went to her room, and that next morning she had in her possession
sixty notes, each for one thousand francs. It seems, however, that she
quickly feared that suspicion might rest upon her, for the police had
commenced active inquiries, and therefore resolved to get rid of the
stolen notes. This she did with the aid of an accomplice, a man named
Laumont, well known at Monte Carlo each season. This man, one of the
habitués of this place, went to the Carnival ball at the Nice Casino
and there gave Miss Rosselli the stolen money, intending that its
possession should throw suspicion upon her. Some other members of this
interesting gang of sharpers who make this place their head-quarters
and who go south in winter in search of pigeons to pluck, knowing
Laumont’s intention, posed as detectives, however, and to them Miss
Rosselli innocently handed over the notes she had received.”
He paused for a moment, then continued:
“Now, however, comes one of the most ingenious features of the affair.
This woman, finding next day that her plot to throw suspicion upon Miss
Rosselli had failed, turned her attention to myself. She was aware
that a slight quarrel had arisen between Reggie and myself regarding
his injudicious and futile action in seeking to denounce her, and with
others had overheard some high words between us when we had met at the
Café de Paris on the day previous to his death. She gave information to
the police, and then left the Riviera suddenly. Next day I found myself
under observation, and in order to escape arrest induced Mr. Keppel,
who has taken a great interest in the affair from the first, and who is
one of the trustees under the will of Mr. Thorne, Senior, to conceal me
on board his yacht until such time as our inquiries in Paris could be
completed. It was ascertained that this woman Fournereau, who had gone
to Russia, intended to return to her apartments here upon a date she
had arranged with her accomplice, Laumont, therefore I have remained
in hiding from the police until to-day. This is her first reception,
notice of which was circulated among her friends by means of cipher
upon certain tables in the cafés on the grand boulevards.”
“But this lady?” I inquired, indicating the handsome woman who had been
my travelling-companion in the wagon-lit.
“I am the mother of Reginald Thorne,” she herself responded.
“You Reggie’s mother!” I cried, scarce able to believe her words.
“Yes,” she answered. “Hearing of my poor son’s death, I crossed from
New York to Havre and arrived in Nice only to find that the Vispera had
sailed. A letter was awaiting me with full explanation, asking me to
travel to Marseilles and cross by the mail-steamer to Tunis and there
join the yacht. This I did, but in order that my presence should not
be known to those on board I was placed secretly in the deck-cabin and
never went forth. The blow that had fallen upon me on hearing of poor
Reggie’s death, combined with the constant imprisonment in that cabin,
I believe upset the balance of my mind, for one night, the night before
we put into Leghorn, I became unconscious. I was subject to strange
hallucinations, and that night experienced a sensation as though some
one was attempting to take my life by strangulation.”
“I must explain,” said old Mr. Keppel, addressing her. “It is only
right that you should now know the truth. On the night in question
you were unusually restless, and becoming seized by a fit of hysteria
commenced to shout and shriek all sorts of wild words regarding
your poor son’s murder. Now I had concealed you there, and fearing
lest some of the guests should hear you and that a scandal might be
created, I tried to silence you. You fought me tooth and nail, for I
verily believe that the close confinement had driven you insane. In
the struggle I had my hands over your mouth and afterwards pressed
your throat in order to prevent your hysterical shrieks, when suddenly
I saw blood upon your lips, and the awful truth dawned upon me that
I had killed you by strangulation. Tewson, the chief steward,--who
in addition to Cameron was the only person on board who knew of your
presence,--entering at that moment, made the diabolical suggestion that
in order to get rid of the evidence of my crime I should allow him to
blow up the ship. This I refused, and fortunately an hour later we
succeeded in restoring you to consciousness. Then we landed at Leghorn
on the following evening, not, however, before I discovered that
the real motive of Tewson’s suggestion was that he had stolen three
thousand pounds in cash, notes, and securities from a despatch-box in
Lord Stoneborough’s cabin, and wished to destroy the ship so that his
crime might remain concealed. The man, I have discovered, has a very
bad record, and he has now disappeared.”
Then briefly I explained what I had seen and overheard on that
wild, boisterous night in the Mediterranean; how I had followed
the millionaire and the woman who was bent upon avenging the
murder of her son; how I had sent the yacht to Genoa, and how
carefully I had watched the movements of all three during those two
never-to-be-forgotten days in Paris. All seemed amazed at my story,
Ernest most of all.
“During that night in the wagon-lit,” I said, addressing Mrs. Thorne,
“I noticed two curious marks upon your neck. Upon your poor son’s neck
were similar marks.”
“Yes,” she replied, “they were birth-marks--known as the marks of
thumb and finger. Poor Reggie bore them exactly as I do.” And she
also explained how, having recognized me as a fellow-guest on board
the Vispera, she had purposely endeavored to mislead me by her
conversation, as she feared that my suspicion of Ernest might upset
their plans.
“And the woman who murdered poor Reggie, and who so ingeniously
attempted first to fasten the guilt upon Miss Rosselli, and afterwards
upon myself, is there!” cried Ernest, pointing at the trembling,
white-faced figure before us. “She killed him because she feared the
revelations he could make to the police regarding this place in which
we are standing.”
Outside sounded loud scuffling and altercation, for, as it afterwards
proved, the strong body of police who had raided the place, finding
many persons “wanted,” were making wholesale arrests.
The woman Fournereau raised her head at Ernest’s denunciation and
laughed a strange, harsh laugh of defiance.
“Bien!” she cried shrilly with affected carelessness. “Arrest me,
if you will! But I tell you that you are mistaken. You have been
clever,--very clever, all of you,--but the assassin was not myself.”
The police officer addressed her, saying:
“Then if not yourself, you are aware of the identity of the murderer.
So I shall arrest you as being an accomplice. It is the same.”
“No, I was not even an accomplice,” she protested quickly. “I may be
owner of this place; I may be a--a person known to you, but I swear I
have never been a murderess.”
The officer smiled dubiously.
“The decision upon that point must be left to the judges,” he answered.
“There is evidence against you. For the present that is sufficient.”
“Monsieur Cameron has told you that I was threatened with exposure by
the young American gentleman,” she said. “That is perfectly the truth.
Indeed, all that has been said is the truth--save one thing. I did not
commit the murder, nor had I any knowledge of it until afterwards.”
“But the stolen notes were actually in your possession on the following
morning,” the detective observed in a tone of doubt.
“They were given to me for safe-keeping.”
“By whom?”
“I refuse to say.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders, and a smile passed across the
faces of his two companions.
“You prefer arrest, then?” he said.
“I prefer to keep my own counsel,” she answered. “These persons,”
she continued, indicating us, “have believed themselves extremely
ingenious, apparently taking upon themselves the duties of the police,
and have arrived at a quite wrong conclusion. You may therefore arrest
me if you wish. I have nothing whatever to fear.”
And she glanced around at us in open defiance. Indeed, so indifferent
was she that I felt convinced that Ernest’s theory of the committal of
the crime had fallen to the ground.
The detective seemed, however, well aware of the character of the
woman, and proceeded to deal with her accordingly.
“You are charged with the murder,” he said. “It is for you to prove
your innocence.”
“Who, pray, is the witness against me?” she cried indignantly.
“Your accomplice,” cried Ernest quickly. “The man Laumont--the man to
whom you gave the stolen notes to transfer to Miss Rosselli.”
“Laumont!” she cried. “He--he has told you that I committed the
crime--he has denounced me as the murderess?”
“He has,” answered Ernest. “On that fatal night when Thorne entered
the Rooms to change the notes I met him, and although we had had a few
high words in the Café de Paris on the previous day, he approached me,
asking my pardon, which I readily gave. He then inquired whether it was
really true that Miss Rosselli had been engaged to me. I replied in the
affirmative, and he then said that he did not intend to meet her again,
but should leave for Paris in the morning. I tried to dissuade him, but
his only reply was ‘She loves you still, my dear fellow. She can never
forget you. Of that I’m certain.’ Then he left, and travelled to Nice
without further word to her. Arrived at the hotel, he went straight to
her sitting-room and sat down to write her a letter of farewell. He
commenced one, but destroyed it. This was afterwards found in the room.
Then, just as he was about to commence a second letter, you--you, Julie
Fournereau--entered, killed him, and stole the notes which you knew he
carried in his pockets!”
“How did I kill him?” she demanded, her eyes flashing with anger.
“You yourself know that best.”
“Ah! And Jean Laumont told of this elaborate piece of fiction, did he?
It is amusing--very amusing!”
At word from the chief detective one of the officers went forth. We
heard Laumont’s name shouted loudly outside the room, and a few moments
later he was ushered in by two officers.
He drew back in quick surprise on seeing us, but in an instant the
woman flew at him in fury.
“You have told them!” she shrieked. “You have led them to believe that
I murdered the American at Nice--you have declared that it was I who
gave you the notes--I who killed him! You miserable cur!”
His countenance fell. Indignation had in an instant given place to fear.
“And did you not give me the notes?” he inquired. “Why, there are at
least two men in yonder room who were present when you handed them to
me.”
“I do not deny that,” she responded. “I deny that I killed him.”
“Then who did?”
“Who did?” she shrieked. “Who did? Why, you, yourself!”
“You lie!” he cried fiercely, his face ashen pale.
“I would have told them nothing,” she went on quickly. “I would have
allowed them to arrest me and afterwards discover their mistake, were
it not that you had endeavored to give me into their hands in order
to save yourself. No, my dear friend, Julie Fournereau is loyal only
to those who are loyal to her, as many have before found out to their
cost. I would have saved you had you not led the police here to raid my
house, to arrest my guests, and to hurry me away to prison for a crime
that I did not commit. But listen! You deny the murder of the young
American. Well, shall I relate all that occurred?”
“Tell them what untruths you like,” he growled. “You cannot harm me.”
“Yes, madame,” cried old Mr. Keppel. “Tell us all that you know. We are
determined now to get to the bottom of this affair.”
“This man,” she explained, “was the man who fleeced the unfortunate
gentleman here in my house. I am not wishing to shield myself for a
single moment--I desire only to tell the truth. M’sieur Thorne, when
they last met here, accused him of cheating at baccarat, high words
ensued, and the young man drew a revolver and fired, striking Laumont
in the shoulder. Whereupon the last-named swore to be avenged. I knew
well that a vow of vengeance taken by such a desperate man as Laumont
was something more than mere idle words, and when he went to the
Riviera, as he did each year in search of inexperienced youths whom he
could fleece, I shortly afterwards followed. He stayed first at the
Hôtel de Paris at Monte Carlo, but meeting young Thorne accidentally
one afternoon he discovered that the latter was living at the Grand
at Nice, and that same night he transferred his quarters there. Now
Thorne had an intimate friend in Nice--Mr. Gerald Keppel--and it seemed
as though Laumont desired to make the latter’s acquaintance with the
ulterior motive of practising his sharper’s tricks upon him. Be that
how it may, I, in order to watch the progress of events, moved to the
same hotel at Nice. I knew that Laumont was bent on vengeance, and felt
certain that some terrible dénouement was imminent.”
She paused and glanced around at us. Then, lowering her eyes, she went
on:
“I am an adventuress, it is true, but I have still a woman’s heart. I
was determined, if possible, to prevent Laumont from wreaking vengeance
upon the poor boy. It was for that reason I followed him to Nice and
took up my abode there. On the afternoon of the tragedy I was in the
Rooms at Monte Carlo and there saw him playing and winning, while just
as he was leaving with Miss Rosselli, another lady, and young Mr.
Keppel, his pockets bulging with his gains, I saw Laumont watching him.
I knew by the evil look he cast in his direction that the spirit of
murder was in his heart. That evening I dined at Ciro’s with M’sieur
Cameron, and afterwards left him in order to watch the movements of
Laumont and the young American. The latter, after a short conversation
with M’sieur Cameron in the atrium of the Casino, descended the lift to
the station and took train to Nice. I travelled by the same train, but
in the crowd at Nice station on alighting lost sight of him. He must
have taken a cab immediately to the hotel, and, furthermore, Laumont
must also have followed him without knowing of my presence. I met some
friends at the station, but on arrival at the hotel twenty minutes
later I went straight up to my room. On the way I had to pass the door
of Miss Rosselli’s sitting-room, and just as I was approaching, my feet
falling softly on the thick carpet of the corridor, the door opened
noiselessly and a man, after looking forth stealthily, emerged and
stole along to the room he occupied. That man was Jean Laumont.”
“You saw him!” cried Ernest. “You actually saw him coming from the
room?”
“Yes. Instantly I suspected something wrong, and wondered for what
purpose he had been in the lady’s sitting-room. Therefore without
hesitation I pushed open the door and looked inside. Judge my
surprise when I found the unfortunate young man writhing in agony on
the ground. I knelt by him, but recognizing me as the woman at whose
house he had been cheated he shrank from me. ‘That man!’ he gasped with
difficulty,--‘that man has killed me!’ and a few moments later his
limbs straightened themselves out in a final paroxysm of agony and he
passed away.”
Mrs. Thorne burst into a flood of tears.
The voluble Frenchwoman was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed
upon the face of the man against whom she had uttered that terrible
denunciation.
“I stood there terrified, unable to move,” she went on. “Laumont had,
as I feared, killed him.”
“Killed him? How can you prove it?” demanded the cunning card-sharper,
who, in order to throw the police off the scent, pursued the harmless
calling of hairdresser in that back street off the Boulevard St.
Michel. “How can you prove it?”
CHAPTER XX
REVEALS THE TRUTH
The woman Fournereau crossed the room quickly to a small rosewood
bureau and took therefrom a little card-board box about a couple of
inches square, such as are used for cheap jewelry.
“I have something here,” she said, addressing the man before her. “It
was lying on the floor. You alone knew its secret--a secret which I too
have lately discovered.”
And opening the box carefully she displayed, lying in a bed of
cotton-wool, what at first appeared to be a woman’s steel thimble.
Taking it from its hiding-place and putting it upon the fore-finger
of her right hand, we saw that, instead of being what it at first
appeared, it rose to a sharply tempered steel point about half an inch
long protruding from the finger-tip.
I glanced at the man accused. His face had blanched to the lips at
sight of it.
“This,” she explained, “I discovered on the floor close to where the
dead man was lying. It is a diabolic invention of Laumont which he
showed me a year ago, although he did not then explain its use. An
examination which has been made by a friend, a chemist, has shown
plainly the truth. You will notice that the point is fine as a needle,
but is hollow, like that of a hypodermic syringe. Within, at the point
touched by the tip of the finger, is a small chamber filled with a most
subtle and deadly poison extracted from a small lizard peculiar to the
banks of the Upper Niger.”
The point would, I saw, act just as the fang of a snake, for the
thimble, when placed on the finger and pressed upon the flesh of the
victim, would inject the poison into the blood, causing almost instant
collapse and death. The puncture made by such a fine point would be
indistinguishable, and the action of the poison, as we afterwards
learnt, was so similar to several natural complications that at the
post-mortem examination the doctors would fail to distinguish the real
cause of death.
She held the diabolical thimble forth to us to examine, saying:
“The mode in which this was used upon the unfortunate M’sieur Thorne
was undoubtedly as follows. He had seated himself at the table with
his back to the door when Laumont, watching his opportunity, crept
in with the thimble upon his finger, and ere his victim was aware of
it he had seized him by the collar from behind and pressed the point
deep into the flesh behind the right ear, at a spot where the poison
would at once enter the circulation. You will remember that the doctors
discovered a slight scratch behind the ear, and attributed it to having
been received in the struggle which they believed had taken place. But
there was no struggle. As has been proved by the medico-legist who
has examined this most deadly but inoffensive-looking weapon, any one
struck by it would become paralyzed almost instantly, therefore the
chair was broken by him as he fell against it in fatal collapse.”
“And the stolen notes? What of them?” asked old Mr. Keppel anxiously.
“Ah!” she answered. “Those accursed notes! On the following morning
Laumont came to me and handed me the money, saying that as I knew the
truth regarding the crime he would trust me further and give the money
into my safe-keeping. I took it, for, truth to tell, I knew that he
could make some very unwelcome revelations to the police regarding
this place and the character of the play here. Therefore I decided
that, after all, silence was best, even though I held in my possession
the thimble which, I presume, in his hurry to escape from the room
fell upon the floor and rolled away. I took the notes, and for some
days kept them, but finding that the police were making such active
inquiries I returned them to him, and he then resolved upon giving them
to Miss Rosselli, either in order to further baffle the detectives or
to throw suspicion upon her. He told her some extraordinary story about
meeting in London, merely, of course, to put the police off the scent
and cause them to believe that the money was stolen by English thieves!
Soon afterwards I knew that M’sieur Cameron was aware of the manner
in which his friend had been cheated here, and then, in fear of being
arrested on suspicion, I fled to Russia, arranging with my friends to
return here on the first of May--to-day.”
“The date of your return I learnt from Laumont himself,” explained
Ernest, “for in the course of my inquiries immediately after the tragic
affair I found that he was your associate, and in order to divert
suspicion from himself he hinted at you as being the assassin.”
“He denounced me, not knowing that I held this evidence of his guilt in
my hand!” she cried, holding forth the finger with the curious-looking
thimble upon it. “Poor M’sieur Thorne is, I fear, not the first victim
who has fallen beneath the prick of this deadly instrument.”
“To whom do you refer?” inquired the detective quickly.
“To M’sieur Everton, the young Englishman, who was found dead one night
a year ago in the Avenue des Acacias.”
In an instant the man Laumont sprang at her with all the fury of a wild
beast, and clutching at her throat tried to strangle her. His eyes were
lit by the fierce fire of uncontrollable anger, his dark, bushy hair
giving his white face a wild and hideous look, and for an instant, in
the confusion before the detectives could throw themselves upon him,
it seemed as though he would tear limb from limb the woman who had
confessed.
For a moment the detectives and the pair were mixed in a struggling
mass, when suddenly a loud yell of pain escaped the wretched man, and
releasing his hold he drew back, with his left hand clasped upon his
wrist.
He staggered, swayed unevenly, uttering fierce and terrible
imprecations.
“Dieu!” he gasped. “You--_you’ve killed me_!”
What had happened was next instant plain. In the struggle the point of
his dastardly invention, which was still upon the woman’s finger, had
entered deeply the fleshy part of his wrist, injecting that poison that
was so swift, and to which there was no known antidote.
He staggered. Two detectives sprang forward to seize him, but ere they
could do so he reeled, clutched the air, and fell heavily backward,
overturning the small table beside which he had been standing.
The scene which ensued was ghastly. I shall remember it through all my
life.
Five minutes later, however, the wretched man who had thus brought
card-sharping and murder to a fine art had breathed his last in
frightful agony, his ignominious career ended by his own diabolical
invention.
CHAPTER XXI
CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION
Need I dwell further upon the stirring events of that night? It is
assuredly sufficient to say that the arrests made by the police
numbered nearly forty persons, all of whom were charged with various
offences, in addition to being found in an illicit gaming-house. Many
of them, old offenders and desperate characters notwithstanding the
fact that they were outwardly respectable members of society, in due
course received long periods of imprisonment, but Julie Fournereau, in
consideration of the information she had given regarding poor Reggie’s
death, was dismissed with a fine of two thousand francs as owner of the
house in question, and has since disappeared into obscurity.
Ulrica arrived in Paris next day with Gerald, and was absolutely
dumfounded when we related the whole of the amazing story. That day
too proved the happiest in all my life! Need I relate how on the
following morning Ernest sought me and begged me to forgive? Or how,
with tears of joy, I allowed him to hold me once more in his strong
arms as of old and shower hot, fervent kisses upon my brow? No. If I
were to commence to relate the joys that have now come to me I should
far exceed the space of a single volume. It is enough that you, reader,
to whom I have made confession, should know that within a fortnight we
all returned to New York by way of Liverpool, and that while Ulrica
became engaged to Gerald and soon afterwards married him with the old
man’s heartiest approval, Ernest again asked me to become his wife--a
contract which was fulfilled amid great éclat within a month of our
arrival back in Washington.
Ulrica tells me that she is no longer world-weary, living only for
excitement, as in those fevered days by-gone, but that her life is full
of a peaceful happiness that cannot be surpassed. Nevertheless I cannot
really bring myself to believe that she is any happier than I am with
Ernest, for the estrangement has rendered him all the more dear to me,
and we are indeed supremely content in each other’s perfect love. Mrs.
Thorne has returned to her home in Philadelphia, fully satisfied at
having cleared up the mystery surrounding poor Reggie’s tragic death,
while old Benjamin Keppel, of Pittsburg, still spends his winters in
rather lonely grandeur in his great white villa amid the palms outside
Nice, working in secret at his ivory-turning and giving at intervals
those princely entertainments for which he has become so famed in the
cosmopolitan society which suns itself upon the Riviera.
As for Ernest and myself, we have not visited Nice since, for we retain
a far too vivid recollection of those dark days of doubt, desperation,
and despair--and of our strange and tragic meeting at The Sign of the
Seven Sins.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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