[Frontispiece: "The person who murdered him was none other than
yourself." _p._ 293.]




[Illustration: Title page]




  THE
  GAMBLERS


  By

  WILLIAM LE QUEUX


  Author of
  "Of Royal Blood," "The Under
  Secretary," "The Seven Secrets," etc.



  London:
  HUTCHINSON & CO.
  Paternoster Row




  CONTENTS

  Chapter

  I.  Is Purely Personal
  II.  Tells Something about Love
  III.  Is a Mystery
  IV.  Relates some Astounding Facts
  V.  Deals with a Millionaire
  VI.  Places Me in a Predicament
  VII.  Mainly Concerns the Owl
  VIII.  Narrates a Mysterious Incident
  IX.  Shows the Bird's Talons
  X.  Makes One Point Plain
  XI.  Describes a Meeting and Its Sequel
  XII.  Carries Me on Board the "_Vispera_"
  XIII.  Discloses a Millionaire's Secret
  XIV.  In Which I make a Resolve
  XV.  In Which We pay a Visit Ashore
  XVI.  Discusses Several Matters of Moment
  XVII.  Describes a New Acquaintance
  XVIII.  Creates Another Problem
  XIX.  A Millionaire's Manoeuvres
  XX.  Wherein Captain Davis Speaks his Mind
  XXI.  Is Astonishing
  XXII.  Is More Astonishing
  XXIII.  Confides the Story of a Table
  XXIV.  In Which Matters Assume a Very Complex Aspect
  XXV.  Presents a Curious Phase
  XXVI.  Gives the Key to the Cipher
  XXVII.  Pieces Together the Puzzle
  XXVIII.  Reveals the Truth
  XXIX.  Contains the Conclusion




THE GAMBLERS



CHAPTER I

IS PURELY PERSONAL

No.  I dare not reveal anything here, lest I may be misjudged.

The narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so strange,
indeed, that had I not been one of the actual persons concerned in it
I would never have believed such things were possible.

Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though
they may appear, nevertheless form an unusual story--a combination of
circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic and
tragic.

Reader, I would confess all, if I dared, but each of us has a
skeleton in the cupboard, both you and I, for alas! I am no exception
to the general rule prevailing among women.

If compelled by a natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may
add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances here
related.  It concerns only myself, and no woman cares to supply food
for gossips at her own expense.

To be brief, it is my intention to narrate plainly and
straightforwardly what occurred, while hoping that all who read may
approach my story with a perfectly open mind, and afterwards judge me
fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice likely to be
entertained against one whose shortcomings are many, and whose
actions have perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.

My name is Carmela Rosselli.  I am English, of Italian extraction,
five-and-twenty years of age, and for many years--yes, I confess it
freely--I have been utterly world-weary.  I am an only child.  My
mother, one of the Yorkshire Burnetts, married Romolo Annibale,
Marchese Rosselli, an impecunious member of the Florentine
aristocracy, and after a childhood passed in Venice I was sent to the
Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in the Val d'Ema, near Florence, to
obtain my education.  My mother's money enabled the Marchese to live
in the reckless style customary to 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
English and womanly, and in all respects truly 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 of all the good
sisters in turn, and then travelled to London, accompanied by my
guardian, Ulrica Yorke.

Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy; and because she was very smart and
good-looking she did not want for admirers.  We lived together at
Queen's Gate for several years, amid that society which circles
around Kensington Church, until one rather dull afternoon in autumn
Ulrica made a most welcome suggestion.

"Carmela, I am ruined, morally and physically.  I feel that I want a
complete change."

I suggested Biarritz or Davos for the winter,

"No," she answered.  "I feel that I must build up my constitution as
well as my spirits.  The gayer Continent is the only place--say Paris
for a month, Monte Carlo for January, then Rome till after Easter."

"To Monte Carlo!" I gasped.

"Why not?" she inquired.  "You have money, and we may just as well go
abroad for a year to 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 a little too serious," she said simply.

"And you want to escape him?" I remarked.  "Do you know, Ulrica, I
believe he really 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 London, and that you had utterly lost your heart
to him."

She laughed.

"I've lost it so many times that I begin to believe I don't nowadays
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.  Not one 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 that
belongs to the past."

She laughed again.

"And you will go on the Continent with me?" she asked.  "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 very glad of
that opportunity to escape from the eternal shopping in the High
Street and the round of Kensington life, which daily reminded me of
the man whom I had loved.  Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to
avoid all further mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.

At the outset of our pilgrimage to the South of Europe we went to
Paris.  In the gay city two women with money and without encumbrances
can have a really good time.  We stayed at the "Chatham," a hotel
much resorted to by our compatriots, and met there quite a lot of
people we knew, including several rather nice men whom we had known
in London, and who appeared to consider it their duty to show us the
sights, many of which we had seen before.

Need I describe them?  I think not.  Those who read these lines
probably know them all, from that sorry exhibition of terpsichorean
art in the elephant at the Red Windmill down to the so-called
_cabarets artistiques_ of the Montmartre, "Heaven," "Hell," and the
other places.

Each evening we dined at six, and went forth pleasure-seeking,
sometimes unattended, and at others with our friends.  We were
catholic in our tastes.  We saw _La Bohême_ at the Opera, and
attended a ball at the Bullier; we strolled along the carpeted
promenade of Aspasia at the Folies Bergères, and laughed at the
quadrilles at the Casino, and at that resort of the little
work-girls, the Moulin la Galette; we listened to the cadence of
Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful voice, and to the patter of the _revue_
at La Scala; we watched the dancing of La Belle Otero and the
statuesque poses of Degaby.  Truly, we had our fill of variety
theatres.

In common, too, with the foreigner who goes to "see life" in Paris,
we did the round of the restaurants--from supper at the Cafê de
Paris, or the Cafê Américain, to the humble two-franc dinner at
Léon's in the Rue St. Honoré, or the one-franc-fifty lunch at Gazal's
in the Place du Théâtre Français.  We had our meal, too, one evening
at that restaurant which is seldom even mentioned in respectable
circles, the "Rat Mort," in the Place Pigalle.  Yes, with money one
is seldom _triste_ in Paris, and I was really sorry when, in the last
week of the year, after Felicita had packed our trunks, we set out
for the Riviera.

Travelling on those abominable gridirons which on the Continent are
called railways, is absolutely disgusting after our own English
lines, with their dining-cars and other comforts.  Of all the
railways that intersect the Continent, the P.L.M., which has a
monopoly to the Mediterranean, is the most inconvenient, disobliging,
and completely abominable.  To obtain the smallest comfort on the
eighteen-hour journey between Paris and Nice, an addition of three
pounds is charged upon the first-class fare, and that for a single
night in a third-rate sleeping-car!  Ulrica said it was termed the
_train de luxe_ only because it looks swagger to travel by it.  We
occupied a couple of berths in it, but agreed that the additional
three pounds were ill-spent indeed, for the badly-cooked food was
absurdly dear.

Moreover, as the water for toilet purposes gave out before reaching
Lyons, we had to buy bottles of mineral water, and perform our
ablutions in a mixture of Vichy Celestins and eau-de-cologne.  It was
remarked by an old and apparently experienced traveller that the
water in the _wagons lits_ is purposely scanty in order to increase
the takings of the restaurant cars; and I certainly believed him.

For a woman young in years I have had considerable experience of
European railways, from the crawling Midi of France to the lightning
Nord; but for dirt and dearness, commend me to the great highway to
the Riviera.  To take a small trunk from Paris to Nice costs more
than the fare of one's maid; while to those who do not pay for the
train of luxury, but travel in the ordinary padded horse-boxes, the
journey means a couple of days of suffocation and semi-starvation.

"My dear Carmela," said Ulrica, while we were on the journey, "I've
thought of a plan.  Why not go to some cheap hotel, or even _pension_
at Nice, and play at Monte Carlo with the money we save?"

I had never seen the far-famed Monte Carlo, but as the idea of
economy seemed an excellent one, I at once endorsed her suggestion,
and that same night we found ourselves at one of those _pensions_
which flourish so amazingly well at Nice.




CHAPTER II

TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE

Reader, have you ever lived in an English _pension_ on the Riviera?
Have you ever inhabited a small cubicle containing a chair, a deal
table, a narrow bed--with mosquito curtains--and a hung-up
looking-glass, and partaken of that cheap, ill-cooked food, the
stale-egg omelette and the tough _biftek_, served in the bare
_salle-à-manger_ by one of those seedy, unshaven waiters who appear
to be specially bred for the cheap Riviera boarding-houses?  Have you
ever spent an evening with that mixed crowd of ascetic persons who
nightly congregate in the fusty _salon_, play upon a cracked piano,
screech old-fashioned sentimentalities, exhibit their faded finery,
paste jewels and bony chests, and otherwise make the hours, following
dinner absolutely hideous?  If not, a week of this life will be found
to be highly amusing.

"My dear," Ulrica whispered, as we followed the proprietress, a buxom
Frenchwoman in black satin, along the bare, white-washed corridor to
our rooms, "hotel or work-house--which?"

There was a comfortless look everywhere, even though the spread of
the blue sea and the palm-planted Promenade des Anglais were
magnificent parts of the view, and the warm winter sunshine streamed
into our tiny rooms--chambers so small that our trunks had to be
placed in the corridor.

We changed our frocks and went down to dinner, discovering the
_salle-à-manger_ by its smell.  What a scene presented itself at that
_table d'hôte_!  The long table was crowded by a host of dowdy women,
generally wearing caps of soiled lace and faded ribbons, with one or
two dismal-looking and elderly men.  Of spinsters there were not a
few, and of widows many, but one and all possessed the stamp of
persons of small means struggling perseveringly to obtain their fill
for the ten francs _par jour_ which they paid for their "south rooms."

As new-comers, we were directed to seats at the bottom of the table;
and after we had suffered from a watery concoction which the menu
described as _potage_, we proceeded to survey our fellow-guests in
that cheap and respectable _pension_.

That they were severely respectable there could certainly be no
doubt.  There were a couple of drawling English clergymen, with their
wives--typical vicars' wives who patronised their neighbours; two or
three sad-faced young girls, accompanied by ascetic relatives; a
young Frenchman who eyed Ulrica all the time; one or two hen-pecked
husbands of the usual type to be found in such hostelries of the
aged; and an old lady who sat in state at the extreme end of the
table, and much amused us by her efforts at juvenility.  Besides
ourselves, she was apparently the only person who had a maid with
her; and in order to exhibit that fact, she sent for her
smelling-salts during dinner.  She was long past sixty, yet dressed
in a style becoming a girl of eighteen, in bright colours and lace,
her fair wig being dressed in the latest Parisian style, and the
wrinkles of her cheeks filled up by various creams and face powders.

"That old crow is an absolute terror!" observed Ulrica to me in an
undertone, and out of sheer devilry she at once commenced a
conversation with this rejuvenated hag, who, as we learned later, was
an exportation from one of the London suburbs.

The conversation, started by Ulrica and continued by myself, proved
most amusing to us both.  The old woman whose name was Blackett, had
just enough to live upon, we afterwards discovered, but came each
year to the _pension_ in order to cut a dash as a _grande dame_.  Her
fingers were covered with paste jewels, and her finery was all of
that cheap and tawdry kind which affects the nerves as well as the
eyes.

"Oh, yes!" she said, in a carefully cultivated voice, intended to
show good breeding, "if this is your first visit to the Riviera,
you'll be quite charmed--everyone is charmed with it.  As for
myself--" and she sighed,--"I have been here each year for I don't
know how long."

"And there is lots to see?"

"Lots.  Only you must drive, you know.  I myself drive at all hours
of the day, and when the moon is up I go for moonlight drives into
the mountains."

How romantic, I thought.

"I have my own coachman, you know," she added.  "I keep him all the
year round."

She had led up to the conversation merely in order to inform us of
her generosity.

So throughout the meal, which occupied nearly two hours, by reason of
inadequate waiting, we continued to draw her out, humour her egotism,
and cause her to make a most ridiculous display of herself, until at
last, my sentiment changing, I felt genuinely sorry for her.

"Certainly," I remarked to Ulrica as we left the table, "this is the
most extraordinary collection of tabbies I've ever met."

"My dear," she said, "what has been puzzling me all the evening is
their place of origin.  Some, I regret to say, are actually our own
compatriots.  But where do they come from?"

"It's a special breed peculiar to _pensions_ on the Riviera," I
remarked; and together we ascended to the frowsy drawing-room, where
the red plush-covered furniture exuded an odour of mustiness, and the
carpet was sadly moth-eaten and thread-bare.

Around the central table a dozen angular women of uncertain age
grouped themselves and formed a sewing-party; a retired colonel, who
seemed a good fellow, buried himself in the _Contemporary_; a
decrepit old gentleman wearing a skull-cap and a shawl about his
shoulders, heaped logs upon the fire and sat with his feet on the
fender, although the atmosphere was stifling, while somebody else
induced a young lady with a voice like a file to sing a plaintive
love-song, accompanied by the untuned piano.

During my previous winters in the South I had stayed at hotels.  In
my ignorance of the ways of cheap visitors to the Riviera, I believed
this congregation to be unique, but Ulrica assured me that it was
typical of all English _pensions_ along the Côte d'Azur, from Cannes
to Bordighera, and I can now fully endorse her statement.

To describe in detail the many comic scenes enacted is unnecessary.
The people were too ludicrous for words.  One family in especial
endeavoured to entice us to friendliness.  Its head was a very tall,
muscular, black-haired French-woman, who had married an Englishman.
The latter had died fifteen years ago, leaving her with a son and
daughter, the former a school boy of sixteen, and the latter a
fair-haired and very freckled girl of perhaps twenty.  The woman's
name was Egerton, and she was of that dashing type who can wear
scarlet dresses at dinner, and whose cheeks dazzle one's eyes on
account of the rouge upon them.  She was loud, coarse, and vulgar.
For the benefit of all the others, she spoke daily of the delicacies
prepared by her own _chef_, sneered at the food of the _pension_, and
ordered special messes for her own consumption.  Before we had known
her an hour she had given us a description of the wonderful interior
of her house in Rome, enumerated her servants, and gave us to
understand that she was exceedingly well-off, and quite a superior
person.  The people one meets on the Riviera are really very
entertaining.

Ulrica was grimly sarcastic.  As we had neither intention nor
inclination to associate with this superior relict, we politely
snubbed her, taking care that it should not be done in secret.

"I don't think our effort at economy has met with very much success,"
I remarked to Ulrica, when about a week later I sat over the cup of
half-cold coffee, the stale egg, the hunk of bread and the pat of
rancid butter, which together formed my breakfast.

"No, a week of it is quite sufficient," she laughed.  "We'll leave
to-morrow."

"Then you've given notice?"

"Of course.  I only came here for a week's amusement.  We'll go on to
the 'Grand.'"

So on the following day our trunks were called for by the hotel
omnibus, and we took up our quarters in that well-known hotel on the
Quai St. Jean Baptiste.  Ulrica had known the Riviera ever since her
girlhood.  With her parents she had gone abroad each autumn, had seen
most of the sights, and had thus received her education as a smart
woman.

We were in the _salon_ of the "Grand" 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 London standing
before us.  One was Reginald Thorne, a dark-haired and more than
usually good-looking youth of about twenty-two or so, while the other
was Gerald Keppel, a thin, fair-moustached young man, some seven
years his senior, son of old Benjamin Keppel, the well-known South
African millionaire.  Gerald was an old friend, but the former I knew
but slightly, having met him once or twice at dances, for in
Kensington 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 asked.

"Yes.  Gerald's staying with his guv'nor.  He has a villa out at
Fabron.  Have you been here long?"

"We've been in Nice a week," interposed Ulrica, "and we haven't found
a single soul we know 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 Carlo?"

"You men think of nothing but roulette and dinners at the 'Paris,'"
she responded reproachfully, adding: "But after all, should we be
women 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 for 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
London about a year before, were not quite groundless.  His glance
was a convincing proof that he admired me.

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, the ladies of the French capital 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 triumphs and all my
harmless flirtations have had their beginnings in the attraction
exercised by the dainty creations of my _couturière_.  We hear much
complaining among women to the effect 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
on the Continent can always be distinguished from the English, and it
is certain that to their quiet _chic_ in frills and furbelows their
success in the marriage market 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
Pendyman's, and afterwards gossiped together over ices; but with a
woman flirtations of the ball-room 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
London; 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?"

"Certainly.  Their coming is quite providential.  Some of Gerald's
luck at the tables may be reflected upon us.  I should dearly like to
make my expenses at roulette."

"So should I."

"There's no reason why we shouldn't," she went on.  "I know quite a
lot of people who've won enough to pay for the whole winter on the
Riviera."

"Reggie has money, hasn't he?"

"Of course.  The old man was on the Stock Exchange and died very
comfortably off.  All of it went to Reggie, except an annuity settled
on his mother.  Of course, he's spent a good deal since.  A man
doesn't live in the Albany 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 shilling beyond what
the old man allowed him monthly--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 well be known as
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, as 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 by living with
her ever since my convent-days I had copied her smart ideas and
notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.

A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the hotel,
we went over with the usual crowd 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, rugged coast; purple hills clad with olives
and pines; rose, heliotrope, and geranium running riot in the gardens
of the white villas, with their marble terraces.

When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent,
close-smelling _salle de jeu_ at Monte Carlo, where the croupiers
were crying in 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 civilised human
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 _grand 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 brown Grimaldi rock rising
sheer from the sea to the castellated walls of the Palace; to the
right, Villefranche and San Juan dark upon the horizon,--the serrated
Esterels dark and mysterious afar; while to the left, Bordighera was
sparkling white in the sunshine.  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 not to
think during my work upon this narrative, but to try to forget all
past unhappiness.  To try!  Ah!  I would that I could calm my
soul--steep it in a draught of such thoughtlessness that oblivion
would come!  But I fear that can never, never be!

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 conceal our
sorrows so cleverly that none can suspect, for smiles make a 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 these belong to 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 passe!_" 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 Firenze had
taught me so long ago was very true: "_Amore non é 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 such fine fortune could never be.  We were parted for ever--for
ever!

"Now, play this time!" I heard Reggie 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, "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 upon which the purse would not close I held doubtfully in
my hand.

"Play on the _treize-dix-huit_ this time!" urged Reggie, and I obeyed
him blindly.

As the number 18 came up, I again received another little handful of
gold.  I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my direction, and
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 was 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, strolled through those
beautiful gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and
afterwards sat on the terrace of the Café de Paris, where to the full
I enjoyed a sunset of extraordinary radiance.




CHAPTER III

IS A MYSTERY

I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald into 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 over seven hundred pounds."

"There are a good many 'ifs' 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 whisky and seltzer to his lips.

"But I might have lost all I won," I remarked.  "No, I prefer to keep
it.  I'd like to be unique among other 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 soon 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 plays.  If she didn't, others would believe
her 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 and 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 attached to their bangles, along with golden
pigs and enamelled discs bearing the fatal number thirteen."

"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 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, remember her visit.  She left me in London 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 created, should be allowed to flaunt all the vices 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 has been well said 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 opposite, where all
sorts of women, wintering among temptations in summer toilettes, were
passing up and down.  He was possessed of common sense, and spoke the
truth.  Inside those Rooms the perspiring and perfumed crowds were
fluttering round the tables as moths round 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 to hush it all up,
but the authentic figures were published not long ago.  The
Administrator of the Casino finds 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 false titles of
nobility, and wear decorations to which they are not entitled, 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.  "Some of them are, of
course, 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 as 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 died unexpectedly, 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 favourite colour.  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 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 the white serge which she had had made in Paris; for
white serge is, as you know, always _de rigueur_ at Monte in winter,
with white hat and white shoes.  I was also in white, but it never
suited me as it did her, yet one had to 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, flavoured with orange-flower water in accordance
with 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, as it were, 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 coloured beads; the old hag with a moustache who
always brings her own rake; the bright-eyed, dashing woman known to
the croupiers as "The Golden Hand"; the thin, wizen-faced little
hunch-back, 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 flushed with excitement.  She had won three
hundred francs at the table where she always played.  Her favourite
croupier was turning the wheel, and he always brought her luck.  We
had both 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
hurrying toward the table he 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 passe!_"

"By Jove!" cried Gerald.  "He's won!  Lucky devil!  How extraordinary
that after zero the number 29 so frequently 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 colour, the dozens and the "pair," and
thus often won in several places at the same time.  The eager,
grabbing crowd surged round 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 mass
of notes he had crammed there, and 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 at Monte Carlo 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; and while sitting at one of the tables we helped
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 jeweller's, in the
Galerie, and he there purchased for each of us a ring as a little
souvenir of the day.  Then we entered Giro's and dined.

Yes, life at Monte Carlo is absolutely intoxicating.  Now, however,
that I sit here calmly 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 wide 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
the Countess Torby, 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
face a trifle bronzed--a face I knew only 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, the 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-grey eyes and
pink-and-white cheeks.  She had earned, I afterwards discovered, a
rather unenviable notoriety in Paris on account of some scandal or
other, but the real truth about 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 that fragile body.

Ernest himself brushed past my chair, but without recognising me, and
went down the room gaily 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 remarked, as he raised his
champagne unsuspectingly to his lips.

Reader, if you are a woman, you will fully understand how the sight
of that man who held me by a fatal fascination, caused in my breast 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, since the light of my life had now
gone out, and I was suffering in silence, just as so many women who
have become the sport of Fate are bound to do.

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 myself, the remainder of the meal was utterly without interest.
I longed to get another glimpse of that man's 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 gaily
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 there drank our coffee.

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, rising.  "I shan'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.  As it was only a walk of a couple of minutes from the
Hermitage to the Casino, we concluded that he had met some friend and
been detained, for, like Gerald, he 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.  The sight of Ernest had reopened the
gaping wound which I had so strenuously striven to heal by the aid of
lighter woes.  I now thought only of him.

Ulrica, who was in front of me, 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 downwards, 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, almost petrified by 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 favourite 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 know what occurred during the quarter of an hour that
immediately followed our astounding discovery.  All I remember is
that Ulrica, with 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 doctors arrived quickly,
followed shortly afterwards 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 monsieur has been murdered."

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 secrets 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 of his having won so much money, and of his
having 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 argued, no doubt have committed the deed
either in the train, or in 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 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 discovery; while 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 their examination of Ulrica, myself and Felicita, my
Italian maid, who had returned from her evening out, and knew nothing
at all of the matter, the police made a most vigorous 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----_"

That was all.  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, as 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 London, 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 of 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,
where he gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.

This tragic event had naturally cast a gloom over both Ulrica and
myself.  We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the
mysterious reason which caused Reggie to enter out sitting-room in
our absence.  Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not
have gone 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, to whom gains and losses were
alike--at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction other
than 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 has 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 to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to discover the
murderer, who, 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 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 from some
cause which could not be determined.  It might, indeed, the doctors
admitted, have been almost described as a natural death, but for the
fact that the notes were missing, which pointed so very markedly 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, high up in the olive groves of Caucade--perhaps one
of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in 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 English chaplain of the Rue de France performed the last rites,
and then, turning sorrowfully away, we drove back, full of gloomy
thoughts, to Nice.

The puzzling incident had crushed all gaiety from our hearts.  I
suggested that we should immediately 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 what seemed
an 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 favour 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 more 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
remembering a past which it is quite unnecessary to recall.  Live, as
I do, for the future, without mourning over what must ever be
bygones."

"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, her own
conquests, and her own amusements.  Men pleased her by their
flattery, and she therefore tolerated them.  She had told me this
long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her example.

"Ulrica," said I at last, "forgive me, forgive me, but I am so
unhappy.  Don't let us speak of him again.  I will try and forget,
indeed I will--I will try to 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," and carelessly she began humming the refrain of the latest
_chanson_:

      "Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
  Viens par-ci, viens par-là, ma brune!
  Laisse le vieux jaloux qui t'importune,
      Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
      Le temps fuit et voilà la lune,
  C'est l'heure des baisers au clair de lune."




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 well.  High up above
the sea, beyond the Magnan, it stands in the midst of extensive
grounds, shaded by date palms, olives and oranges, approached by a
fine eucalyptus avenue, and rendered light 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, with the gilt-domed
Jetée Promenade jutting out into the azure bay, the old Château, Mont
Boron, and the snow-capped Alps on the left, 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; none on
entering so splendid a home would have believed him to be so simple
in taste and so 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 Harbour, 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 London, 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 fellow, with disordered
grey hair and beard and dark, deep-set eyes, was Gerald's father, the
great Benjamin Keppel, late of Johannesburg.

Dinner, even though rather 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 chain, 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.

Before 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 characterises 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 Transvaal as an emigrant from a little village in
Norfolk, and had succeeded in amassing the third largest fortune in
the United Kingdom.

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 we
both 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 this friend, then I feel convinced that all the rest
would be plain sailing."

"But, my dear guv'nor, the police hold the theory that he didn't meet
anyone until he arrived at Nice," Gerald observed.

"The police here are a confounded set of idiots!" cried the old
millionaire.  "If it had occurred in London, or Chicago, or even in
Glasgow, they would have arrested the murderer long before this.
Here, in France, there's too much confounded _contrôle_."

"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 may 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 seem to entertain
absolutely no regard for the personal safety of their visitors.  It
appears to me that in Nice year by year prices have gone up until
hotel charges have become unbearable, and people are being driven
away to Algiers and Cairo.  And I don't blame them.  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.  Look at the state of the streets this season!
They're all up for new trams, new paving, new watermains and things,
until they are absolutely impassable.  Even the Promenade des Anglais
has been up!  Why they can't do it in summer, when there are no
visitors here, is a mystery.  Again, within the last eight or ten
years the price of everything has doubled, while the sanitary defects
have become a disgrace.  Why, down at Beaumettes there were, until
quite recently, houses which actually drained into a cave!  And then
they are surprised at an outbreak of typhoid!  The whole thing's
preposterous!"

"An English newspaper correspondent who had the courage to tell the
truth about Nice was served with a notice threatening his expulsion
from France!" observed Gerald.  "A nice way to suppress facts!"

"Oh! that's the French way," observed Ulrica, with a laugh.  "It is,
however, certain that if Nice is to remain healthy and popular, there
must be some very radical changes."

"If there are not, I shall sell this place," said the old millionaire
decisively.  "I shall take the newspaper correspondent's advice and
pitch my quarters in Cairo, where English-speaking visitors are
protected, properly treated, and have their comfort looked after."

"Why not try San Remo?" I suggested.

"San Remo!" he cried, with an air of disgust.  "Why, it's the most
snobbish place on the whole Riviera.  The persons who have villas
there are mostly those whom we taboo in society at home.  One
interesting person has had the audacity to name his villa after a
royal palace.  It's like a fellow putting up 'Buckingham Palace' upon
his ten-roomed house at Streatham Hill.  No, Miss Rosselli, save me
from San Remo!  The hotels there are ruinous, and mostly of the
fourth class, while the tradespeople are as rapacious a set of sharks
as can be found outside Genoa.  And the visitors are of that angular,
sailor-hatted type of tea and lawn-tennis Englishwoman who talks
largely at home of what she calls 'wintering abroad,' and hopes by
reason of a six-weeks' stay in a cheap _pension_, shivering over an
impossible fire, to improve her social status on her return to her
own local surroundings.  San Remo, dull, dear, and dreary, has ever
been a ghastly failure, and ever will be, as long as it is frequented
by its present _clientele_ of sharks and spongers.  What the
newspaper correspondent said about Nice was the truth--the whole
truth," he went on.  "I know Nice as well as most people, and I bear
out every charge put forward.  The Riviera has declined terribly
these past five years.  Why, the people here actually hissed the
Union Jack at the last Battle of Flowers!"

"Disgraceful!" said Ulrica, rather amused at the old fellow's warmth.
"If Nice declines in the popular favour, then the Niçois have only
themselves to blame."

"Exactly.  Foreigners are looked upon here as necessary evils, while
in Italy, except on the Riviera, they are welcomed.  I built this
place and spent a fairish sum upon it, but if things don't improve,
I'll sell it at auction and cart my traps down to Sicily, or over to
Cairo.  Upon that I'm determined."

"The guv'nor's disgusted," Gerald laughed 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 Palermo or Algiers, for in those places the air is even
better than here."

"But it isn't so fashionable," I observed.

"To an old man like me it doesn't 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 Johannesburg.  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 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 had
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'd 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 Ben Keppel.

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 at
the flash of white brilliance that ever and anon shot across the
tranquil sea, marking the dangerous headland at Antibes.

The night was lovely--one of those bright and 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 extremely 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 décolletée,
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 me!" I said, at once interested.

"Then come with me," he exclaimed.  He 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
in here, so you must consider yourself very highly privileged."

"That I certainly do," I responded.

As he entered he switched on the electric light, displaying to my
astonished gaze a large place fitted as a workshop with lathes,
tools, wheels, straps and all sorts of mechanical contrivances.

"This room is secret," he said, with a smile.  "If the fine people
who sometimes patronise me with visits thought that I actually worked
here they'd be horrified."

"Then do you actually work?" I inquired, surprised.

"Certainly.  Having nothing to occupy my leisure moments after I had
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."

Thereupon 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--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 them days
my poor Mary didn't want face-powder, bless her!"

And that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving ivory
with a harsh sawing sound that rendered further conversation
impossible.

I stood behind and watched 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.

"This 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 England's many millionaires.

"I only ask one favour," 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 buy all my ivory work, only
they're 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 seemed, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his
great house in Park Lane, his shooting-box in Scotland, his yacht,
which was acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa
there on the Riviera, should toil at turning, in order to make a
pound or two a week as pocket-money.

"When I worked as a turner in the old days, I earned sixteen
shillings a week, by making butter dishes 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 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, though rather sadly, I thought.




CHAPTER VI

PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT

"I think him a most sociable old fellow," I answered, in response to
Ulrica's inquiry when we returned to the hotel.

"But awfully eccentric," she said.  "Gerald always complains that he
finds it impossible to make both ends meet upon his allowance."

"He may surely be forgiven that," I said.  "After all, he's an
excellent type of the prosperous worker."

"He showed you his ivory-turning, I suppose?" she observed, with a
slight sneer.  "I see he's given you a puff-box."

"Yes, he turned it while I waited."

"It's really absurd," she declared, "that a man of his enormous means
should still continue to work as he does.  Gerald tells me that he
has secret workshops in all his houses, and spends the greater part
of his time in turning, just as any workman would do.  No doubt he's
a bit wrong in the head.  His wealth has crushed him."

"I think you judge him too harshly, my dear," I responded.  "All
master-minds have their hobbies.  His hobby is quite a harmless one;
merely to return to the trade to which he was apprenticed long ago."

She smiled with some sarcasm.

Then we parted, and retired to bed.

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
our escort, and at others we went over alone after luncheon and
risked half-a-dozen louis at 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 feverish
little world there lived and moved the 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 that he
was staying at any of the villas or hotels.  Yet I knew he was there,
for had I not seen him with my own eyes--had I not seen him smile
upon the 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 British Consul,
who proved to be a nice old gentleman, and who obtained a statement
from us regarding his friends in London, and who 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 gaiety in preparation for the reign of the King of Folly; when the
streets are bright with coloured decoration, 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 colours previously decided
upon by the 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, full of life
and movement, are sweet with the perfume of roses, 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 Aberdeen, 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, on which he
laid a beautiful wreath, and, while there, gave orders for a handsome
monument.  Then after remaining three days, he returned to Scotland.

Meanwhile, we became 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 ever
did 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 persons 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 might happen to encounter us at the Villa when we
visited there, but save on these occasions, I had not spoken to 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 out in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold--the colours
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
gaiety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque
figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the
maskers, the buoyant fun and the good humour of everybody in that
huge cosmopolitan crowd.

Gerald was with us, as well as a young American named Fordyce, whom
we had known in London, and who was now staying at the Beau Site,
over at Cannes.  With our sacks containing confetti slung over our
shoulders, and the hoods of our bright dominoes over our heads, and
wearing half masks of black velvet, we mixed with the crowd the whole
of that afternoon, heartily enjoying 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
and healthy amusement to be derived from it.  It is only sour
spinsters and the gouty who really object to Carnival.  Regular
visitors to the Riviera condemn it merely because it is good form to
condemn everything vulgar.  They used to enjoy 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.

Felicita was an unconscionable time in doing my hair--her head was
full of the Carnival fever, I think--and when I entered our
sitting-room I found Ulrica, ready dressed, seated on a low stool in
a picturesque attitude, lazily cooling herself with her fan of
feathers.  The disengaged bare arm, with its jingling bangles, was
gracefully raised, the taper fingers were endeavouring, without much
success, to adjust a stray lock of hair.  It was a favourite gesture
of Ulrica's, for her hands were lovely, white and slender, and
covered with rings, which she was fond of displaying.  The rosy light
from the shaded lamp fell kindly upon her, so that she made an
extremely pretty picture.

She was talking as I entered, and in the dim light I discovered a man
sitting on the ottoman.  I was about to retreat, when she recalled
me, and introduced me with a little laugh, to Cecil Ormrod, who had
called at that rather inconvenient moment.  She appeared to be by no
means displeased at having been surprised in a _tête-à-tête_ with
him.  It was a notification that she had pegged out her claim.

He was tall, manly, and well-shaped, and his voice was pleasant.
Ulrica looked at me with a curious smile, as if to say: "Don't you
think I have shown good taste?"  Then holding out her hand for his
aid in rising, she said to him:

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Ormrod, but we are just going out to dinner.
I know you'll excuse us.  You'll look in and see us to-morrow.  You
must, you know--you're staying at the 'Anglais,' and it's close by."

Then, turning to me, she added:

"Come, dear, we must make haste.  It's awfully late, and old Mr.
Keppel will never forgive us if the soup comes up cold."

So young Cecil Ormrod made his adieux and departed, promising to call
on us again.

"Cecil is an awfully nice boy," Ulrica remarked.  "I met him at a
country house-party two years ago.  His father is a stockbroker and
his sisters are particularly jolly.  We must be nice to him."

"You've already begun," I remarked, rather spitefully perhaps.  But
she only smiled.

Then we descended by the lift and joined Gerald, whom we found
walking up and down impatiently in the hall.

Quite a host of smart 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.  It was not
often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a dinner
he spared no expense, and the one in honour of Carnival was truly a
gastronomic marvel.  The table was decorated with mauve and old gold,
the Carnival colours; and the room, which was draped with satin of
the same shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly
striking.

The old millionaire, seated at the head of his table, 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.  The
day is gone, I am glad to say, when a mode, because it is decreed to
be the fashion, is blindly adopted.  Women realise at last that to
achieve the happiest results they must make Fashion subservient to
their requirements, instead of foolishly following in her wake, as
for years they have been wont to do.

As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table, I looked at the
lean, grey-bearded man at its head, and fell into reflection.  How
strange it was that this man, worth millions, 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 coloured lights and lanterns, and
wandered 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 slope, till at last 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 down almost to the 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 folk, 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?"

"No," he sighed.  "I hate yachting, for I have nothing on board
wherewith to occupy my time.  After a couple of days I always go
ashore at the nearest port.  The trip round from Portsmouth here each
winter is always a misery to me."

"And you keep such a beautiful craft idle!" I observed, in a tone of
reproach.

"You've seen it?"

"Yes, Gerald took us on board a few days ago, and showed us over.
It's like a small Atlantic liner."

"Everyone says she's a handsome boat," the old fellow remarked
carelessly.  Then he added: "Are you fond of the sea?"

"Passionately.  I always regret when the Channel passage is finished."

"Perhaps you would like to go on a cruise in the _Vispera_?" he said.
"If you would, I should be very pleased to take you.  I might invite
a party for a run, say, to Naples or Smyrna and back."

"I should be delighted," I answered enthusiastically, for yachting
was one of my favourite 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 mid-winter.

"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 I
had only 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 creates unbearable burdens.

"You are not the only one who finds life wearisome," I observed
frankly, "I also have to plead guilty to the indictment on many
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

Late that night Ulrica made merry at my expense.  She had noticed me
walking _tête-à-tête_ with old Mr. Keppel, and accused me of
flirtation with him.

Now, I may be given to harmless frivolities with men of my own age,
but I certainly have never endeavoured to attract those of maturer
years.  Elderly men may have admired me--that I do not deny--but
assuredly this 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 features 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.  Women
nowadays are becoming very Continental.  For instance, certain
illustrated journals tell us that fur coats of every description are
to be the mode, and a few foolish women think that if they possess
such a garment, no matter what its shape, so long as it is of fur,
they will be in the vanguard of Fashion!  The really smart woman
will, however, think twice before she hides her figure by any such
bulky covering, merely because she happens to possess the fur, and it
will take the furrier all the ingenuity at his command to produce the
neat, short and close-fitting little coat or bolero which she would
condescend to wear.  Yes, we are yearly becoming more and more
tasteful--more Parisian.  Ulrica's suggestion caused me to laugh.

"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 upon it.  He
neglected his guests and walked with you for 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 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 it was yourself who introduced us."

"I know," she answered rather curtly.  "But I didn't expect that
you'd make such a fool of yourself as you've done to-night."

"I am not aware that I have made a fool of myself, as you choose to
term it," I responded warmly.  "Mr. Keppel invited me to walk in the
garden, and as his guest I could not very well refuse."

"You know what an ill-bred, vulgar old fellow he is, and you might
therefore have had some respect for his guests."

"I know that he is an honest, plain-spoken man," I said calmly.  "He
may be ill-bred, but, nevertheless, he's more the gentleman than half
the over-dressed cads who so perpetually hang about us just because
we happen to be both good-looking."

"If I were in your place I should be ashamed at having made such an
exhibition of myself!" she exclaimed, with bitter sarcasm.

"I have made no exhibition of myself," I protested.  "I like Mr.
Keppel for his blunt manliness--but beyond that--why, Ulrica, you
must be mad to suspect me of flirtation with him!"

"He's old enough to be your father," she snapped.  "Yet Doris Ansell
whispered in the drawing-room that she had watched him holding your
hand in lover-like attitude."

"Then Doris Ansell lied!" I exclaimed angrily.  "He never touched my
hand.  It is a foul libel upon him and upon me."

"I saw you myself walking with him."

"And you were walking with Gerald.  He was, as usual, flirting with
you," I said spitefully.

Her cheeks crimsoned, and I saw that my words had struck home.  How
cruel and ill-natured was such gossip as this; how harmful to my good
name, and to his.  I knew Doris Ansell well--a snub-nosed,
under-sized little gossip, and had always believed that she
entertained towards me some ill-will--for what reason I never could
ascertain.

"And why should you fly into such a rage?" she inquired, with
affected coolness.  "If you were to change into Mrs. Ben Keppel you
would at least possess a very substantial income, even if your
husband was a rough diamond.  You would exact the envy of half the
women we know, and surely that's quite sufficient success to have
obtained.  One can't have everything in this world.  Money is always
synonymous with ugliness where marriage is concerned."

"I don't see any object to be obtained by discussing the matter
further," I answered, with rising indignation.  "Such a circumstance
as you suggest will never occur, you may depend upon it."

"My dear Carmela," she said, laughing, "you are still a child, I
really declare!"

"I am old enough to be mistress of my own actions," I answered
quickly.  "I shall certainly never marry for money."

"Because of Ernest--eh?"

"It is cruel, Ulrica, to taunt me like this!" I cried, bursting into
tears.  "Surely I've suffered enough!  You do not suffer because, as
you have said hundreds of times, 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 kinder tones.  "Don't cry, or
your eyes will be a horrid sight to-morrow.  Remember we're lunching
over at Beaulieu with the Farnells.  Come, dry your eyes and go to
bed.  I didn't mean anything, you know."  And she drew down my head
and kissed me tenderly on the brow.

I left her 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.  Surely that could not be possible.  True, he had grown
confidential enough to tell me things that were held secret from all
his friends, yet I attributed this to his eccentricity.

No, it was surely not true that he was among my admirers.  Through
the dark hours of that night I thought it all over.  Sometimes I saw
in all that had occurred a disposition on his part to tell me some
secret or other.  He had been so preoccupied, and had so earnestly
told me of the dull loneliness of his life, that colour was certainly
lent to the theory that he looked upon me with affection.  Yet, after
all, I reasoned with myself that I could never in my life love a man
of that age, and determined never to barter myself for money and
position.  I should even, if he told me the truth, be compelled to
refuse his offer.

But the whole theory was ridiculous.  It had been started by that
lying, ill-natured woman for want of something else to gossip about.
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 the Continent together without any male relative.
The truth is, that terrifying personage, so peculiarly British, known
as Mrs. Grundy, is dead.  It is her complete downfall in this age of
emancipation, bicycles and bloomers, that more than anything else
makes the modern spinster's lot, in many respects, an eminently
attractive one.

We were discussing this over our coffee on the following morning,
when Ulrica, referring to our conversation of 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, and go to theatres, and even to Monte Carlo, without a 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 Carmela, that you are at last becoming so
very sensible," she answered approvingly.  "Until now you've 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 in
like circumstances."

"Without doubt.  The disadvantages of marriage to a woman with a
profession are 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, "speaking candidly, would you marry if you
had a really good offer?"

"Marry?  Certainly not," she answered, with a laugh, as though the
idea were perfectly preposterous.  "Why should I marry?  I've 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, and more often even wanes with the
honeymoon."

"I've really no patience with you," I said hastily.  "You're far too
cynical."

She smiled, and then sighed gently.  She looked so young in her pale
pink _peignoir_.

"Contact with the world has made me what I am, my dear Carmela."

"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've been airing to one another.  The fact is, after all,
that we're 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'm afraid, however, that I am not."

I did not 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
realise 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 to
Beaulieu.

"Miss Rosselli," he cried, as he greeted me, "you're 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 England, yet you've induced him to arrange for a cruise up the
Mediterranean."

Ulrica glanced at me with a confident air.  I knew the thought which
rose in her mind.

"Are you glad?" I asked him.

"Glad?  I should rather think so!  We shall have a most glorious
time!  He intends asking the Farnells, 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."

"No, Gerald," I said.  "Please don't flatter me.  It's bad form, you
know.  Your father asked me if I would like a cruise, and I responded
in the affirmative, that's all."

"Well, at any rate, it's enough," answered the young man
enthusiastically.  "The guv'nor has sent for Davis, the skipper, and
when I left him, was poring over a chart of the Eastern
Mediterranean.  There's only one condition that I've made, and I
think you'll both agree with me."

"What's that?" inquired Ulrica, as she buttoned her glove.

"That we don't take that cur Barnes.  I hate that fellow."

"So say all of us," Ulrica observed frankly.

"His air is so superior that people believe him to be at least a son
of the house," Gerald said quickly.  "I know that he tells the
guv'nor all sorts of false tales about myself.  He knew that I lost
pretty heavily at Monte when I went over with you the other night,
and as Mr. Barnes chanced to be there he was, of course, the amiable
gentleman who told the tale.  I always feel as though I'd like to
give him a good sound kicking."

"Treat him with contempt," I urged.  "Your father is not the kind of
man to believe mere tales without proof.  Even if he is a bit
eccentric, he's the essence of justice--that you'll admit."

"Why, Miss Rosselli, I tell you that my old dad is the very best
fellow in all the world.  I know all men of his stamp have their
little eccentricities, and therefore forgive him.  If he's niggardly
towards me, it's only because he doesn't believe in a young man going
the pace too fast."

"Quite so," I answered, remembering how very lenient the world is
towards the son of a millionaire.  "No man should speak ill of his
father--more especially of such an admirable type as your father is."

But I drew myself up short, for I saw a smile playing in the corners
of Ulrica's mouth.

"Let's be off," she said.  "We'll take a fiacre to the station.
Gerald, tell them to get us a cab."

And young Keppel went forth to do her bidding.

The Carnival _bal masqué_ at the Casino--the great event of King
Carnival's reign--took place on the following Sunday night, and we
made up a gay party to go to it.  There were seven of us, and we
looked a grotesque group as we assembled in the vestibule of the
"Grand," attired in our fantastic costumes and wearing those
mysterious masks of black velvet which so effectively conceal the
features.  Ulrica represented a Watteau shepherdess, with wig and
crook complete, while I was _en bébé_, wearing a simple costume,
surmounted by a sun-bonnet with a very wide brim.  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 from pulling that appendage.

As the distance from the hotel to the Casino was only a few hundred
yards, we walked.  Laughter was abundant, 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 wild
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 colour--the two
colours of Carnival.  Suspended from the high glass roof were
thousands of bannerettes of mauve and gold, while the costumes of the
revellers were of the self-same shades.  Everywhere flashed coloured
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 enchanting in the whole world.

Everyone had gone there for full enjoyment.  In the theatre there was
wild dancing; the boxes were filled by the _grand monde_ of Europe,
princes and princesses, grand-dukes and grand-duchesses, counts and
countesses, noted actresses from Paris and London, and well-known
people of every nationality, all enjoying the scene of uproarious
merrymaking.  We viewed it first from our own box, but at length
someone suggested that we should descend and dance, an idea which at
once found ungrudging favour.

Masked as everyone 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 recognise a single person
in that whirling crowd.  Therefore, immediately we descended to the
floor of the theatre we at once became separated.  I stood for a few
moments bewildered.  The blaze of colour made one's head reel.
People in all sorts of droll costumes 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 everyone carried miniature
representations of Punch, with bells attached, large rattles, or
paper flowers which, when blown, could be elongated to a ridiculous
extent.

Never before, in all my life, had I been amidst such a merry and
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 had heard it
denounced as a disgraceful exhibition by old ladies, who had 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 looked at him in suspicion.  He was a weird-looking creature in his
bird-dress of mauve and 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 oneself.  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 real fine bird?"

"Certainly," I laughed.  "You're absolutely hideous."

"Thanks for the compliment," he answered pleasantly.  "To unmask is
forbidden, or I'd take off this terrible affair, for I confess I am
half stifled.  But if I'm ugly, you're absolutely charming.  It's a
case of Beauty and the Bird.  Aren't my wings fetching?"

"Very."

"I knew you were English.  Funny how we Frenchmen can always pick out
English and Americans."

"How did you know I am English?" 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 unknown partner.

"I saw you up in that box," he said presently.  "I was waiting for
you to come down."

"Why?"

With 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
hopeless 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 impossible 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's just it.  She 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 now 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 tone, 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 voice, "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.  As I am not in the habit of thus chattering with
strangers at a public ball, I must wish you good evening," I said,
and turned abruptly away.

In an instant he was again at 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 cannot speak now, as someone may overhear.  I had to exercise the
greatest precaution in approaching you for there are spies
everywhere, and a single blunder would 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 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 London--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 only concern myself," I
responded in a hard voice, although I was eager 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 harsh
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 answered.  "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 plainly, 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, monsieur!" 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 finished," he replied.  "When I have done so, you will, I
think, only be anxious to learn more."  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 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 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 facts
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 do nothing," the deep voice responded.  "I only desire to warn
you."

"To warn me!" I cried, 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 and 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 of 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 was determined to fence
with him further and endeavour 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 or 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 endeavouring 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 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
came here to-night to warn you," he said, speaking quickly in a
hoarse 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,
exceedingly strange.

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 certainly 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.  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 18th 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 1st of June next."

"Well?" I exclaimed.

This stranger seemed to possess a good deal of knowledge in regard to
my antecedents.

"Well, on arrival in London you will go to the Hotel Cecil, and there
receive a visitor on the following day, the 2nd of June.  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 returning to London until next autumn."

"I think you will," was his reply, "because, when you fully consider
all the 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 voice.  "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 to give 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 and looked at the curious figure before me.

"In order to avoid doing so, then, I am to hold aloof from Mr.
Keppel, remain here until May, and then travel back 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 small recompense
for the trouble you must be put to by waiting here in the South, and
then journeying to London," and he drew from beneath his strangely
grotesque dress a small box, some four or five inches square, wrapped
in paper, which he handed to me.

I did not take it.  There was something uncanny about it all.

"Do not hesitate, or we may be observed," he said.  "Take it quickly.
Do not open it until you return to your hotel."

With these words 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 by 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 2nd 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.

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 recognise 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, though with pardonable curiosity I longed
to open it and see what it contained.

The warning he had given me was extremely disconcerting.  It 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
which 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 millionaire had become
attracted by me, and reposed in me a confidence which he did not
extend to others.  The more I reflected, the more I became convinced
that the stranger's fear of being recognised 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.

However much I tried, it appeared out of the question for me to
discover the motive guiding the stranger's conduct.  The only certain
fact was 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 favourable opportunity to speak with me, and 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 analysed my own feeling 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!

Perhaps Ernest Cameron was present, disguised by a mask and dress of
parti-coloured satin!  Perhaps he was down there among the dancers,
escorting that woman who had usurped my place.  The thought held me
in wonder.

Suddenly, however, 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 mademoiselle's pardon, but the Director would esteem it a
favour if mademoiselle 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, mademoiselle; 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 Director,
close to the main entrance of the Casino.

In the room I found the Director, an elderly man, with short, stiff
grey 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, apologised 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, in a tone of marked surprise.

"In the theatre, an hour ago, you were accosted 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 by 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
moustache, "we should esteem it a favour 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, gratified, nevertheless, 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, as he 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 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 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, at hearing my
story, seemed very much puzzled.

"You will pardon my intrusion," exclaimed the agent of police who had
first spoken to me, "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 this man's surmise that she is about to
become engaged to marry this Monsieur 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 monsieur!  Ah! there seems to be some
very deep motive; 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 Monsieur 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 2nd of June next."

"Ah!  And you intend keeping that appointment, I presume?"

"I intend to do nothing of the kind, monsieur," 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 mysterious
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 return to London?"

"I said I would consider the advisability of doing so."

"You are diplomatic--eh?" he said, with a laugh.  "It is unfortunate
that 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 Monsieur Ernest Cameron?  Is that so?"

I think I must have blushed beneath the piece of black velvet which
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 this tragic business!" 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 obtain
confirmation of our reports.  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 monsieur
the millionaire, is he not?"

I responded in the affirmative.

"And this Monsieur 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 colour to the belief that monsieur 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 the persons of whom your mysterious companion
was the mouthpiece--the people who threaten 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 Monsieur
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 these 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 stooped to pick it up.

I stood dumbfounded 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 person we suspected
him to be."

"Do you believe him to be the actual assassin?" I gasped.

But the detectives, with the aid of the Director of the Theatre, were
busy counting the stolen notes.  There were sixty, each for one
thousand francs.

They examined the leather jewellery 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 notes, which, even when folded, formed a rather large packet.

"They are undoubtedly those stolen from Monsieur 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 over 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 the 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
slip through our fingers thus--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 any longer, I suppose, so we had better endeavour 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 to see whether the
man who had worn the disguise of the night-bird was among the
travellers leaving for Marseilles at 2.30.  "Remain on duty at the
station until I send and relieve you," he said.  "There are several
special trains to Cannes and to Monte Carlo about three o'clock, on
account of the ball.  Be careful to watch them all.  It's my opinion
he may be going to cross the frontier at Ventimiglia.  I'll telephone
there as soon as I get down to the bureau."

"_Bien, monsieur!_" answered the other.

As they went out, after wishing me good-night, I followed them,
asking of the senior of the pair:

"Tell me, monsieur, what is my best course of action?  Do you think
the threats are serious?"

"Not at all," he said reassuringly.  "My dear mademoiselle, don't
distress yourself in the very least regarding what this man has said.
He has only endeavoured 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 our 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 is only a few steps to
the 'Grand.'"

"Ah, of course," he laughed.  "I had forgotten.  _Bon soir_,
mademoiselle."

I wished him good-night, and the next moment 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's 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 very thoroughly
into the boisterous amusement of 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 dropped, and as I had promised to tell her of
my strange adventure later, she left me for the night.

I am seldom troubled by insomnia, but that night little sleep came to
my eyes.  Lying awake has no attraction for anyone; yet it is an
experience which many have to suffer constantly, though not gladly.
That night my brain was troubled by a thousand conflicting thoughts.
I turned on to the side on which I usually sleep, and closed my eyes.
But immediately ideas and suggestions of all kinds rushed at me.  It
was then that I recalled the mistakes of that night.  I noted the
opportunities missed, thought of the right things that I had left
unsaid, and groaned at the thought of what really found utterance.
Round and round went my mental machinery, and I knew well that sleep
was not to be expected.

A terrible restlessness set in upon me, and turn succeeded turn, till
I wished myself a polygon, so that the sides to which I could change
might be more numerous.  Some people have recourse to a small shelf
of bedside books to lull them to rest.  I think it was Thackeray who
said, "'Montaigne' and 'Howell's Letters' are my bedside books.  If I
wake at night I have one or other of them to prattle me off to sleep
again."  Montaigne seems to have been a favourite author with many
people for this purpose.  The cheerful, companionable garrulity of
the Gascon is the ideal pabulum for those suffering from wakeful
hours at night, for both Pope and Wycherley used to lull themselves
to sleep by his aid.

Alas!  I had no Montaigne--nothing, indeed, more literary or
prattling than a couple of the local newspapers of Nice.  Therefore I
was compelled to lie and endure the thoughts which fled through my
brain in a noisy whirr, and prevented me falling off into slumber.
The hotel seemed full of noise.  Strange sounds came from the
staircase, and stealthy footfalls seemed to make themselves audible.
From the outer world came other sounds, some familiar, others
inexplicable--all jarring upon the delicate nerves of hearing.

I lay there thinking it all over.  I had now not the slightest doubt
that the man in the owl's dress was the actual assassin of poor
Reggie.  And I had chatted amiably 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 pocket!  The incident
was rendered the more 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 and 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."

"No, I think not," I responded.  "He was clever enough to evade
observation, and took care to make the most of the little alcove in
the box."

"But the stolen notes!" she cried.  "He evidently wished to get rid
of them in order to avoid being found with the money in his
possession.  So he presented you with them.  A grim present,
certainly.  The fellow apparently has a sense of humour."

"I tell you, my dear Ulrica, I'm terribly upset.  I haven't slept at
all."

"Enough to upset anyone," she declared.  "We must tell Gerald, and
ask his advice."

"No, we must not tell him all.  I beg of you to say nothing regarding
myself and old Mr. Keppel."

"Certainly not.  I shall be discreet, rely upon me.  Gerald will
advise us how to act."

"Or the old gentleman might give us some advice," I suggested; for
Gerald was given to fits of frivolity, and this was a matter
extremely serious.

"You intend to say nothing of the appointment in London?" she
inquired, looking at me sharply.

"Nothing," I responded.  "That is a secret between us."

"Do you intend to keep it?"

"I scarcely know.  My actions will, of course, be controlled by the
discoveries of the police."

"The police!" she ejaculated.  "I don't believe in them at all.  They
make a great pretence, but do nothing."

"They evidently know the individual who came to me last night."

"Certainly.  But why didn't they arrest him when he was under their
very noses.  No, my dear Carmela, depend upon it, here, in this world
of Monte Carlo, the police are bribed, just as the Press, the
railwaymen, and postmen are bribed, by these 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."

"But we can trust Gerald and Mr. Keppel," I suggested.

"Of course," she answered.  "But what a strange thing it is that this
man, whoever he is, noticed exactly what I also had noticed, namely,
that the old gentleman is among your admirers."

"Yes.  It almost seems as though he were actually in our circle of
friends, doesn't it?"

"My dear Carmela," she said, "the affair of poor Reggie's death was
curious enough, but its motive is absolutely inscrutable.  This man
who met you last night was, as the police properly described him, a
veritable artist.  He disguised himself as an owl because the dress
of a bird would conceal his real height or any personal deformity,
while the face was, of course, entirely hidden by the beaked mask.
Had he gone as a pierrot, or in the more ordinary guises, he might
have betrayed himself."

"But the return of the stolen money," I observed.  "Can you imagine
why he ran such a risk?  He condemned himself."

"No, I really can't.  It is an absolute enigma."

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
an 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 in Italy."

"One goes to keep the other cheerful, I believe," Ulrica remarked.

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 honour of addressing Mademoiselle Rosselli."

"That is my name," 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 took two cabinet pictures from his pocket and
handed them to me.

One was a prison photograph of an elderly, sad-eyed convict, with a
rather bald head and a 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 moustache denoting him to be a
foreigner.

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 anyone 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 Monsieur
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 the face of any member 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 British
Ambassador 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 in 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 police!  They were impostors!"




CHAPTER XI

DESCRIBES A MEETING AND ITS SEQUEL

His words staggered me.

"Not agents of police!" I cried, dumbfounded.  "Why, they were fully
cognisant of every detail of the affair.  It was the Director of the
Casino who presented them."

"Then Monsieur le Directeur was tricked, just as you were," he
answered gravely.  "You say you actually received from the hand of
someone who wore an effective disguise the sum stolen from the
unfortunate monsieur?  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 innocently gave the notes upon representation
that they were agents of 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 posed as police agents?  Will you kindly
describe them?" And at the same time 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 occurred."

"Marvellous!" exclaimed the man reflectively.  "Only very clever
thieves 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
dreamt 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 2nd of June.  It seems as though it were desired 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 were 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 very easy to commit an error, and fall a victim to
roguery."

"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 is evident that, for some hidden purpose, he
had an important reason for passing the stolen notes into your
possession."

"But why?"

"Ah, that is one of the mysteries which we must try to 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 Monsieur 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 anyone about it?"

I glanced at Ulrica inquiringly.

"Certainly," she answered.  "If monsieur so 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 surpasses comprehension.  I don't like the
aspect of affairs at all.  If it were not for the fact that we have
so many friends here, and that it is just the height 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."

"Gerald told me last night that the old gentleman has ordered great
preparations to be made for us on board the _Vispera_.  He intends to
do the thing well, as he always does when he entertains."

"We shall, no doubt, have a most glorious time," I answered, as
together we went forth to meet the Allens, whom we found with their
automobile brake outside Vogarde's, that smart confectioner's, where,
as you, my reader, know, the cosmopolitan world of Nice sips tea at
four o'clock.  At most Continental health resorts afternoon tea is
unknown, but with visitors to Nice it is quite a solemn function,
even though they be Parisians, and never taste tea except in winter
on the Côte d'Azur.  At Rumpelmayer's, that white and gold tea-shop,
where many a royal highness or grand duchess descends to sip a cup
and nibble an appetising piece of confectionery; at the English
tea-house on the Quai Massena, known familiarly to winter visitors as
"the muffin shop," and at Vogarde's, famed for crystallised fruits,
it is usual to meet everyone who is anyone, and gossip pleasantly
over the tea-cups.  On the Promenade des Anglais there is no really
fashionable hour, as in other resorts, but the recently-instituted
"five o'clock" is the reunion of everyone, and the chatter is always
polyglot.

Our trip to Tourette proved a charming one.  It is a delightful
sensation to rush along the road at the speed of a railway train in
an easy vehicle which trumpets like an elephant at every corner and
passes everything like a flash.  The French have certainly improved
on the ordinary means of locomotion, and if the automobile is noisy,
the vibration is never felt in travelling, while the nauseous
fumes--which, it must be admitted, sometimes half poison the
passer-by--are always behind.

That same night, after dinner, 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 fashionable Europe seemed there,
including an English royal highness and a crowd of other notables.
One of De Lara's operas was being played in the Casino theatre, and
as this composer is a great favourite there, a very large audience
was attracted.

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
round the table 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, with her 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!  It is indescribable!  It is appalling!

Temptation is spread there 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 there was seated at the table, exactly opposite where I
stood, unnoticed among the crowd, no less a person than 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 which appeared practically
certain, but he had no fine fortune, and the croupier raked in his
money.

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 myself 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 the next instant, and then,
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, 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 of
his countenance, and he stood glaring at me as though I were an
apparition.  His mouth was slightly opened, his hand trembled, his
brow 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 the woman who had usurped my
place.




CHAPTER XII

CARRIES ME ON BOARD THE "VISPERA"

Faces, even expressions, may lie, but eyes never learn the knack of
falsehood.  A man may commit follies; but once cured, those follies
expand his nature.  With a woman, sad to tell, follies are always
debasing.  It was, I knew, a folly to love Ernest Cameron.

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 idealisation--all is
disappointing.

I stood gazing after him as he strode down the great room with its
bejewelled and excited crowd, in which the _chevalier d'industrie_
and the _déclassée_ woman jostled against pickpockets 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.

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, how 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.  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 realised 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, and Ulrica cried delightedly that she
had won on 16, her favourite number.  But I did not answer.  My heart
had grown sick, and I went forth into the healing 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 catchy _chanson_ so
popular at the café-concert:

  "_A bas la romance et l'idylle,
  Lea 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 los!_"


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 only 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 bears upon the most fatal of
all sentiments; that it brings about the most deadly of all mental
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, abandoned by the man she loved, amused
herself wherever amusement could be procured; but I still remained an
honest woman, as I had always been ever since those sweet and
well-remembered days spent in the grey old convent outside Florence.
At Monte Carlo the scum of the earth enjoy the flowers of the earth.
I detested its crowds; I held in abhorrence that 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.

Thus I returned to Nice with a feeling that for me, now that Ernest
had drifted away from my side to become a placid gambler, and to live
careless of my love, 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 into 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
continually arise as 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 Harbour on board the
_Vispera_.  The party was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of
youngish people, several of whom we knew quite well, and before 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 in
accordance with its owner's designs, and it certainly was an Atlantic
liner in miniature.

Our plans had been slightly altered, for since 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,
indeed, 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 the dinner at which its owner
presided was a meal sparkling with merriment.

I was placed next Lord Eldersfield, a pleasant, middle-aged,
grey-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
chief 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 day passed merrily, and had it not been for constant thoughts of
the 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 the glitter of Nice and Monte Carlo; and with Lord
Eldersfield as my cavalier, I 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, and mingled with those crowds of mysterious-looking veiled
Arab women who were bargaining for their purchases in the market.
All was fresh; all was diverting.

As for Ulrica, she entered thoroughly into the spirit of the new
sensation, 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 remarkable
variety of bad smells which invariably exist 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
he had some business affairs to attend to in the deck-house, which he
kept secret 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 drive about in brakes and revisit 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 where 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 very 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.  Because all knew him to be eccentric, this apparent
disregard of our presence was looked upon as one of his peculiar
habits.  Upon Gerald devolved the duty of acting as entertainer, and,
assisted by Ulrica, old Miss Keppel and myself, he endeavoured to
make everyone happy and comfortable.  Fortunately, the ubiquitous
Barnes had, by Gerald's desire, been left behind at the Villa Fabron.

As day by day we steamed up that tranquil sea in brilliant weather,
with our bows ever thrusting themselves toward the 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 a month cruising--and a month in the
Mediterranean in spring is 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 what with the piano and a couple of
violins, played by a pair of rather insipid sisters, the dance was
quite a jolly one.  We persuaded even old Mr. Keppel to dance, and
although his was a not very graceful feat, nevertheless his
participation in our fun put everyone in an exceedingly good humour.

Of course, the month had not passed without the usual gossip and
tittle-tattle inseparable from a yachting cruise.  On board a yacht
people quickly become inventive, and the most astounding fictions
about one's neighbours are whispered behind fans and books.  I had
heard whispers regarding Ulrica and Gerald Keppel.  Rumour had it
that the old gentleman had actually given his consent to their
marriage, and as soon as they returned to England 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 rumour.  More
than once that evening I had been asked whether it were true, and so
persistent seemed the rumour 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 Gerald and
myself.  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 these 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."

"Of course not, but you might possibly give him a hint."

"Ah! now, my dear Carmela," she cried impatiently, "you want to
lecture me, eh?  You know how I hate being lectured.  Let's end the
discussion before we become bad friends."

And so, with a light laugh, she rearranged her hair and left my cabin
to return on deck, where dancing was still proceeding beneath the
great electric lights.  Four bells had rung out sharply, showing it
to be two o'clock, before I went down to my cabin, attended by
Felicita.  Very soon, however, I sent her to bed and lay down to rest
myself.

Somehow, I could not sleep that night.  The monotonous whirr and
throbbing of the engines sounded like continual thunder in my ears,
and even the swish of the long waves as they rose and fell at the
port-hole irritated me.  Of late I had developed insomnia to an
alarming extent, but whether it was due to the noise of the
machinery, or to nervousness, I know not.

I turned and turned in my narrow berth, but could not sleep.  The
atmosphere seemed stifling, in spite of the ventilators; and I dared
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 tramping of the sailors
overhead, the roar of the funnels, all rendered sleep utterly
impossible.

At last I could stand it no longer.  I rose and dressed, putting on a
big driving-coat.  Then, with a thick shawl about my head, I 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.  Save for those figures, I was utterly alone.  On my way
towards the stern I passed the small deck-house, which old Mr. Keppel
had 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, so that he might
pursue 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 found
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 Portsmouth he bought some antique Moorish
furniture and ivory carvings in Tangier, and has stored all his
purchases in there until we return.  I've seen them 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 myself 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 occurred to me strange that anyone 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 I confess that I
attempted to distinguish the words, but the roar of the funnels and
howlings of the wind drowned every other sound.

What if my host caught me prying?  His private affairs were surely no
business of mine.  Remembering this, I was about to turn away, when
suddenly I experienced an extraordinary desire to peep inside that
forbidden chamber.  I walked round it again, stealthily, for, as luck
would have it, 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.  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 rather too much exposed to the eye of the
officer on the bridge.  Fortunately, I was behind him, but if he had
occasion to turn round he would be sure to discover me.

Having risked so much, however, I was determined to make further
endeavour.  I leaned across the small roof, 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 as rigid as if I had been 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 whole interior, the ventilator being open only a couple
of inches; but what I saw was sufficient to unnerve any woman.

The cabin was lit brilliantly 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 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 lady's 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 grey 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 grey and
bloodless.  Both anger and alarm were depicted upon his rugged
countenance.  His appearance was mysterious, to say the least; but it
was another object within that room which held me in speechless
wonderment.

Near where he stood, lying in a heap at his feet, was a dark-haired,
handsome woman, in a white silk robe--a stranger.

The old millionaire, with a sudden movement, flung himself upon his
knees, and touched her face caressingly.  The 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 if it
desired to hurl me 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
shudderingly 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 the 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 with difficulty 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 unseen man, in a hard and
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 endeavoured 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, despairing man.

"Well, if I might be permitted to advise, I'd make a clean 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, 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, beside 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'd 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 behoves 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?"

"Perfectly simple.  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
rudely buffeted by the gale.

As at any moment I might be discovered, I made haste to lower myself
again to the deck, though not without difficulty, and then cautiously
returned to my own cabin.

I had been soaked to the skin by the rain and spray, but though 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 the loss of perhaps 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 a face 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 an inoffensive old gentleman, who was
the very last person in the would 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 coldly and clammily.  I now exchanged them
for a warm wrap, entered my berth, and 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 endeavour 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 well to
recognise whether it was that of one of our fellow-guests.  I slipped
on a mackintosh, returned to the deck, and crept towards the cabin,
wherein reposed the remains of the mysterious woman in white.  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 frequently the case 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 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 ashore 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 London.  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 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 scents do not all come from
roses."

"Certainly not.  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 decided by vote whether the _Vispera_ should
remain at Leghorn or not.  By 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, together with every soul on board.




CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH I MAKE A RESOLVE

The great broad plain which lies between marble-built 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 recognised the gay Passeggio, with its avenue of dusky
tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses, with their green
_persiennes_, and Pancaldi's, and 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 care of
Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so
from the intolerable heat of July in the Val d'Ema.  How well I
remembered that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, best
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.  I thought of her who was my best
friend in those past days--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 sad one.  In a year, however,
she had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Romolo Annibale
Cesare Sigismondo, Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles,
was "principe Romano, principe di Pinerolo, conte di Lucca, nobile di
Monte Catini."  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 square old lighthouse,
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 men on the
way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the British sailor is
always a welcome guest in Leghorn.

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 he and this stranger 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 leaned at my side.

"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?"

"There is opera at the Goldoni always.  One pays only four lire for a
box to seat six," I said.

"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, so as to save the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera.
Mascagni is Livornese, and Puccini, who composed La Boheme, was also
born close here.  In 'cara Livorno,' as the Tuscan loves to call it,
one can hear the best opera for five-pence."

"Compare that with prices in London!"

"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'm 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.  "I feel a little faint, that's
all."

We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and those very
inquisitive gentlemen--the Italian Customs officers--had come on
board.  A few minutes 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.

"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, as I hastened
to slip from her side.

I wanted to be alone to think.  Keppel's 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, and was ready to take my seat 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 Eldersfield in the Via Grande, the principal
thoroughfare.

How next to act I knew not.  No doubt Keppel's intention was to send
on board some explosive destined to sink the _Vispera_ to the bottom
with all on board.  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.  Keppel had gone alone to the telegraph
office in a cab.

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 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 some light-coloured silk as head-covering, promenading
and enjoying the _bel fresco_ after the toil and burden of the day.
None in all the world can surpass in beauty the 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 verse
written about them by an old Florentine poet:

  "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 several years, I heard, as I walked onward, the
soft sibilations of the Tuscan tongue about me, the gay chatter of
that city of sun and sea, where, although half the population is in a
state of semi-starvation, 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 cut; 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 garrison was playing in the great Piazza
Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag
was waving, because the warships were in the port.  The music was in
acknowledgment of the fact that the British Marine Band had played
before the Prefecture on the previous evening.  The Consulate was
illuminated, and on the balcony, in company with a large party, was
the Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson--known to every
English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and
happiest of good fellows, as well as a distinguished author and
critic.  I recognised him, looking cool in his suit of white linen,
but hurried on across the great square, feeling that no time should
be lost, and yet not knowing what to do.

The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie, and the curious events
which followed, coupled with the 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
millionaire beneath his thumb--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.




CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH WE PAY A VISIT ASHORE

The mystery of the deck cabin was puzzling.

I alone held knowledge of the dastardly plan formed to blow up the
yacht, and was determined that the vessel should not sail again
before I had warned my fellow-guests.  But how?

I had watched the old millionaire narrowly, and had plainly detected
his nervous agitation, and his anxiety for the cruise to be brought
to an end.  As far as I myself was concerned, I had no intention of
again sailing in the _Vispera_, and would certainly not allow Ulrica
to continue the voyage.  That the yacht was doomed was plain.  Even
at that moment old Mr. Keppel was sending mysterious telegrams, in
all of which I scented some connection with the tragedy that had
occurred on board.  It struck me that the wisest course would be to
attach myself to my host as much as possible, and narrowly watch his
movements.  With that intention, therefore, I turned back and walked
as far as the great Piazza Carlo Alberto, where the central telegraph
office was situated.  On the stone seats around the spacious square
hundreds of people were sitting and gossiping beneath the stars, for
the Italian of the working-class loves to gossip at night, when the
day's toil is over, and the cool breeze comes in from across the sea.

I met Keppel emerging from the office, and with some surprise he
greeted me.  I told him that I had been making some purchases, while
the others had gone to the opera, whereupon he suggested that we,
too, should take a cab to the Goldoni and join the party there.

This we did.  The old man was unusually chatty and affable, and
during our drive told me he had decided that the _Vispera_ should lie
in Leghorn for the next five or six days, as he was expecting letters
from England in reply to the telegrams he had just despatched.

This surprised me.  If he and his unknown accomplice wished to get
rid of traces of their crime by blowing up the vessel, it seemed only
probable that they would do so at the earliest possible moment.
Again, a second point was an enigma.  How was it that the Customs
officers, who had searched the yacht, and had, of course, entered the
mysterious deck-house, had not discovered the crime?

Keppel was a very shrewd old fellow, but it was my duty to prevent
the consummation of the dastardly plot which his accomplice had
suggested.  With this object in view, I made a point of remaining as
near him as possible.

In the investigation of matters such as these a woman is in many ways
handicapped.  A man can go hither and thither in search of truth, and
act in a manner for which a woman can find no excuse.

At the Goldoni, an enormous theatre, rather dingy with age, but
nevertheless comfortable, Verdi's _Aida_ was being performed, and
when we entered the box occupied by our party, Ulrica greeted me with
enthusiasm.

"You were quite right, Carmela, dear.  The music is really wonderful.
I had no idea that they had opera of such high quality in a small
Italian town.  The tenor is a great artist."

"Ah!" I laughed.  "I was sneered at when I dared to say that there
was anything of interest in Leghorn.  You have at least found an
evening's amusement equal to any you'll find in London.  Pretty
toilettes you won't find, as at Covent Garden, but good opera you can
always hear."

"I quite agree with Miss Rosselli," declared Gerald, as he rose to
give me his seat.  "Leghorn is a charming place.  And what lovely
women!  I've never in all my life seen such a galaxy of beauty."

"Oh, then you have noticed them already!" I said, smiling at his
enthusiasm.

Every Englishman who goes to Leghorn is enthusiastic over the beauty
of the Livornese women, the well-cut, regular features, the dark
flashing eyes, the artistically-dressed hair, the great gold-loop
ear-rings, and the soft santuzza, or silken scarf, with embroidered
ends, wound about the head and secured by great pins, the finishing
touch to a thoroughly artistic adornment.

As the Englishman walks down the Via Grande, they, promenading in
couples or threes, arm in arm, turn and laugh saucily at him as he
passes.  Yes, they are a light-hearted, careless people, the
Livornesi, even though the poverty is terrible.  Hundreds would die
of sheer starvation yearly were it not for those kind Capuchins, Fra
Antonio, Padre Sisto, Padre Antonino, and the others, who daily
distribute bread to all who ask for it at the convent gate.  The good
friars have no funds, but Fra Orazio, a lay brother, and the youngest
of them, goes daily from house to house of the middle classes and the
wealthy, begging a trifle here and a trifle there with which to buy
the bread and the necessaries for soup for the starving.  And who
does not know Fra Orazio in Leghorn?  In his brown habit, a
dark-haired, black-bearded man of forty, with a round, jovial face
tanned by the sun, his rotund figure is as well known as the
equestrian statue of Vittorio Emanuele in the Piazza.

The theatre was crowded, the cheaper parts being packed by men and
women of the poorer classes, who had made that day one of
semi-fasting in order to be able to pay the _ingresso_, and hear the
music of their beloved _maestro_.  The audience was an enthusiastic
one, as it generally is in Italy--as quick to praise as it is to
condemn--and that night the principal singers were recalled time
after time.  In the Italian theatre there is a lack of luxury;
sometimes even the floor is unswept, and there is dust in the boxes;
nevertheless, all these drawbacks are counterbalanced by the
excellence of the performance.

To the millionaire's guests that performance was a revelation, and
when we left on the conclusion of the opera to return to the port and
go on board, Leghorn was voted by all to be quite an interesting
place.  Indeed, when our host stated that he intended to remain there
a few days owing to the necessities of his business, no one demurred.

Ulrica suggested at breakfast next morning that some of us should run
up to Florence on a flying visit, it being only sixty miles distant,
while somebody else urged the formation of a party to go and see the
famed leaning tower at Pisa.  For my part, however, I had resolved
that I would go wherever my host went.  Several times that morning I
passed and repassed the deck-cabin, but those green silk blinds were
closely drawn across the brass-bound port-holes, and the door was
carefully locked.

What a terrible mystery was contained therein!  If only my
fellow-guests were aware that on board the vessel was the body of an
unknown woman who had been foully and brutally murdered!  And yet a
distinct suspicion had now seized me that the Customs officers,
having searched and found nothing, the body must have been secretly
disposed of.  Perhaps it had been weighted and sunk during the silent
watches of the night.

Yet, if this had actually been done, what possible reason was there
to destroy the yacht and sacrifice the lives of those on board?  I
had thought it all over very carefully in the privacy of my own small
cabin, where the morning sunshine, dancing upon the water lying just
below my port-hole, cast tremulous reflections upon the roof of the
cosy little chamber.  No solution of the problem, however, presented
itself.  I was utterly bewildered.  A thousand times I was tempted to
confide in Ulrica, yet on reflection I saw how giddy she was, and
feared that she might blurt it out to one or other of her friends.
She was sadly indiscreet where secrets were concerned.

About ten o'clock I found the old millionaire lolling back in a
deck-chair, enjoying his morning cigar according to habit, and in
order to watch him, I sank into another chair close to his.  The
_Vispera_ was lying within the semi-circular mole; and so, while
protected from the sudden gales for which that coast is so noted,
there was, nevertheless, presented from her deck a magnificent
panorama of the sun-blanched town and the range of dark mountains
beyond.

"The young Countess Bonelli, who was at school with me, has invited
us all to her villa at Ardenza," I said, as I seated myself.  "You
will accompany us this afternoon, won't you, Mr. Keppel?"

"Ardenza?  Where's that?" he inquired.

"The white village there, along the coast," I answered, pointing it
out to him.  "I sent a message to the Countess last night, and half
an hour ago I received a most pressing invitation for all of us to
drive out to her villa to tea.  You'll come?  We shall accept no
excuses," I added.

"Ah, Miss Rosselli," he grunted, "I'm getting old and crochety; and
to tell you the plain truth, I hate tea-parties."

"But you men won't drink tea, of course," I said.  "The Countess is
most hospitable.  She's one of the best known of the younger
hostesses in Florence.  You probably know the Bonelli Palace in the
Via Montebello.  They always spend the spring and autumn at their
villa at Ardenza."

And so I pressed the old man until he could not refuse.  I watched
him very narrowly during our conversation, and became more than ever
convinced that his increased anxiety and fidgety behaviour were due
to the pricks of conscience.  More than once I felt sorely tempted to
speak straight out, and demand of him who and where was the woman who
had been concealed in that gilded deck-house?

But what would it profit to act ridiculously?  Only by patience and
the exercise of woman's wit could I hope to learn the truth.

His reluctance to go ashore increased my suspicions.  He had at
breakfast announced his intention of not landing before evening, as
he had some correspondence to attend to; but this seemed a mere
excuse to remain behind while the others went out exploring the town.
Therefore I was determined that he should accompany us, and I had
urged Ulrica to add her persuasive powers to mine.

The afternoon was one of those brilliant ones which are almost
incessant on the Tuscan coast.  About three o'clock we all landed,
including the old millionaire, and in cabs were driven along the
promenade and out by the city gate along the oleander grove to
Ardenza, the first village eastward beyond Leghorn on the ancient
Strada Romana, that long highway which runs from Marseilles to Rome.

All in the party were delighted with the drive along that wide
sea-road, which for miles is divided from the actual rocks by a belt
of well-kept gardens of palms and oleanders, forming one of the
handsomest and most beautiful promenades in the South of Europe.

I have often thought it curious that the ubiquitous British traveller
has never discovered Ardenza.  He will, no doubt, some day, and then
the fortune of the charming little retreat will be made.  Time was,
and not very long ago, when Nervi, Santa Margherita, and Rapallo were
unknown to those fortunate ones who follow the sun in winter; yet
already all those little places are rapidly becoming fashionable, and
big hotels are springing up everywhere.  The fact is, that _habitués_
of the South, becoming tired of the artificiality and flagrant vice
of the French Riviera, and of the terrible rapaciousness of
hotel-keepers and tradesmen in that most ghastly of all Riviera
resorts, San Remo, are gradually moving farther eastward, where the
sunshine is the same, but where the people are charming and as yet
unspoilt by the invading hordes of the wealthy; where the breezes are
health-giving, where the country is both picturesque and primitive,
and where the Aspasia of the boulevard and the _chevalier
d'industrie_ are alike absent.

Ardenza is a large village of great white villas in the Italian
style--mansions they would be called in England.  Some face the
splendid tree-lined promenade, but many lie back from the sea in
their own grounds, shut out from the vulgar gaze by walls high and
prison-like.  There is no mean street, for it is essentially a
village of the wealthy, where the great houses, with their wonderful
mosaic floors, are the acme of comfort and convenience, where both
streets and houses are lit by electricity, and where society is
extremely sociable, and yet select.

There is neither shop nor hotel in the place, but a quarter of a mile
away is the old village called Ardenza di Terra, to distinguish it
from that by the sea, a typical Italian village, with its old-world
fountain, round which the women, gay in their bright kerchiefs,
gossip; its picturesque bridge, and its long white high-road which
leads up to Montenero, that high, dark hill on which stands the
church with its miracle-working Virgin.  Both Byron and Shelley knew
and appreciated the beauties of the place.  The former had a villa
close by, which is, alas! now falling to decay; while Shelley
frequently visited Antignano, the next village along the old sea-road.

Better than San Remo, better than Bordighera, better than Alassio,
Ardenza will one day, when enterprising hotel-keepers discover it,
and the new direct railway from Genoa to Rome is constructed from
Viareggio to Cecina, become a rival to Nice.  At present, however,
the residents are extremely conservative.  They never seek to
advertise the beauties or advantages of the place, for they have no
desire that it should become a popular resort.  Nevertheless, I dare
to assert here that the sea-bathing is perhaps the finest in Europe,
that no promenade of any English watering-place equals it, and that
its climate, save in the month of August, is one of the best of any
place on the Mediterranean shore.

No wonder, then, that rich Italians have built their villas in so
lovely a spot, or that they go there to escape the fogs of the Arno,
or the dreaded malaria of Rome.

The Countess Velia met me at the port, and carried Ulrica and myself
home in her smart victoria.  We had not met for quite three years,
and I saw that the rather plain Velia of convent days had now grown
into a strikingly handsome woman.  Her husband, she told us, was
unfortunately in Venice.

The Villa Bonelli we found to be one of the largest in Ardenza, a
huge white mansion, with bright green _persiennes_, standing back in
its own grounds behind a large gate of ornamental iron, the spikes
being gilded, in accordance with the usual style in Italy.  Velia
received her guests in the great _salon_ upholstered in azure silk,
and then we wandered through the ground floor of the spacious
mansion, passing the smaller _salons_, and at last strolled out into
the garden, where tea was served in the English style under the
shadow of the orange trees.  Velia had never been able to master
English, and, as few of her guests beside myself spoke Italian, her
conversation was of necessity limited.  Nevertheless, after a five
weeks' cruise, resulting in the cramped sensation one usually
experiences while yachting, tea-drinking and rambling in that
beautiful garden, with its wealth of flowers, were delightful
occupations enjoyed by all, even by old Mr. Keppel, whose chief
wonder seemed to be at the magnificence of the house, which appeared
to be almost entirely constructed of marble.  The mosaic floors, too,
were splendid, worked in dark green and white, in imitation of those
in the Thermæ Antoninianæ at Rome.  The Bonellis were an ancient
family, one of the few Florentine nobles who were still wealthy.
Their ancestral castello was above Pracchia in the Apennines, between
Florence and Bologna, and Velia had several times since her marriage
given me pressing invitations to stay with her there.

At the convent we had always been close friends.  She was the
daughter of the Marchese Palidoro of Ancona, and once I had spent the
Easter vacation with her at her home on the Adriatic shore.  Ulrica
and the others found her a charming little woman, and, of course,
admired the two-year-old little Count, who was brought down from his
kingdom in the nursery, to be kissed and admired by us.




CHAPTER XVI

DISCUSSES SEVERAL MATTERS OF MOMENT

The men drank Marsala--always offered in the afternoon in an Italian
house--and smoked in the garden, while we women wandered wherever we
liked.  Those of my companions who had not before seen the interior
of an Italian villa were interested in everything, even to the
culinary arrangements, so different from those in England.  The
Italian cook makes his dishes over some half-a-dozen small charcoal
fires about the size of one's hand, which he keeps burning by a kind
of rush fire-screen, the English grate being unknown.

We had been there a couple of hours, and to all of us the change had
been pleasant after so long a spell at sea.  Velia was sitting apart
in the garden, and we were chatting, she telling me of the perfect
tranquillity of her married life.  Rino was, she declared, a model
husband, and she was perfectly happy; indeed, her life was a
realisation of those dreams that we both used to have long ago in the
old neglected garden of the convent, when we walked together
hand-in-hand at sundown.

She recalled those days to me--days when I, in my childish ignorance,
believed the world outside to be filled with pleasant things.  We had
not met since we had parted at the convent, she to enter Florentine
society and to marry, and I to drift about the world in search of a
husband.

"Suor Teresa's counsels were so very true," she said to me, as we
recalled the grey-eyed Sister who had been our foster-mother.
"Haven't you found them so, just as I have, even though you have
lived in England, your cold, undemonstrative England, and I here, in
Italia?"

"Suor Teresa gave us so much good advice.  To which of her precepts
do you refer?" I asked.

"Don't you recollect how she was always saying that, as women, the
first thing of importance was always to be content to be inferior to
men--inferior in mental power in the same proportion as we are
inferior in bodily strength.  Facility of movement, aptitude and
grace, the bodily frame of woman may possess in a higher degree than
that of man; just as in the softer touches of mental and spiritual
beauty her character may present a lovelier aspect than his.  Yet the
woman will find, Suor Teresa used to say, that she is by nature
endowed with peculiar faculties--with a quickness of perception,
facility of adaptation, and acuteness of feeling, which fit her
especially for the part she has to act in life, and which, at the
same time, render her, in a higher degree than man, susceptible both
to pain and pleasure.  These, according to our good Sister, are our
qualifications as mere women."

"Yes," I said, "I remember now.  Some of Suor Teresa's counsels I've
followed, but others, I fear, I threw to the winds.  She was a good
woman--a very good woman, Suor Teresa.  Do you remember how she used
to lecture us girls, and say: 'When you are women of the world, how
wide is the prospect which opens before you--how various the claims
upon your attention--how vast your capabilities--how deep the
responsibility which those capabilities involve!  In the first place,
you are not alone; you are one of a family--of a social circle--of a
community--of a nation.  You are a being whose existence will never
terminate, who must live for ever, and whose happiness or misery
through that endless future which lies before you will be influenced
by the choice you are now in the act of making.'  Do you remember the
kind of lectures she used to give us?"

"Perfectly well," answered Velia.  "But she is dead, poor woman; she
died of fever last summer."

"Dead!" I echoed

A pang of regret shot through my heart, for I remembered how sweet
and kind she had always been, how just and how devout in all her
religion.  To her I owed many stimulating ideas about good and evil,
few of which, I fear, remained long enough in my memory.  It was she
who taught me to love the virtuous and the good, and the recollection
of those early days of her tender guidance formed a bright spot in my
life, to which, I suppose, the mind will take me back at intervals as
long as existence lasts.

Velia was about my own age, and at the convent we had treated one
another as if we were sisters.  Therefore when we fell to talking of
those old days before the courses of our lives ran so far apart, my
memory drifted back to those home-truths which Suor Teresa and her
fellow-nuns had striven to instil into our rather fickle minds.

My fellow-guests left about five o'clock, for they had arranged to
continue on the sea-road and ascend to the famed pilgrimage church of
Montenero--one of the sights of Western Tuscany.  As I had made a
pilgrimage there in my school-days, at Velia's invitation I remained
behind to dine with her, promising Ulrica to return on board later in
the evening.

In the glorious blaze of crimson sunset which flooded the broad,
clear Mediterranean, causing the islands of Gorgona, Capraja, and
Corsica to stand out in purple grandeur in the infinite blaze of
gold, I sat upon the marble terrace, lolling in a long cane chair,
and chatting with the Countess.

How different had been our lives, I reflected.  She, married happily,
surrounded by every comfort that wealth could provide, a child which
was her idol, and a husband whom she adored; while I, one of those
unattached women who form the flotsam of society, world-weary,
forlorn, and forsaken, was beaten hither and thither up and down
Europe by every gust of the social wind.

I contrasted our lives, and found my own to be a hollow and empty
sham.  Of all the passions which take possession of the female
breast, a passion for society is one of the most inimical to domestic
enjoyment.  Yet how often does this exist in connection with an
amiable exterior!  It is not easy to say whether one ought most to
pity or to blame a woman who lives for society--a woman who reserves
all her good spirits, all her pretty frocks, her animated looks, her
interesting conversation, her bland behaviour, her smiles, her
forbearance, her gentleness, for society.  What imposition does she
not practise upon those who meet her there!  Follow the same
individual home; she is impatient, fretful, sullen, weary, oppressed
with headache, uninterested in all that passes around her, and
dreaming only of the last evening's excitement, or of what may
constitute the amusement of the next; while the mortification of her
friends at home is increased by the contrast her behaviour exhibits
in the two different situations, and her expenditure upon comparative
strangers of feelings to which they consider themselves to have a
natural and inalienable right.  I was terribly conscious of my own
failings in this respect, and in society Ulrica had been my chief
example.

I hated it all, and envied the woman who sat there chatting with me
so merrily.

There, in the fading afterglow, when the sun had disappeared behind
the distant headland, I told her, in reply to her question, of my
love and its disillusionment.  I told her his name--Ernest
Cameron--and at mention of it I thought I detected her dark brows
grow narrow for an instant.  But surely it was only fancy, for these
two had certainly never met.

"You have all my sympathy, Carmela," she said, in her soft Italian,
when I had told her the truth.  "You have suffered, poor child.  Your
words tell me so."

"Yes," I responded frankly.  "I have suffered, and am still
suffering.  Another woman stole his love from me, and I am left
deserted, forlorn; outwardly a smart figure as you see me, but within
my heart is the canker-worm of hatred."

"He may return to you," she said.  "His fancy may be a mere passing
one.  Men are so very fickle."

"No," I declared quickly, "it is all ended between us.  I loved only
once--loved him with all the charm of a first attachment.  She who
entertains this sentiment lives no longer for herself.  It was so in
my case.  In all my aspirations, my hopes, my energies; in all my
confidence, my enthusiasm, my fortitude, my own existence was
absorbed in his interests.  But now I am despised and forgotten."

She was so sympathetic that more than once I was tempted to confide
to her the whole of the strange facts and the mysteries that were so
puzzling to me.  But I hesitated--and in my hesitation resolved to
keep my own counsel.

We dined together, taking our wine from the big rush-covered _fiasco_
of Chianti placed in its swinging stand, according to the custom of
Tuscany; eating various dishes peculiarly Italian, and being waited
upon by two maids who spoke in that quaint but musical dialect of the
Tuscan shore.

Throughout the meal my thoughts wandered from my surroundings to the
dastardly plot formed to destroy the _Vispera_.  Where, I wondered,
was old Mr. Keppel?  For aught I knew, both he and his unseen
accomplice were engaged in buying explosives for the purpose of
causing the contemplated disaster.

Velia believed my preoccupation to be due to our conversation before
dinner, and I allowed her to continue in that belief.

Dinner in an Italian household is a very different meal to the French
_table d'hôte_ or the English evening meal.  The courses are varied,
and from the _anti-pasti_ to the _dolci_, all is new to the English
palate.  Those who have lived sufficiently long in Italy to become
imbued with its charm know well how difficult it is to relish the
substantial English cooking when one goes on a visit to the old
country; just as difficult as it is to enjoy the grey skies and smoky
cities of money-making Britain after the brightness and sunshine of
the garden of Europe.

At ten o'clock, after we had idled in the _salon_ with our coffee and
certosa--a _liqueur_ made by the old monks of the Certosa, outside
Florence, and not obtainable beyond the confines of Tuscany--Velia's
brougham came round, and reluctantly I took leave of her.

Our reunion had certainly been full of charm, for in those hours I
had allowed myself to forget my present position, and had, in
thought, drifted back to the placid days of long ago that had been
passed within the high grey walls of the ancient convent.

"Good-bye, Carmela," Velia said, holding my hand in hers warmly after
I had entered the carriage.  "Remember your promise to return here
before you sail.  I shall expect you."

I repeated my promise gaily, and then giving her a final "_Addio, e
buona notte,_" I was driven out of the great gates and into the night.

The road from Ardenza to Leghorn, a magnificent drive by day, is not
very safe at night.  The trees lining it form a refuge for any
thieves or footpads, and because of this it is patrolled continually
by a pair of mounted carbineers.

At length we came to the great iron gates of the city, which stretch
across the wide highway, flanked on either side by huge porticos, in
which are stationed the officers of the dazio, as the _octroi_ in
Italy is called.

Every article entering an Italian city is inspected with a view to
the imposition of taxes, hence every conveyance, from the country
cart of the contadino laden with vegetables for the market, to the
private brougham, is stopped at the barrier, and the occupant is
asked to declare what he or she has with him.

In front of the barrier the brougham was brought to a halt, and one
of the dazio guards, in his peaked cap and long overcoat with silver
facings, opened the door, inquiring whether I had anything liable to
be taxed.

"_Niente,_" I responded, and was preparing to resettle myself for the
journey, when the man, looking rather hard at me in the
semi-darkness, said:

"The signorina is named Rosselli, I believe?"

"Yes," I replied, surprised at the man's knowledge of my name.

He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat for a moment, produced a
letter, and then handed it to me in quite a surreptitious manner,
saying in a low tone:

"This is for the signorina."

Then he banged to the door with a great show of officiousness,
without waiting for me to thank him, and we drove forward along the
deserted promenade.

As it was quite dark within the carriage, I was unable to read the
communication that had so suddenly been handed to me.

What, I wondered, did it contain?  Who had taken the precaution to
bribe one of the dazio guards to hand it to me?

Surely it must contain something of the highest importance and
strictest privacy.




CHAPTER XVII

DESCRIBES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

At the outlying suburb of San Jacopo the street-lamps began, and
tearing open the strange note, I found it to contain some lines
penned in a rather uneducated hand.

As the coachman was driving at a good pace, I had some difficulty in
deciphering the words by the light of the street-lamps as their rays
flashed in, and as rapidly disappeared.  The words I read, however,
were decidedly curious.  Written in Italian, rather faintly, be it
said, the note ran as follows:


"The bearer will give you this in strictest secrecy.  Do not return
on board the yacht, but first call at Number 12, Via Magenta, ground
floor, where you will meet a friend whose interests are identical
with your own.  Dismiss your carriage near the port, and take a cab
to the address indicated.  Come, without fear, and without delay."


The invitation was, to say the least of it, a peculiar one.  Although
a woman, I am not naturally timid, especially in Italy, where I know
the language, and know the peculiarities of the people.  My first
feelings, however, were those of suspicion.  Why could not the writer
have approached me openly, without taking the elaborate precaution of
sending me the missive by the hand of the dazio guard?  Again, I was
not acquainted with the Via Magenta, and suspected it to be in a low
quarter of the city.  There are several parts of Leghorn into which a
woman would certainly not care to venture after dark.

The suggestion that I should not return to the yacht read to me as a
warning, especially in the light of the knowledge I had gained of old
Keppel's intentions.  Could it be possible that it was intended that
the _Vispera_ should sail before morning and go straight to her doom?

I sat back in the carriage, thinking it all over.  Finally, I came to
the conclusion that the writer of the letter, whoever he was, must,
like myself, be aware of the truth.  Our interests, he declared, were
identical.  That statement was in itself interesting, and filled me
with a curiosity which increased as I reflected.  I glanced again at
the sheet of common notepaper in my hand, and my suspicions were
again aroused by the fact that there was no signature.  The note was
anonymous, and no one, especially a woman, has any sympathy with
anonymity.

Should I disregard the warning, cast the letter out of the carriage
window, and return on board; or should I act according to its
instructions?

I was engaged in a very serious and difficult inquiry, which had
baffled experienced police officials, be it remembered.  In every
direction I scented suspicion, now that the old millionaire, the man
in whose integrity I had so firmly believed, was proved to be the
author of a foul and dastardly crime.  The whole affair was as
startling as it was incomprehensible.  The enigma was complete.

Ever since the time when I had been so cleverly tricked by the
pseudo-detectives in Nice, I had been on the alert to discover some
clue which might lead me to a knowledge of the manner in which poor
Reggie had met with his death.  That there was a deep-laid conspiracy
on foot was manifest, but in what direction to seek for an
explanation, I knew not.  The mystery of this strange affair unnerved
me.

The city of Leghorn is bisected by the Via Grande, its principal
street, which runs from the great Piazza Carlo Alberto in a straight
line down to the port.  At the bottom of this thoroughfare I stopped
the brougham, alighted, and sent the conveyance back to Ardenza.  The
steps at which I knew the yacht's boat would be awaiting me were a
considerable distance away, and I had no fear of detection by any
person who knew me.  At that hour all my fellow-guests would
undoubtedly be back on board; therefore if I kept the strange
appointment, I might return to the yacht within an hour, and no one
need be the wiser.

From the open casement of one of the high, not over-clean houses
facing the port, where boatmen and dock-labourers lived, sounded the
sweet twanging of a mandoline, while a voice sang an old Tuscan
serenade:

  "O!  Nina mia--o giovinetta,
  Lunica speme--delta mia vita;
  Deh! perchè vivi--così soletta
  In questa tetra--stanza romita?
                    Vieni, vieni!
    Vieni, deh! vieni a me d'accanto.
    Io t'amo tauto, io t'amo tanto!"


I listened, and as those words of passionate love fell upon my ears I
tried to shut them out.  They recalled too vividly the days when I
myself had been wooed by a man whom I loved.

The writer of the mysterious note had declared our interests to be
mutual.  This fact aroused my interest, causing me, in my eagerness
to learn the truth, to disregard my usual caution.  Hailing one of
the small open cabs which are characteristic of every Italian town, I
gave the man the address mentioned in the letter.

Contrary to my expectations, the Via Magenta proved to be one of the
principal streets down which the electric tramway passed, and Number
12 was, I found, a large, old palace of six stories, once the
residence of some count or marquis, but now, as a result following
the ruin of its original owners, it was evidently let out in flats.
The big doors, ponderous and iron-studded, as they nearly always are
in Italy--a relic of those turbulent days when every palazzo was a
miniature fortress--were closed when I alighted; but finding a row of
bells, I rang the one marked "terreno" (ground floor), whereupon the
door was unbolted by the occupant of the apartment, and I immediately
found myself just inside a huge, dark hall, where the noise made by
me in stumbling over a step echoed loudly.  There is always something
uncanny in the way an Italian door is opened at night by an unseen
hand, for one naturally expects to see a person standing behind it.
As a matter of fact, the opening is effected by a mechanical
contrivance which can be operated at will in any of the apartments.
Thus the occupants remain undisturbed until the visitor arrives at
their door.

I had turned, and was about to ask the cabman to give me some wax
vestas in order that I might find my way, when a door opened at the
further end of the hall, and against the light from within I saw the
silhouette of a young Italian girl about fifteen years old.  She came
forward, looking at me inquiringly, and then, as though she
recognised my features from a description that had been given her,
she exclaimed:

"It is the Signorina Rosselli!  Pass, signorina, pass!" and she led
the way into the apartment, closing the door behind her.  The place
was spacious, sparely furnished, but not particularly clean.  The
cheap paraffin lamp upon the table of the small room at the back of
the house to which I was conducted was smoking, blackening the glass,
and filling the place with suffocating fumes.  The stone floor of the
apartment was without carpet, and all the furniture it contained was
a cheap table, two or three old rush-bottomed chairs, and a tall
linen-press of a bygone day.  There was a damp, earthy smell, which
did not help to make the place any more inviting.  Indeed, I had
scarcely set foot in it before I became seized with suspicion and
regretted that I had come.

The girl, a tall, black-eyed Livornese, who wore a bodice of
cream-coloured cotton and a stuff skirt of dark crimson, was
evidently a serving-maid, for she drew forward one of the chairs,
inviting me to be seated.

"I presume I am expected here?" I inquired in Italian.

"Si, signorina," was the girl's reply, "the signore will be with you
in a moment.  Please be seated.  I will tell him."

She disappeared, closing the door after her.

The whole affair was mysterious.  Grim and forbidding by day, an old
Italian palazzo at night never inspires the stranger with confidence.
Its great chambers are full of ghosts of the past, and one's
imagination quickly conjures up visions of those old burghers who
were such good haters; of the gay young cavaliers who rode to a joust
or a skirmish with equal nonchalance; and of those richly-clad dames
who caused all the great tragedies that were enacted within these
dark, prison-like walls.

Little time was, however, allowed me for reflection, for almost
immediately the door opened, and there entered a dwarfed and ugly
little old man, with a queer wizened face, deeply wrinkled, and a
grey beard, bushy and untrimmed.  His appearance was so comical that
I could scarcely suppress a smile.

"Ah, signorina!" he cried, in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, "I am
glad you have come.  I feared that you might not get the letter, and
the matter is highly important."

"You are the writer of the letter?" I suggested.

"Ah, no, signorina," the old fellow squeaked.  "Unfortunately, I
cannot write--I can only make a cross."  He spoke Italian, with a
strong southern accent, and struck me as being of the lower class.
To me it was strange that the queer old fellow should inhabit part of
a palace of that description.  "I did not write the letter," he went
on, "but I wished to speak with you upon an important matter."

"I am all attention," I responded.  "Permit me to mention that I have
a cab waiting outside, and my time is precious."

"You are anxious to return on board the yacht, eh?" he grunted, with
a strange expression upon his puckered face.

"I must join my friends within an hour," I said.

"Your friends?" he echoed, with strange emphasis upon the final word.
"You are best apart from such as they."

"Why?" I inquired, surprised at the old fellow's sudden declaration.
He was evidently aware of some fact which it was desirable that I
should know.

"There are strong reasons why the signorina should not return on
board," he declared, with a mysterious air.

"As well as reasons why I should not number the Signor Keppel and his
guests among my friends?" I asked.

"The signorina guesses right," he answered, with a sinister smile.

"Then I presume that I may be permitted to know those reasons?" I
suggested.  "One cannot well break off a friendship without some
motive."

"Your own safety is sufficient motive, surely?" he argued.

"I am not in fear, and as far as I am aware there is no danger," I
declared, endeavouring to show a bold front, and hoping that the old
fellow would soon become more explicit.  He apparently alluded to the
conspiracy to blow up the yacht in order to hide old Keppel's secret.

"But our interests are mutual," he said, glancing at me sharply.

"How?"

"You are seeking to elucidate a mystery.  So am I.  You are
endeavouring to discover the person who assassinated the young Signor
Inglese at the Grand Hotel at Nizza.  So am I."

"You!" I cried in surprise.  "For what reason are you interesting
yourself in the matter?"

"I have a motive--a very strong one," he answered.  "We ought to
unite our efforts with a view to solving the mystery."

"The police have already failed," I remarked, inwardly ridiculing the
idea that any assistance could be rendered by the queer old fellow
living there in that dismal and silent palazzo.  Surely a man with
such a grotesque countenance could never act the amateur detective
with success!

"The police!" he sneered, when I mentioned them.  "They are useless.
They act by rule, and here, in Italy, may be bribed with a handful of
cigars.  The police!  They are not worth the value of a dried fig,
the whole of them."

"Then you favour independent effort, such as I myself am making?"

"Most certainly," croaked the old fellow.  "It may appear strange to
you that, working in the same direction as yourself, I am aware of
all you have already done."

"I don't understand," I exclaimed in surprise.

"I mean that I have been watching, just as you have.  I know all that
has happened--everything.  That is why we should combine our efforts."

"But what can you know of my inquiries?" I exclaimed dubiously.  "We
have never met before."

"No, signorina, that is true," he laughed.  "And we should not have
met now, were it not for the fact that events have occurred to render
our meeting necessary.  To show you that I am aware of the efforts
you have already made, I will describe to you how the money stolen
from the young Inglese was returned to you, and then cunningly
secured by trickery.  I will tell you, too, of certain matters which
occurred in Nice, and which you, no doubt, believe are only known to
yourself."

And then he went on to describe to me events and conversations which
had taken place in Nice, in such detail as to make it plain that the
old fellow had been well acquainted with my movements, and knew all
the efforts I had made to solve the tantalising problem.

He spoke of Ernest, too, with a strange familiarity, which made me
believe that they had been acquainted.  He showed himself to be
intimate with the doings of the man I loved, knowing both his past
movements and his present whereabouts.

"He is at Aix-les-Bains," he said, in reply to my question.  "At the
'Hotel d'Europe.'"

"And she?"

"The signorina pains herself unnecessarily," the old man responded,
with a slight touch of sympathy in his voice.  "But if she desires to
know, the person to whom she refers was, perhaps is still, at
Aix--'Hotel Lamartine.'"

"He has gone there to play, I suppose?"

"Yes.  She assists him, and has wonderful luck, just as she had at
Monte Carlo.  You remember?"

"Yes," I responded.  "But were you actually there?"

He smiled, and from his face I knew that he also had witnessed that
woman's fortune.

"And now?" I asked.

"From reports that have reached me, it seems that her luck has not
deserted her.  They made a _coup_ at baccarat three nights ago, and
won eighty thousand francs between them."

My teeth met and clenched themselves hard.  The woman who had stolen
my love held Ernest Cameron in her toils.  He believed that her
presence at the tables brought him good fortune.  And yet I loved him
so--better than life!  The old man's words brought to my mind a flood
of recollections belonging to the idyllic days of a love now dead.

Ah! if we had married, I would have been a much better woman, I
reflected bitterly.  To love is such a very different thing from a
desire to be beloved.  To love is woman's nature--to be beloved is
the consequence of her having properly exercised and controlled that
nature.  To love is woman's duty--to be beloved is her reward.

But where was my reward?




CHAPTER XVIII

CREATES ANOTHER PROBLEM

The queer-looking old man sitting there before me, fidgeting slightly
in his chair, was indeed a very grotesque figure.  From what he had
said, I could no longer doubt that he was aware of the whole of the
curious circumstances at Nice, and was likewise well acquainted with
the manner in which my relations with Ernest had been broken off.

How he had accomplished his manifestly clever espionage in Nice I
knew not.  Certainly I had never noticed his presence, either in Nice
or in the Rooms at Monte Carlo.  Besides, if he had presented himself
at the bureau of the Casino in such clothes as he wore at that moment
he would have been refused admission.  A man is not allowed to enter
if his trousers are turned up in wet weather, while the cycling
tourist in knickerbockers is promptly shown the door by the
semi-military janitors.  Yet from words he had let drop, he showed
himself intimate with all the features of the play of both Ulrica and
Ernest Cameron, and must have been present in the crowd around the
table.

The mystery surrounding the affair increased each moment.  And now
this dwarfed old man, of whose name I was unaware, desired me to
combine my efforts with his.

With that end in view he settled to talk with me seriously, pointing
out that poor Reggie had been murdered secretly, and that it was my
duty to discover the truth, and bring his assassin to justice.  I
admitted this, of course, but failed entirely to see what connection
the old fellow could have with it.  To me, in my ignorance of the
truth, he appeared to have entered into a matter which did not in the
least concern him.

"From what I have already told the signorina, I think she will be
convinced that our interests are really identical," he said
presently, after we had been talking some time.  "My own inquiries
have been independent of yours, but the result has been the same.  To
put it plainly, neither of us has discovered any clue whatsoever.  Is
not that the truth?"

"Unfortunately so," I exclaimed.  "All my efforts have been
unavailing."

"That is the reason we must combine," he urged.  "A woman cannot hope
to elucidate such a mystery unaided.  It is impossible."

He was a crafty old fellow, this dwarfed person, with the grotesque
features.  He eyed me strangely, and more than once I entertained
misgivings that he was not acting altogether straightforwardly.
Somehow, his surroundings did not strike me as those of a man who had
sufficient money to travel hither and thither in order to take up a
task in which the police had ignominiously failed.  From his rather
reluctant admissions, I gathered that he was acting at the
instigation of poor Reggie's friends; yet he was not altogether
explicit upon that point, and a good deal of doubt existed in my mind.

"Well," I said at last, in order to bring matters to a point, "and
how do you suggest that we should combine our forces, Signor----" and
I hesitated purposely, in order to give him an opportunity of telling
me his name.

"Branca--Francesco Branca," he exclaimed, concluding my sentence.

"Well, Signor Branca, I am ready to listen to any suggestions you may
make in order successfully to trace the assassin."

"We must first understand each other perfectly," responded the queer
old man.  "You have not yet told me the full extent of your
inquiries, or whether you entertain any suspicion of any person.  You
have been yachting these past five weeks.  Has nothing occurred to
arouse suspicion during that period?  If we are to combine, we must
know the extent of each other's investigations, and the result," he
added.  "What has been the nature of your life on board the
_Vispera_?"

"Pleasant, on the whole," I responded.

"Has nothing occurred?" he inquired, looking at me with a straight
and searching glance.

"You speak as though you already have knowledge of something," I
said, endeavouring to smile.

"I simply ask the question," he squeaked, in his high-pitched voice.

At first I hesitated whether to tell him the truth; yet when I
reflected upon his statement that he was acting in the interests of
Reggie's family, I became induced to tell the old fellow the truth
regarding my discovery in the deck-house, and the plot I had
overheard.

Contrary to my expectations, my statement did not disturb him in the
least.  He only raised his grey brows with an expression of surprise,
and said:

"Then I was correct in my surmise that certain persons on board the
yacht are not your friends, signorina.  Was I not?"

"You were," I admitted.  "But it is Mr. Keppel himself who will be
responsible for the blowing up of the vessel, because he has
acquiesced in a suggestion made by a person unknown."

"You never saw the man who was speaking with this Mr. Keppel?  You
are certain of that?"

"Quite.  He was very careful not to come within range of the open
ventilator."

"A wary person, evidently," grunted the old fellow.  "Depend upon it,
he has some very strong motive for the vessel being sent to the
bottom with all on board.  The captain suspects nothing, I take it?"

"Absolutely nothing.  Ought we to warn him?"

"Warn him!" cried the old man.  "Why, certainly not.  We must remain
quite quiet, and be extremely careful not to show our hand.  Their
secret is ours.  For us that is sufficient at the present juncture,"
he added, with an air of contentment.

"But delay may result in the catastrophe," I said.  "The yacht may
sail at any moment when it pleases her owner to cast her away."

"Well," he said, after a few moments of hesitation, "what you have
told me certainly increases the mystery, and is deeply interesting.
You have, I suppose, no suspicion that any of the yacht's officers
are aware of the plot?"

"The unseen originator of the conspiracy may have been an officer,
for aught I know," I said.  "I have related the occurrence to you
just as it took place.  I know exactly nothing more."

"But you must discover more," he declared anxiously.  "The matter
must not rest here.  If what you say is really true, then there has
been murder done on board.  The mysterious passenger is a perplexing
feature, to say the least.  Describe her to me as fully as you can."

I acted upon his suggestion.  Unfortunately, however, suspended as I
had been in that tearing wind on the night of my discovery, I had
been unable to take in every detail of her features.  But I gave him
a description as minute as was possible, and it apparently satisfied
him.

"Strange," he murmured, "very strange!  To me it seems as though your
discovery leads us into an entirely different channel of inquiry.
Surely Keppel himself had nothing to do with the assassination of
young Signor Thorne!" he added slowly, as though the startling theory
only that moment occurred to him.

More than once already had that same suspicion crossed my mind, but I
had always laughed it to scorn.  There was an utter absence of
motive, that convinced me of its impossibility.

And yet, had I not actually heard with my own ears Keppel confess to
a murder which he himself had committed?

"Do you think that the lady could have come on board at Algiers?" he
inquired.

"I cannot tell," was my answer.  "The deckhouse has been kept closed
and curtained during the whole cruise.  It was that fact which
aroused my feminine curiosity."

"If the fact caused you to investigate, it may also have induced
others to make inquiry," he remarked.  "Do you think it has?"

"How can I tell?  One fact is certain, namely, that I am the only
person who was a witness of the crime, or who overheard the unseen
man's suggestion."

"You would be unable to recognise the voice of that person?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded.  "In that wild hurricane it was difficult to
distinguish the tone of voice."

He remained thoughtfully silent for a long time.  The muscles of his
grotesque face worked strangely, and in his eyes was a crafty look
which somehow gave me the impression that he was aware of more than
he had told me.

"Well," he exclaimed at last, shifting his position slightly and
looking me straight in the face, "and what is your present
suggestion?"

"It seems very plain that if the yacht sails she is doomed, with all
on board," I said, "therefore, she must not leave Leghorn."

"I quite grant that," responded my companion; "but how can you
prevent it?  Her owner is a person of many eccentricities.  This
morning he says he will remain here a week, yet to-night, when you
are all calmly asleep, he may order his captain to put to sea.  Who
is to prevent him?  Neither you nor myself."

"My intention is to keep a strict watch upon his movements, and
ascertain where he goes, and whether any explosive is taken on
board," I said.

"A most laudable intention, but I fear it is one that you will find
very difficult to execute," he said.  "If I may be permitted to
advise, you should leave that matter to me, and turn your attention
rather to the locked deck-house.  By some means you must gain an
entry, and see what is really concealed there."

"I am well aware of what secret is hidden there, without gaining an
entrance," I responded.

"You tell me that the woman is dead," he observed.  "Well, I do not
doubt you; but I nevertheless consider it strange that if she is
dead, and the persons concerned in her decease wished to get rid of
the body, they have not already dropped it overboard.  Such a matter
would not be at all difficult in the night.  Why would Keppel, a
parsimonious man, consent to the total destruction of a yacht of the
costly character of the _Vispera_?  It is utterly unreasonable."

"From one point of view I quite agree with you," I argued; "but there
may be further reasons why the yacht should be cast away--reasons of
which we are ignorant."

"But is it reasonable that the owner of a yacht would enter the port
of Leghorn with a body on board?" he queried.  "No.  The officials
are too prying.  Depend upon it, the body is no longer on board.
They've got rid of the evidence of the crime--Keppel and this unknown
accomplice of his."

"Then if such is the truth, why should they plot to cast the vessel
away?"

"That is exactly my argument.  I am convinced that although the
question of blowing up the _Vispera_ may have been mooted, the
project has now been abandoned.  At first it appeared to me more
likely that Keppel and his associate would place some explosive on
board and make an excuse for not sailing in the vessel.  But on
reflection it seems obvious that the body cannot now be on board, and
therefore no end would be gained by casting the ship away.  No, there
is no danger in returning on board--none whatever.  True, Keppel is
very eccentric, like many man of great wealth, and may sail again at
any moment; but it is equally certain that the dastardly project is
not to be put into execution."

"Then you believe that all is quite safe on board?"

"I am quite convinced of it.  Your best plan of action, if you agree
to combine your efforts with my own, is to return and use every means
to gain an entrance to the deck-house.  I have not the slightest
expectation that you will discover any actual trace of the crime, but
I somehow feel confident that what it contains will give us some
clue."

"A clue to the mystery in Nice?" I inquired eagerly.

"Yes," he responded, not without some hesitation.  "I believe that we
shall gain knowledge from that carefully-guarded cabin."

"But it is always locked," I protested, "and Keppel keeps the key
upon his chain."

"You must exercise your woman's ingenuity," he laughed.  "Already you
have proved yourself to be as keen and resourceful as any
professional detector of crime.  Continue, and we shall succeed."

"If, as you appear to anticipate, we sail to-night, we may not meet
again," I remarked.  "Shall I address you here in case of necessity?"

"No.  Do not write to me.  We know not into whose hands the letter
might fall," he answered quickly.  "We shall meet again, signorina,
never fear--in Leghorn, or in some other city.  I shall travel by
land, you by sea."

"But what causes you to anticipate that the _Vispera_ will leave
to-night?" I demanded, for he spoke with such authority that I was
puzzled.

"I read certain telegrams which Keppel sent off to-day.  I followed
him to the telegraph-office, and watched him write.  He probably
believed that I could not read English.  From the messages, it
appeared that the _Vispera_ is to go direct from here to Ragusa, in
the Adriatic, and thence to Venice."

"Then we are turning back again!" I cried in dismay.  "It was
understood that we were on our way to Marseilles, where the party was
to break up."

"Exactly, but the _Vispera's_ itinerary appears to have now been
altered by its eccentric owner, and as soon as possible you will
leave for the Adriatic."

"Well," I said frankly, "to tell the truth, I have no desire to go on
board again."

"But it is imperative," the old fellow declared quickly; "absolutely
imperative!  You must not drop your inquiries at this the most
critical moment.  You must find means to enter that deck-house.
Spare no pains, and use every endeavour and every wile to gain your
end.  We must know what is hidden there."

"Shall you go to Venice and meet me there?" I inquired anxiously.

"Ah, I cannot tell!  So much depends upon the inquiries I am making,
and upon future occurrences.  But we shall meet soon, never fear!"

Certainly it was curious to find in that Italian port, into which, as
far as I could gather, we had put on mere chance, a man who had the
whole mystery at his fingers' ends, and who, like myself, was sparing
no pains to elucidate it.  But had we put into Leghorn by mere
chance; or had it all been cunningly prearranged?

"Then I am not to write to you?" I said, somewhat dissatisfied.

"No, decidedly not," was his response.  "We must in this affair
exercise every precaution in order to make certain that our
intentions are not discovered by the guilty parties.  Return on
board, remain ever watchful, allow nothing to escape you, and make
Keppel himself your especial study, at the same time seeking for
means by which to enter the forbidden deck-house."

"I take it, Signor Branca, that this apartment is not your own?" I
said, as I glanced round the place.

"Mine!" he laughed.  "Oh, dear no!  I am only here temporarily, in
order to meet you.  In an hour I leave here--whither I know not.  I
was in Rome last night, I am here to-night; to-morrow night I may be
in Milan, or Turin, or Nice--who knows?"

He spoke in French for the first time, and I saw by his excellent
accent that, so far from my first estimate of him being correct, he
was a thorough cosmopolitan.  It seemed a pity that his personal
appearance was sufficiently ugly to be remarkable.

I glanced at the watch in my bangle and saw that as it was already
past eleven o'clock, it was high time for me to return on board.
Therefore I rose to bid my strange host "_Addio_."

He bowed to me with a courtly grace which rendered his dwarfed figure
more than usually grotesque, bending so low that his fringe of grey
beard almost touched his knees.

"_Addio_, signorina," he said.  "Do not relax your efforts for a
single moment.  Accompany the _Vispera_ on the remainder of its
cruise, and seek to obtain all the knowledge you can.  For my part, I
shall do my best; and I have much to do--very much, I assure you.
But I am confident that before we meet again we shall both have
obtained a clue to the mysterious death of the young Signor Thorne."

"One moment," I said, after some hesitation, for I was reluctant to
approach a subject which preyed ever upon my mind.  "Answer me
truthfully.  Do you entertain suspicion that Mr. Thorne's assassin
was the man who once loved me--Ernest Cameron?"

He regarded me in profound surprise.

"No," he responded promptly.  "I am convinced of the contrary.  There
could have been no motive, and besides----"

He paused, not finishing the sentence.

"Well?"

"Besides, the inquiries I made in Nice and Monte Carlo gave a result
identical with those made by the police, namely, that Signor Cameron
was innocent."

"If you have no suspicion of him, then I am content," I declared,
breathing more freely.

My dwarfish companion smiled knowingly, for he was aware that I still
loved the man who had abandoned me.  Yet there was a strange look in
his keen dark eyes that I had not before noticed.  As I drove back
through the silent streets of the Italian city, down to the port, his
sinister countenance, with its indescribable expression of
craftiness, haunted me incessantly.  Why that final glance of his had
produced such an impression upon me I was, even after many hours
spent in wonderment, utterly at a loss to explain.




CHAPTER XIX

A MILLIONAIRE'S MANOEUVRES

Will you, my reader, forgive me if for a few moments I am prosy?  I
speak only of what is so very near my woman's heart.

When we think of what Society might be to us, it becomes a painful
thing to speak of what it is.  When we, who are world-weary, think of
the seasons of mental refreshment which might be enjoyed, the
possible interchange of mutual trust and kindness, the awakening of
new ideas, the correction of old ones, the sweeping away of prejudice
and the establishment of thought, the extension of benevolence and
the increase of sympathy, confidence, and good faith which might thus
be brought about amongst the families of mankind, we become filled
only by regret that the young and the joyous spirit, buoyant with the
energies of untried life and warm with the generous flow of unchecked
feeling, must so soon become disillusioned.

You, my reader, know too well how soon we all tire of the eternal
shams which go to make up our present social life.  You yourself are
weary of it, though perhaps you hesitate to confess this openly,
because such a confession would be an offence against the
_convenances_.  _Convenances!_  Bah!  Society as it now exists is
such that no mother, once she has launched her daughter into its
maelstrom by that process known as "coming out," ever hopes to
receive back to the peaceful nest the wing so lately fledged,
unruffled by its flight, the snowy breast unstained, or the beating
heart as true as when it first went forth elated by the glowing hope
of finding in Society what it never yet was rich enough to yield.

And yet the charge we women bring against Society for its flattery
and its falsehood is an old-established one, and we go on year after
year complaining in the same strain; those who have expected most,
and have been the most deceived, complaining in the bitterest terms.

Having run the whole gamut of Society's follies, I had become
heartsick; and never was the bald truth more forcibly impressed upon
me than that night when, on descending to my cabin on board the
_Vispera_, I found Ulrica there--the gay, careless Ulrica, whose
_sang-froid_ nothing ever ruffled--examining one of my newest gowns.
She was an average woman, one of ten thousand or more to be found any
day during the season between Hyde Park Corner and Kensington Church,
gay and chic, with just that slight touch of the cosmopolitan which
always proves so attractive to men.  It is women such as she whose
sentiments and feelings give tone to Society, and Society--which now
apes the tone, the manners, and the dress of the modern
Aspasia--influences the sentiments and feelings of English life.

"Why, how horribly late you are, dear!" Ulrica began, when I entered
my cabin.  "We've all been thinking that you were lost, or else that
the Countess had induced you to remain with her.  Gerald has taken a
cab back to Ardenza to look for you."

This announcement caused me considerable annoyance, but I affected to
pass it by, laughingly remarking that I had stayed late with my old
schoolfellow.

"These Italian ports are always cut-throat places, Gerald said; and
when you were not back at half-past ten, he decided to go and look
for you."

"Very kind of him," I remarked.  "You all dined on board, I suppose?"

"No.  Mr. Keppel decided upon dining ashore, so we went to a
thoroughly Italian hotel--the 'Giappone,' I believe it was called.
It was quite a plain, unpretending place, but the food was really
extraordinary.  I've never had better cooking, even at the 'Carlton.'"

"I know it well," I said.

Indeed, everyone who knows Leghorn knows the "Giappone."  As the
"Star and Garter" is to Richmond, so is the "Giappone" to Leghorn.
Only the "Giappone," clean, plain and comfortable, has never assumed
the designation of "hotel," but still rejoices in the fact that it is
merely an _albergo_, or inn.  Of recent years throughout the Italy of
the tourist there have sprung up great glaring caravanseries, where
the cooking is a bad imitation of the French style, where the Italian
waiters are bound to speak French, and the name of the hostelry is
French (the "o" in hotel always bearing a circumflex), and where the
accommodation is third-rate, at exorbitant prices.  It is, therefore,
refreshing to find an _albergo_ like the "Giappone," where not a soul
speaks either English or French, which still retains its
old-fashioned character, and is noted throughout the whole kingdom
for its marvellous cooking and absurdly low charges.  It is perhaps
fortunate that the Cookite has never discovered that long,
white-painted _salle-à-manger_ where, upon each small table, stands
the great flask of Tuscan wine, and where one can dine as a
millionaire for the Italian equivalent of two shillings.  Some day
the place will be "discovered," but happy those who know it now,
before its homelike character is swept away.

"Where is Mr. Keppel?" I inquired, anxious to know whether he had
come on board.

"In the smoking saloon.  There has been music, and I left him
chatting with Lord Stoneborough ten minutes ago."

"What are our future movements?  Have you heard?"

"Oh, yes!  I forgot to tell you.  At dinner to-night old Mr. Keppel
announced that we should remain here another couple of days or so,
and then go up the Adriatic to Ragusa, and later proceed to Venice.
We're to land there, instead of at Marseilles."

Her reply surprised me, for it showed that the queer old man I had
visited had actually spoken the truth and was apparently well up in
all the millionaire's intentions.

"Why have the plans been changed?" I inquired, as I drew off my
gloves.

"Oh, because several of the people wanted to go up to Switzerland, I
believe, and have induced old Keppel to land them at Venice, instead
of in the South of France.  The Viscera is to lay up at Fiume, it
seems."

"But only yesterday he told me that he intended to sail home in her
to Portsmouth," I said.

"My dear, the old fellow is as full of plans as he is of sovereigns,
and is a most vague person regarding his future movements.  Somehow,
I can't tell in what manner, to me he seems to have changed
wonderfully during the past few days."

"Do you think so?" I asked quickly.  It was strange that she should
have detected a difference in his manner.

"Yes.  I sat next to him at dinner to-night, and couldn't help
noticing how nervous and queer he seemed.  Perhaps it's one of those
penalties of wealth which people are so fond of telling us about.  If
I had wealth I wouldn't heed the so-called penalties, would you,
dear?  The possession of only another five hundred a year would make
me one of the happiest women in the world."

"That's the universal cry," I laughed.  "Why aren't you more
original, Ulrica?"

"Because it's such bad form to be original nowadays, when everything
has been said before.  There is no further smartness in conversation.
A woman can only shine by the aid of Paquin, or some other Vendome
artist."

And so she chattered on merrily, until at length her eye caught my
little travelling clock, when she saw that it was already an hour
past midnight.  The tramping of men on deck had ceased, and all had
grown quiet, save for a low pumping sound from the engine-room.

"Well, dear," she said, "I suppose it's time to turn in.  We all go
over to Pisa to-morrow to see the sights--Leaning Tower, Cathedral,
and that sort of thing.  I've seen them all before, and so have you."

I smiled.  When a child, I had stood beneath the campanile,
marvelling at what Suor Angelica used to say was one of the seven
wonders of the world; had knelt in reverence in the Duomo, and
wandered in amazement through the old marble-built Campo Santo--how
many years ago, I did not care to reflect.

"You will go with them?" I said.

"We must both go, much as it bores us.  For myself, I hate
sight-seeing at any time, and more especially the re-visitation of
things one has seen in one's early youth.  Yachting is delightful,
and I love it.  But the enthusiasm of one's friends when they get
ashore is always apt to become tiresome.  No, my dear Carmela, we're
in for a day of self-sacrifice to-morrow."

I sighed.  For myself, I would have preferred to remain in Leghorn,
for to me Pisa always seems like a marble-built city of the dead.  A
single visit there in the course of a life-time is sufficient for
most people, and the modern tourist, _en route_ for Rome, generally
"does" the sights in a couple of hours, and is glad to get away to
the Eternal City.  For the archæologist there is much of interest,
but we women of the world are neither dry-as-dust professors nor
ten-days-in-Italy tourists, and care nothing for the treasuries of
its Archivio di Stato, the traditions connected with the
miracle-working and carefully-veiled "Madonna sotto gli Organi," the
tattered banners of the Knights of St. Stephen, or why the Messa dei
Cacciatori was instituted.  To me, as to most people who have once
set foot in Pisa, its mediæval glories are mouldy.

When Ulrica had left me, I stood before the small mirror of my tiny,
white-enamelled cabin, gazing blankly at my own reflection.  Why had
Ernest forsaken me in favour of that tow-haired, doll-like person,
whose parentage no one knew, and whose manners, as far as I had been
able to observe them, savoured more of Kennington than Kensington?  I
was good-looking, still young, still attractive, still sufficiently
alluring to cause men to turn and glance after me.  That candid
friend, my mirror, told me so each time I sought its opinion.  And
yet I who loved him with all my soul was abandoned!

The queer old man's injunctions recurred to me.  It was necessary
that I should investigate what was contained in that locked
deck-house over my head.  But how?

Gerald had told us that the place contained curiosities purchased in
Tangier, an explanation evidently given by his father.  That this was
not the truth I was already aware.  Yet if the body of the mysterious
female passenger was still there, it was remarkable that the Customs
officers had not found it.  Still, the men of the Italian dogana are
easily bribed.  They get half the fines imposed upon contraband, a
fact which makes them very eager to discover dutiable articles--and
nearly everything is liable to taxation in Italy--but a sly douceur
is to them always preferable to the labour entailed in searching a
ship and finding nothing to reward them.  Davis, the bluff, red-faced
captain, or one of his officers, being well aware of this, might, for
aught I knew, have judiciously dispensed a few paper _lire_.

Though old Branca had given his opinion that there was no longer any
danger of the dastardly plot being carried into effect, I was not at
all convinced of the safety of the vessel.  Thus, without removing my
hat, I sat on the edge of my narrow little berth for a long time,
thinking.  We were to sail for the Adriatic.  That in itself was
suspicious; for why should we retrace our course down the Italian
coast again, when the intention had been to make for Marseilles?
Keppel had some strong and secret motive for so suddenly altering our
plans.

The pumping in the engine-room had been succeeded by the low whirr of
the dynamo.  At that hour all on board were asleep; for lying as we
were off the Mole, there was no necessity for a night-watch to be
kept; therefore I decided to venture back on deck, ostensibly to take
the air and admire the clearness of the magnificent Italian night,
but really to take observations of the locked deck-house.

Stealthily, on tiptoe, I crept out of my cabin, and up the stairs on
to the deck.  The night was brilliant--one of those which the dweller
on the Mediterranean shore knows so well in spring, calm, balmy,
starlit, with the crescent moon shedding its light over the distant
range of mountains far inland.  The lights of the harbour were
reflected by the dark, unsteady waters; and from the ancient
lighthouse shone the bright rays of warning far across old Neptune's
highway.

As I emerged on deck, before me extended the long line of electric
lamps along the Passeggio to Ardenza, and behind me lay the
brightly-lit City of Leghorn, complex and mysterious.  From across
the port came the sound of steam winches, interspersed now and then
with the low rumbling of coal being shot into barges--the produce of
Cardiff and Newcastle, disembarked by some "tramp" eager for
departure; and once there came from over the water the hoarse note of
a steam siren announcing a vessel's immediate sailing.

I lingered for a moment, affecting to enjoy the night air, but really
to disarm the suspicion of anyone who might be astir.  All on board
was quiet, however, and the silence reassured me.  I crept forward to
the deck-house, passing its closed and curtained port-holes.

My heart leaped quickly.  There was a light within.

As I slowly picked my way past I distinctly heard a voice, but could
not recognise it.  The sound, however, made it apparent that two
persons were within.  Carefully I walked around, but found all three
port-holes heavily curtained.  At one I listened, but could
distinguish nothing.  It was a man's voice; that was all I could tell.

I bethought myself of the ventilator by which I had before been
enabled to overhear the conversation within, and wondered whether it
was open.  Without hesitation I swung myself up to the top of the
deck-cabin, but was dismayed to find the small aperture tightly
closed.  I listened, but only heard a voice speaking in a gruff tone.
As to what words were said I could obtain no idea.  The voice sounded
like that of old Mr. Keppel, but even of this I was not altogether
certain.

Were the occupants of that locked cabin engaged in perfecting the
plot to destroy the _Vispera_?  To me it seemed very much as if they
were.  I slid down from my position, which was rather insecure for a
woman, and concealed myself in the dark and narrow gangway between
the deck-house and the covering of a hatchway, in order to watch the
exit.




CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN CAPTAIN DAVIS SPEAKS HIS MIND

I suppose I must have crouched there for a full half-hour.  When one
is watching eagerly, however, time always appears longer.

The steamer whose siren had awakened the echoes of the port had swung
from her moorings, and slowly glided past us to the open sea, making
a southward course; while work on the collier appeared to be
finished, and the whole port had settled down to the peace of night.

Suddenly I heard the voices within raised, as if in altercation.  I
rose at once, and placed my ear to the glass of the curtained
port-hole.

"I tell you it's a lie--a confounded lie!" I heard a man's voice
exclaim.  "You can have no basis for any such allegation."

"I only state plainly what I think," responded the other.  "All the
facts tend to show that such was the case."

The other man laughed a dry, cynical laugh.

"And what do your guests think of this sudden change of plans?" he
asked.

"Think!" responded Keppel, for one voice I now recognised as his.
"They are happy enough.  The Adriatic is always more attractive for
yachting than the Mediterranean."

"Well," responded his companion, "act just as you think fit.  I shall
not advise."

"It is not for you to advise," answered the owner of the _Vispera_
sharply.  "You are my servant, and therefore must do my bidding."

"You asked my advice, sir, ten minutes ago, otherwise I should not
have presumed to speak as I have just spoken."

"You are a great deal too presumptuous on board the _Vispera_,
Davis," Keppel snapped.  "Please recollect that when I am here I am
master."

His words proved that the man with whom he was speaking was the
captain.

"I regret if you've taken any word or action of mine as presumptuous,
sir," responded the skipper gruffly.  "I'm a seafaring man, sir, and
ain't much used to polite society."

"When I give my orders I expect them to be obeyed without question,
Captain Davis."

"I'm ready to obey what orders you give, sir.  I'll take the
_Vispera_ to any point of the compass you like.  You pay me £28 10s.
a month, and I'm yours to command."

"Very well, Davis.  Then listen," I heard Keppel say, although he
lowered his voice somewhat.  "My instructions to you are entirely
confidential, you understand.  To-morrow I shall send on board a
small case.  It will be rather heavy, for it contains a piece of
marble statuary from Pisa.  You'll receive it by the last train, at
about midnight, and when you've got it aboard you'll sail at once for
Ragusa."

"Without the guests?"

"No.  You will take them with you," was Keppel's response.  "Mr.
Gerald is going to Florence in the morning, so he will be absent.  So
shall I."

"You will join us later, I suppose, sir?"

"Yes.  Perhaps at Venice.  But you'll receive telegraphic orders from
me at Ragusa."

"Then I'm not to sail before I receive the case?" observed the
captain.

"No.  It will arrive by the last train, and will be addressed to you.
Send someone to the station for it, and put it in a safe place in the
hold.  It is a valuable statuette that has been bought for me.  So
mind it doesn't get damaged."

"Well, sir," responded the captain, "I can't answer for those Italian
railways; but you can be sure I'll take good care of it here."

"Very well.  Recollect what I have told you is entirely confidential.
The party is due at Pisa to-morrow, but will return to dine on board.
I have a lot of business to attend to on shore, so possibly I may not
return with them.  If I don't sail with you, don't be surprised."

"I quite understand, sir," replied the captain.  "I shall keep my own
counsel, and sail as soon as I get the box.  Had I better call at
Naples if you don't sail with us?"

"No.  If I cannot come, put into Palermo.  I'll wire you there."

"All right, sir," was the response.

Davis, a trustworthy old Mediterranean skipper, who knew the rugged
Italian coast as well as he did the Thames Embankment, and who had
spent half a lifetime on colliers and tramps between Gibraltar and
the Greek Islands, was a short, stout, round-faced man who wore a
very thick pea-jacket even in the warmest weather, and who was always
speaking of his "missus an' the kids," kept snug by him at Barking.

I had often had chats with him, for he had initiated me into the
mysteries of taking sights, and had given me many a lesson in
nautical affairs.  He was full of droll stories, and had more than
once delighted us by relating his humorous experiences while cycling
ashore in company with the engineer, whom he always referred to as
his "chief."  He was fond of potent drinks, and sometimes was heard
using strong language to the men, in the usual manner of
Mediterranean skippers; but he was, nevertheless, a safe man, and had
commanded several passenger boats of a well-known line.

I discovered that the particular port-hole at which I was listening
was not screwed down tightly, and therefore I could distinguish the
voices.

"Recollect," his master went on, "you are not to wait for me.
To-morrow evening at dinner you must give the guests to understand
that you have received immediate orders to sail, otherwise they may
go off to the theatre or somewhere, and you'll experience a
difficulty in re-collecting them.  Then send for the box, and get
away as soon as possible."

"I shan't wait a minute for you, sir, depend upon it.  Let me get
that box, and the _Vispera_ will soon be steaming past Gorgona."

"And I don't want the guests to think this has been arranged between
you and me, recollect.  They may consider it rather a slight for
neither myself nor my son to be on board.  But you must explain next
day how business pressed upon me at the last moment, and prevented me
from sailing.  Tell them I'll join the yacht at Palermo.  In fact,"
he added, "tell them any lies you like.  I know you're a glorious
liar!"

The skipper laughed.

"A captain's first duty, sir, is to know how to lie to consuls and
Customs officers.  The Board o' Trade ought to examine him in this
art before granting him his certificate.  A skipper who can't
lie--and especially here in the Mediterranean--ain't worth the smell
of an oil-rag.  He's more bother to his owners than he's worth."

"Well, just exercise your untruthful proclivities upon my guests on
this occasion, Davis, and I shall not forget to find something
handsome for you at the end of this cruise.  Up to the present I have
had no cause whatever to complain."

"Glad to hear that, sir.  Very glad, indeed," responded the old
navigator.  "To handle a boat like the _Vispera_ is different to
handling a coal barge from Cardiff, for instance.  Aboard of the
latter you can get work out of your men by swearin' at them, and even
out o' the boilers by just calling them a few names what ain't
polite.  But on board of this here yacht I'm always afraid of openin'
my mouth, and that's the truth.  With ladies about you have to be so
awful careful.  I know," he added, "that I could have made much
better time if I might only have given my tongue a bit o' liberty."

"Give it liberty in your own cabin, Davis," laughed the millionaire.
"The ladies are not used to nautical epithets."

"No, sir.  Not this cruise," was the other's response.  "I'm storing
of 'em up to be used on the trip home, when we're without passengers.
The atmosphere'll turn blue round and over this yacht then, I can
promise you."

His master laughed again, and said:

"Very well.  As long as you perfectly understand my instructions,
that is sufficient.  Put into Palermo, and if you receive no telegram
there, go on at once to Ragusa.  Remember to make it plain to the
guests that I'm very busy, and that I shall rejoin you in Sicily."

"Never fear, sir."

"And recollect the box," was Keppel's injunction.

"I'll send two men who speak Italian up to the railway station to
meet the last train.  Will it be too heavy to be brought down to the
port on a cab?"

"Oh, no!  It is quite small--merely a statuette," the millionaire
explained.  "See that it is stored in a dry place.  Somewhere near
the engine-room would be best."

"I'll see to that, sir.  Any other orders?"

"No.  Only be very careful that when you put into Palermo those
confounded Customs officers don't break open the case.  They may
injure its contents.  Best put it into a cabin and let them seal up
the door, as they do the wines."

"All right, sir.  They're uncommon handy with their lead seals down
at Palermo.  I'll have it placed along with the wines, then it'll be
as safe as in the bank."

"Mr. Barnes is still at the Villa Fabron, so if you want to make any
communication, and don't know my whereabouts, wire to him," Keppel
said.  "Just at present my movements are somewhat uncertain."

"I'll remember that, sir," replied the captain.  I heard a movement
as though he had risen to go back to his berth.  "But I'd like to
mention one thing, if I may, sir.  Do you know, I was quite surprised
to find you in here to-night.  This place has been locked up during
the whole cruise, and the reason of it has been a mystery to both the
crew and the passengers.  The men are very superstitious, and more
than once declared that something uncanny was hidden here."

"What nonsense!" cried the owner of the yacht.  "You see what is in
here.  Only some of that Moorish furniture which I bought at Tangier
on the voyage out."

"But the men have declared to me that they've seen lights within, and
heard strange noises," said the bluff skipper dubiously.

"They'll say the _Vispera_ is haunted next," the other laughed.
"Well," he added, "you can see for yourself that there's nothing
supernatural here.  You sailors see omens in everything, Davis."

"I'm no believer in ghosts, or anything of that kind myself," was the
response; "but one night, when we were off Pantalleria, I was on the
bridge, and saw with my own eyes lights shining through these
curtains.  I'll swear it!"

"Perhaps I had gone there myself for some purpose," Keppel explained
rather lamely.

"No, I don't think that, sir, for you were asleep in your own cabin."

"Well, I alone have the key, so no one else could have entered."

"That's just my argument," the captain declared.  "There's something
uncanny about this deck-house, but what it is I can't quite make out.
The look-out man one night swore that he heard a scream coming from
it, and I had the devil's own job to persuade him to the contrary."

"That look-out man had had his grog, I suppose, and mistook the
whistling of the wind in the rigging," responded the old millionaire,
with an air of nonchalance.  "All such superstitious fears are
rubbish."

"To the landsman, yes, but not to the sailor, sir," was the skipper's
response.  "When we see a light in the port-hole of an empty cabin,
we know one thing is quite certain," he said gravely.

"And what's that?"

"That the ship will go down before very long."

"That's cheerful," remarked the owner of the _Vispera_.  "And when do
you and your crew expect that interesting event to occur, pray?"

"Well, sir, of course we can't tell.  Only I, myself, would like to
get back to Barking once again before the _Vispera_ goes away from
under me."

"Are you a fool, Davis?"

"I hope not, sir."

"Well, it seems to me that such superstitions don't suit a hard,
practical man like yourself.  You've held a master's certificate for
the past twenty years or more, and surely by this time you aren't
upset or unnerved by the gossip of the forecastle?"

"Not usually, Mr. Keppel.  But in this case I confess I am a bit
dubious.  I saw the mysterious light myself."

"I might have gone there for some purpose or other, and forgot to
switch off the light."

"Yes, but it disappeared during the time I watched it," was the
response.  "To make sure that you were not there I sent a man down to
your cabin, and he found you asleep there.  So you couldn't have been
in here."

"Electric lights have queer vagaries," the owner of the vessel
remarked.  "Perhaps the continual vibration of the engines injured
the lamp, and extinguished it just at that moment.  That's not at all
an uncommon circumstance, as you know well."

"No, sir!"  I heard Davis say in a tone of conviction; "there was
either somebody in here, or else something uncanny.  Of that I'm
quite certain."

"Stowaways don't usually luxuriate in electric lights," laughed
Keppel.  "No, Davis, without doubt there is some quite simple
explanation of what you believe to be a phenomenon.  Think no more
about it.  Leave omens and all such things to these superstitious
Italians."

The captain gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, which marked
a habit of his.  He was a hale and merry fellow, but from what he had
said, it was evident he entertained a strong suspicion that he had
carried a mysterious passenger.  That all traces of the crime had
been removed was plain, otherwise old Mr. Keppel would not have
invited his captain to talk with him there.  Of course he had done
this in order to convince Davis that nothing was amiss.  Indeed, the
millionaire's coolness surprised me, for it was remarkable.  Yet it
showed plainly one fact, namely, that by some means or other the body
of the unfortunate passenger had been got rid of, just as old Branca
had declared.

Our host now intended to send on board a box said to contain a
statuette, and at the same time, accompanied by his son, to desert
his guests and leave the vessel to its fate.

To me there was but one theory: that box he had spoken of would
contain the explosive which was destined to send the _Vispera_ to the
bottom.

But what was the motive if, as seemed so probable, all evidence of
the crime had been completely effaced?




CHAPTER XXI

IS ASTONISHING

We have an ancient proverb in Tuscany which says, "_Rimediare al male
fin dal suo principio_."  This very excellent maxim I was
endeavouring to carry out.  But it is always difficult--extremely
difficult, especially for a woman.

When I had at length crept back to my cabin, fearing discovery by one
or other of the pair whose interesting conversation I had overheard,
I bolted my door and gave myself up to reflection.  To act was
imperative.  The mysterious old man in the Via Magenta, who seemed so
well informed as to Keppel's movements, and who had even told me the
whereabouts of Ernest, was wrong in his surmise that the dastardly
plot to blow up the yacht had been abandoned.  The vessel was to sail
to her doom.  I alone knew the truth, and upon me devolved the duty
of saving the lives of all on board.

If I failed, then the millionaire's yacht would be added to that long
list of vessels which have sailed merrily from port, never to be seen
or heard of afterwards.  How many of these have been wilfully blown
up for the sake of insurance money or of private vengeance is a
question bitter to contemplate, and hard to answer.  Certain it is
that the elements are not responsible for all the vessels posted at
Lloyd's as "missing" during recent years.

Slowly I undressed and entered my berth, but was unable to sleep, so
full was my mind of grave thoughts.  For a full half-hour I heard
tramping in the deck-cabin above me; then all grew silent, and at
last I dozed.

The dressing-bell awakened me in the morning, and after I had dressed
I went along to Ulrica's cabin, where she was preparing herself with
an ill grace to accompany the party to Pisa.

"I'm awfully tired of this trip!" I exclaimed, seating myself wearily
upon the edge of the berth, "Five weeks at sea is quite sufficient
for all purposes, without being taken around the Adriatic merely on
account of old Keppel's whim."

"So am I terribly tired of it, my dear," Ulrica declared.  "I only
wish I could make some excuse to stay ashore."

That was exactly what I desired.  I had no intention of sailing again
in the doomed vessel, and had determined that she should not.

"Why can't we both stay ashore?" I suggested.

"Well, I can't," she responded, "for one simple reason.  Gerald is
leaving for Florence this morning; and if it were found that I, too,
were missing, evil tongues would at once begin to wag."

"My dear Ulrica," I said, "I, for one, am very much obliged to old
Keppel for his hospitality; but, nevertheless, I don't mean to be one
of a party shipped up and down the Mediterranean like a cargo of
coals.  I don't intend to sail again."

"What, dear!" she cried.  "Are you really serious?  What's the cause
of this sudden revolt?

"I'm bored to death," I replied.  "And there are one or two persons
on board that I intend to avoid in future; Mrs. Langdon, for
instance--the old tabby!"

"Tabby is the correct term," Ulrica laughed.  "I've never been able
to find out where old Keppel discovered that rejuvenated skeleton.
Her paint and powder are absolutely wicked."

"Listen, there's the breakfast bell," I said.  "We'll all go over to
Pisa and do the amiable with the others, and afterwards we must
discover some matter which requires our urgent presence on shore--you
understand?

"Exactly," she said.

"I leave the excuses to you, my dear; you're so excellent at soft
sawder.  Remember that at all hazards I don't sail.  I hope you are
equally determined."

"I'm quite with you," she declared.  "Of course, we don't want to
offend the old gentleman, for he's a useful person to know when one
winters on the Riviera.  Nevertheless, I quite agree that to be
shipped up and down the Mediterranean like this is something beyond a
joke.  I wonder why the others stand it?"

"Why they stand it?  Because he's a millionaire, and nearly all of
them are indebted to him in some way or other.  They can't demur.  It
isn't policy on their part to do so."

And so it was agreed between us that by hook or by crook we should
either forget to sail, or openly present our apologies to our host.

After breakfast, always a merry meal when in port, but sometimes a
sparsely-attended one when the mistral was blowing, we all took train
to Pisa, accompanied by Keppel _père et fils_, the latter wishing us
a temporary farewell and going on to Florence, whence, he told us, he
should return on the following night to rejoin us on our cruise.

I knew that he had not the least intention of doing so.  He had
actually told Ulrica privately that he was compelled to go by Milan
and Bâle to Berlin, on some pressing business for his father.

The day's excursion to see the Leaning Tower and other wonders of the
marble-built city by the Arno was, as far as the others were
concerned, a success.  To Ulrica and myself, who acted as guides, it
was a day of absolute self-sacrifice.  The only redeeming feature was
the excellence of our lunch at the little unpretending restaurant
beside the river, called the Nettuno.  Any of my readers who have
occasion to visit Pisa should remember it, and should carefully avoid
those glaring hotels near the station, just as they should avoid the
station-buffet.

At five o'clock we returned to Leghorn, wearied out, and at half-past
six dined together on board.  During the whole of the day I had
managed to attach myself to old Mr. Keppel, in order to watch his
movements; but, quite contrary to my expectations, he did not excuse
himself by saying that he wished to make purchases; and further,
instead of remaining in Pisa, as I expected he would do, he actually
returned and took his usual seat at the head of the dining-table.

There was music after dinner, and several of the men, including the
millionaire, went to the smoking-room.

Was it possible, I wondered, for him to have again changed his plans?
I sat in the saloon until nearly eight o'clock, but being anxious, I
rose and went up on deck, in order to ascertain whether our host was
still with his friends.

I passed the door of the smoking-room and peered in, uttering some
chaffing words with affected gaiety.

Keppel was not there.

"They are asking for Mr. Keppel in the saloon," I said.  "I thought
he was here."

"No," responded Lord Stoneborough.  "He went ashore a little time
ago."

"Oh, thanks," I said.  "I'll tell them."

The millionaire had escaped me!

I dashed down to my cabin, and without hesitation changed my
dinner-frock for a dark stuff dress that I had never worn on board;
then, going again on deck, I induced one of the sailors to row me
ashore at once, securing the man's silence by a tip of
half-a-sovereign.

If our eccentric host intended to leave Leghorn, he must leave by
train and return to Pisa.  Therefore at the corner of the Via Grande
I entered a tram, and shortly afterwards alighted at the station.
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.
Most probably Keppel meant to catch this train.

Should I wait and watch?

The idea occurred to me that if that unseen individual who had been
present in the deck-house, and had suggested the destruction of the
_Vispera_, had come ashore, he would certainly meet Keppel somewhere.

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 several passengers
approached leisurely, as is usual in Italy, one or two carrying
wicker-covered flasks of Chianti to drink in viaggio; 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 a small brown 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 to allow them to pass without recognising
me.  The miscreant had, it seemed to me, cleverly disguised himself
as a woman.

Hurrying, the next moment they passed me by in search of an empty
first-class compartment.  The controller approached them to ask for
their tickets.  Keppel searched his pockets in a fidgety fashion, and
said in English, which, of course, the man did not understand:

"We're going to the frontier."

The man glanced leisurely at the tickets, 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 bewildered.

The discovery I made at that moment increased the mystery tenfold.
The countenance disclosed by the lamplight in the badly-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 in that
instant I recognised 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 honour,
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 save 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 had been the sea-bottom in those
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, making my
delighted way through the royal forest and through the gracious
vinelands.

At last, after three quarters of an hour, we ran into the busy
station at 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; and just as the traveller in
Switzerland must at some time find himself at Bâle, so does the
traveller in Italy at some time or other 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, grey, 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 are charming to one
who, like myself, loves Italy and the gay-hearted 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 that I
alone could save her passengers and crew.  Yet, with the mysterious
woman still alive, there could, I pondered, be no motive in
destroying the vessel.  Perhaps the idea had happily been abandoned.

Nevertheless, the non-appearance of the individual whose voice I had
heard, but whom I had not seen, was disconcerting.  Try as 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 the old
millionaire not continued his cruise?  As the unknown woman had been
concealed on board for several weeks, there was surely no reason why
she should not have remained there another three or four days, until
we reached Marseilles!  No.  That some unusually strange mystery was
connected with the whole affair, I felt confident.

I peered out from the corner in which I was standing, and saw Keppel
and his companion enter the buffet.  As soon as they had disappeared,
I made a sudden resolve, entered the telegraph office, and wrote the
following message:


"_To Captain Davis.  S.Y. 'Vispera' in port, Livorno.--Have altered
arrangements.  Sail at once for Genoa.  Box I spoke of will join you
there.  Leave immediately on receipt of this._--KEPPEL."


I handed it in 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.  This
was 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, in
the expectation of it being delivered before morning?"

"The signorina understands me exactly."

"But what can I do?" I cried in desperation.  "This message must
reach the captain before midnight."

The man reflected for a moment.  Then he answered me.

"There is but one way I can suggest."

"What is that?" I cried anxiously, for I heard a train approaching,
and 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 11 o'clock."

"Could you find me one?" I asked.  "I'm willing to bear all expenses."

"My son will go, if the signorina so wishes," he answered.

"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 the message is delivered, you will be rendering, not only to
myself, but to a number of other people, a very great service."

"The signorina's instructions shall be obeyed," he answered.

When he had said this I placed some money to cover expenses upon the
counter, again thanked him, and left, feeling that although I had
been guilty of forgery, I had saved the yacht from destruction.

The train, with its glaring head-lights, swept into the station from
its long journey across the fever-stricken 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
Internationale des Wagons Lits without being seen by all one's
fellow-travellers.  It was thus my first difficulty presented itself.

I watched my host and his companion enter the car, and from the
platform saw them shown to 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
reserved for ladies at the other end of the car.

With satisfaction I saw the old millionaire take his companion's hand
and wish her good-night.  As soon as his door had closed, I mounted
into the car and demanded a place.

"The signorina is fortunate.  We have just one berth vacant,"
answered the conductor 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.

I left it to the conductor to explain my presence, and after
entering, closed and bolted the door behind me.

"I regret that I've been compelled to disturb you, but this is the
only berth vacant," I said in English, in a tone of apology, for when
I noticed that her black eyes flashed inquiringly at me, I deemed it
best to be on friendly terms with her.

"Don't mention it; I'm English," 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 fifty, perhaps more, though she was
still extremely handsome, her beauty being of a 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 during the day by her bodice, was
some tiny charm, suspended by a thin gold chain.  Her voice and
bearing were those of an educated woman, and she was buxom without
being at all stout.

The roar of the train and the grinding of the wheels as we whirled
through those seventy odd suffocating tunnels that separate Pisa from
Genoa rendered sleep utterly impossible, so by mutual agreement we
continued our conversation.

She seemed, like the "Ancient Mariner," to be needing someone to whom
she could tell her story.  She wanted an audience able to realise the
fine points of her play.  From the outset 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 was
an old man, and jealous; had her money invested, and would not allow
her to look at a man.  If she paid the least attention to any man in
particular, she received no money.  She was not forty, she told me,
and 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 she called Frank, who had a pretty-faced wife addicted to
the bad habit known as secret drinking.

"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.  It follows us.  Sometimes we can evade it, but at
others it catches us up on its horns and gives us a toss.  We come
down into the dust, crumpled, with all courage, ambition and hope
absorbed in despair.  We pick ourselves up in desperation.  All that
is best in us is so deadened that even our consciences cannot hear a
whisper; or, on the other hand, we steel ourselves, and make a
resolve which lifts us to a moral and mental victory, and to all that
is noblest in ourselves and humanity."

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 on 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 resides within ourselves, it will cause our tears to flow and
our sorrows to accumulate, it is a fictitious substance, with
possibly a mint of happiness underlying it.  We are always conscious
of it, but insanity makes us ignore it for so long that the little
imp completes its work, and the opportunity is lost.  But why are we
moralising?" 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.  In
these post-Grundian days 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 pointed to
this conclusion.  Now a woman with a chequered past and an
untrammelled present is always more or less interesting to women, as
well as to men.  She is a mystery.  The mystery is that men cannot
quite believe a smart woman with knowledge, cut loose from all
fetters, to be proof against flattery.  She queens it, while they
study her.  Interest in a woman is only one step from love for her--a
fact with which we, the fairer sex, are very well acquainted.

Ulrica had once expressed an opinion that pasts were not so bad if it
were not for the memories that cling to them; not, of course, that
the pasts of either of us had been anything out of the ordinary.
Memories that cling to others, or the hints of a "past," certainly
make you of interest to men, as well as 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 and 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 was sweeping down upon my heart.  At every instant
memory 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 a day long ago.  Ah me!  I was young then--a child in
fears, 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 toward me was dead.  His fond
tenderness of those bygone days was 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.  It is no
exaggeration to describe memory as 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
acutely they can ache, how they can be strained to the utmost
tension, crowded with agony, and yet not break.  This is moralising,
and smacks of sentiment, but it is true to nature, as many of us are
forced to learn.

The train roared on; the woman above me slept soundly, and I, with
tears starting to my eyes, tried hard to burn the bridges leading to
the past, and seek forgetfulness in sleep.  The process of burning
can never be accomplished, thanks to our 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
spinning 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 the thought of that 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 standstill, and I rose to peep out.  As I turned
to re-enter my berth, my eyes fell upon the sleeping form of my
companion.  Her face was turned towards me, and her opened bodice
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--an exact repetition of the puzzling marks that
had been found upon the throat of poor Reggie!




CHAPTER XXII

IS MORE ASTONISHING

So still, so pale, and 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 hand had attempted to strangle
her, were of a pale yellowish-brown, the colour of disappearing
bruises.  One was 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 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 so splendidly divides Italy from France; its
rays penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman did
not stir.  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 me a
clue to her real identity.  Therefore, after ascertaining that she
was still unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the
skirt, placed my hand in the pocket and drew out the contents.

The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile
leather, because in this I hoped to discover her visiting-card.  But
I was disappointed.  The purse contained only a few pieces of 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 immediate 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 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 the address of some
person in Brussels.

I carefully replaced all these articles, having failed to ascertain
her name; and then I 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--but 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 was just able to read the name of a small station
as we dashed through it at a glorious speed.

"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, which I immediately proceeded to put
in force.  "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-topped
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 compelled to remain in that stuffy
little den for something like another twenty-four hours, if the
travellers intended to go on to Paris.  The prospect was certainly
not inviting, for a single night in a Continental sleeping-car
running over a badly-laid line gets on one's nerves terribly.
Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned in again, and at
Turin, 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'm not well," I explained to the man who handed it to me.  "Are you
going through to Paris?"

"Si, signorina."

"Then please don't let me be disturbed, either at the frontier or
anywhere else."

"Certainly--if the signorina has the keys of her baggage."

"I have no baggage," I replied.  "Only see that I get something to
eat--and buy me a novel.  Italian, French--anything will do.  And
also some newspapers--_Stampa_, _Corriere_, and _Secolo_."

"Si, signorina."  And the door was closed.

Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the
man returned with a couple of new novels and half a dozen four-paged,
badly-printed Italian newspapers, by means of which I managed to wile
away the tedious hours as we sped on 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 recognised 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 answered.  "I've had enough of
cruising.  You, too, must be very tired of it."

"Tired!" she cried.  "Imprisoned in the 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 another matter--quite another matter."

"I do wish you would satisfy my curiosity by telling me exactly 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 someone with sinewy fingers
were trying to strangle me."

"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 someone tried to take my life."

"Rubbish!  Why, who is there to suspect?  I was the only soul on
board who knew of your presence.  Surely you don't suspect me of
attempting 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 together in order
to obtain some object, the nature of which was, to me, a complete
mystery.

She came a short time afterwards and kindly inquired 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 to be 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 could explain everything on the morrow.  The yacht
would be lying safely in Genoa harbour awaiting her owner, who never
intended to return.

And where was that unseen man?  That was a puzzling problem which I
could not solve.  I could not even form the slightest theory as to
his share in the mystery.

The day passed slowly, and evening fell.  We were nearing Culoz.  The
woman with the mysterious marks upon her neck returned, accompanied
by 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 tones
perfectly well.

For some few 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 my 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 conversation with Keppel and my
travelling companion, as though he were an old friend.

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 XXIII

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 and terribly tiring journey half across
Europe.

Arrived at the Gare de Lyons in Paris, I entered a fiacre, and
followed them across the city to the "Hôtel Terminus," that big
caravansery 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 avoid being detected by either of them, I
ascertained that the number of the sitting-room was 206.  I at once
engaged Number 205, the room adjoining, and ordered a light
_déjeuner_ 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 sounded in the next room, causing me to spring up and
be 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
tone--"a great risk."

"But we've run greater in the course of 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 have now been 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 he were perfectly
confident of 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, straining 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 old
Keppel sixty thousand francs was but a paltry sum.

Again I listened, but as I did so the woman entered, and shortly
afterwards the two men left the room and went down the stairs.

In an instant I resolved to follow them.  Before 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
Battignolles, alighting before a large house where, from an old
_concierge_ in slippers, Ernest received two letters.  Both men stood
in the doorway and read the communications through.  I had followed
in a cab.  From their faces I could see that the letters contained
serious news, and for some minutes they stood in discussion, as
though undecided what to do.

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
recognise me if they came out suddenly.

When they emerged they were laughing good-humouredly, and were
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 as it drove
off, was a strangely intense look.  His face was triangular, with
broad forehead and pointed chin.  I imagined him to have a rather
curious personality.  Again I looked at his peculiarly brilliant
eyes, and a strange truth flashed upon me.  Yes, I remembered that
curious expression quite distinctly.

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 the two men of whom I had never entertained the least
suspicion.

The truth had been revealed in so amazing a fashion that I was
completely staggered.  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 the roseate 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
strange creatures.

I re-entered the cab, but in the Boulevard St. Michel my driver
unfortunately lost sight of the men I had told him to keep in view.
They must, I think, have turned suddenly into one of the many side
streets, and thus reached the Quai.

For a few moments 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 clear 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 slowly to weave
a web about the criminals, and when it was complete, I intended to
give information to the police, and thus avenge the poor boy's death.

I drove to the nearest telegraph-office and wired to Genoa, urging
Ulrica to come to Paris without delay, for I sorely needed the
counsel of the woman who was my best friend.

Then I returned to the "Hôtel Terminus."  As I heard no one in the
sitting-room adjoining, I lay down to rest, sleeping soundly, for my
nerves were unstrung, and I was utterly worn out by fatigue and
constant watchfulness.

When I awoke it was past seven o'clock, and quite dark.  There was
still no movement in the sitting-room adjoining.  I dressed, and went
across to dine at the Duval, over 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
watch.

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 carried a long drab overcoat, such as men generally
affect on race-courses; but notwithstanding his disguise, I perceived
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 along
past the "Café Terminus," and continued to walk down the Rue du Havre
as far as the Boulevard Haussmann, where he stopped before that
popular rendezvous of Parisians, the "Grand Café."

After he had selected one of the tables, the last one towards the
Madeleine, placed against the wall of the café, he ordered a coffee
and liqueur.  The night was bright, and the 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 someone, 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 deep 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, which, after making
certain that he was not observed, he scrutinised carefully.  Twice he
bent to look at it closely.  Surely, I thought, there must be
something of interest marked on that slab.  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.  I crossed
the road, made straight for the seat he had occupied, and as soon as
I had ordered a _dubonnet_, 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 was no more than this:

  J. TABAC.  22.


Another inscription had been written there, but it had been lately
erased by some previous customer, who had apparently dipped his
finger 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 the deep shadows.  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 that table mysteriously, first glancing
round to make certain that no one was watching.  Why had he thus
betrayed fear, if that message was not one of importance?  Goron, the
great _chef_ of the Paris _sûreté_, had told me, when I met him at
dinner once in London, how the criminals of Paris were fond of making
the tops of the café tables the means of communication, 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 "tabac," and the number 22
scrawled on the marble before me, and was puzzled to know what 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 odour of coffee.

Now, if Ernest had really written that cipher message, he had
substituted his for the one he had found standing 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 plain 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 someone.

I paid the _garçon_ and left, returning some few minutes later to my
previous place in front of the brasserie opposite, determined to wait
and watch.  The attendant 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, small, wizen-faced man in a silk hat,
with a flat brim, passed and re-passed the spot where I was sitting,
and, it seemed, 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 upon all
and sundry.

I think I must have been there nearly half an hour before 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.  When he had secured some half-a-dozen cigar-ends,
he moved quickly 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 kerb
close by, and was undoubtedly watching him.

The quick eyes of the old collector of cigar-ends apparently
understood the message in an instant, for with back bent he continued
his active search, betraying 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
shaggy brows, always in search of the small pieces of tobacco
discarded by smokers.

With him also disappeared the shabby little man whose interest I had
unwittingly aroused, and I remained alone, still irresolute and
wondering.

I had paid, and was just about to rise and go, when of a sudden a
smart victoria pulled up in front of the "Grand Café," and from it
stepped a 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 there
written.

Was it, I wondered, intended for her?

The waiter brought what she ordered, a "bock," that favourite
beverage with both Parisians and Parisiennes.  I watched her
narrowly, and at once saw something to convince me that the cipher
was intended for her eye.  She dipped her finger in the beer, and
when no one was looking, 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; I also
rose and crossed the road.  As I stepped upon the asphalt on the
opposite side, she crossed to where her smart carriage stood,
brushing past me as she did so.

As the light fell across her face there was revealed to me a
countenance with which I was only 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 insipid beauty.




CHAPTER XXIV

IN WHICH MATTERS ASSUME A VERY COMPLEX ASPECT

I started to walk along the Boulevard towards the Opera.  To that
woman with the tow-coloured hair, the blue eyes and pink cheeks--the
woman who had replaced me in his affections--Ernest 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 the 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.

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.  I would follow her.  She, that
slim woman with the fair hair, had stolen him from me, but I
determined that she should not be allowed to enjoy his society much
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 as I got into a fiacre, and told the driver
to keep her carriage in sight.  I was not impatient.  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.  It was the attention I had allowed him to
pay to me that was primarily the cause of his assassination.  Of that
I had always been convinced.  The moral responsibility rested upon
myself.

I followed her straight up the Rue Lafayette to the Gare du Nord,
where she alighted, and after speaking a moment with her coachman,
dismissed her carriage.  She evidently intended to leave Paris.  I
crept up quickly behind her in the long booking-office, and followed
her in order to overhear her destination.

"First-class return to Enghien, please," she asked the girl who sold
the tickets.

Enghien!  I had heard of the place as being a popular resort near
Paris, famous for its sulphur baths; but in what direction it lay, I
had not the slightest idea.  Nevertheless, the fact of her taking a
return ticket, and having no baggage, showed that she did not intend
to make a protracted stay.  Therefore, when she was out of hearing, I
took a ticket for the same destination; the price showed me that the
distance could not be very great.

Secretly following her, I entered a train, and in half-an-hour
alighted at a small suburban station, which was rather dimly lit.
Outside, she entered a fiacre.  Following her quickly, I drove
through the narrow street of the little French town to the shore of a
small lake, from which arose a strong and disagreeable odour of
sulphur.  She disappeared into the gaily-lit entrance of an
illuminated garden, which I discovered to be the Casino of Enghien,
an establishment where public gambling was permitted, and where there
was a celebrated so-called _cercle_ for baccarat.  The place
consisted of a garden extending along the shore of the lake, together
with a large open-air café, a big theatre--where a variety
performance was in progress--and beyond, the public gaming-room, play
in which proved to be of the usual kind permitted at French and
Belgian resorts.

It was a decidedly pretty place.  The long festoons of coloured
lights were reflected in the lake, while out towards the pine-covered
island were many small boats decorated with paper lanterns.  In the
garden there was quite a crowd of Parisians, who had gone there in
the evening to lounge in the fresh air, or to stake their francs upon
the little horses or upon the miniature railway.  The band was
playing, and the smart pleasure-seekers were promenading over the
gravelled walks, laughing gaily, and chatting merrily.

The woman upon whom I was keeping such a close watch strolled through
the gardens, peering hither and thither, as though in search of
someone.  It was the _entr'acte_, and the theatre, one side of which
was open towards the garden, had emptied.  At Enghien the
_entr'actes_ are long, in order to allow people to go to the
gaming-room.  Two men I recognised as _habitués_ at Monte Carlo, one
of them middle-aged, well-dressed and black-bearded, who invariably
wore white kid gloves.  He was half bald, and his face showed marks
of premature age brought on by dissipation.  The other, who was
younger, was his partner.  They were well-known figures at Monte
Carlo, and had evidently left there and come north, now that, the
season being over, there were no more pigeons to be plucked in the
private gaming-rooms of the Riviera.

The woman at length took a seat at one of the café tables, deep in
the shadow of a tree, and ordered a _consommation_.  I suspected that
she had an appointment with someone, and therefore resolved to watch.
As far as I could observe, she had never once detected my presence,
and if she did now, she most probably would not recognise me, dressed
as I was in an old stuff gown.  She had seen me, I recollected, in
the smart Monte Carlo toilettes, in which I presented such a
different appearance.  I took up a position on one of the seats by
the lakeside, opposite the café, a spot from which I could see all
that might come to pass.

I must here admit that my continual search was growing terribly
wearisome.  Unused to acting the spy, my nerves had been during those
days of travel and adventure strained to their utmost tension.  For
five nights sleep had scarcely come to my eyes, so constant was the
vigil I had kept, and for five days I had existed in feverish anxiety
on the very horns of a dilemma.  I sat there watching the passing
crowd of gay Parisiennes, and breathing the fresh evening air from
across the lake.  On the other shore were large mansions, with their
lawns sloping down to the water, reminding me of English houses on
the upper reaches of the Thames.  From time to time a night-bird
skimmed the placid water, causing it to eddy in the starlight.  From
across the water came feminine laughter from a passing boat, and a
girl's voice reached me from far away, trilling the refrain of
Paulette Darty's "romance-waltz," which I supposed had just been sung
in the café-concert:

  "Donne-moi ta lèvre, ta lèvre rose,
  Qu'amoureusement ma lèvre s'y pose
  Et qu'étroitement tous deux enlacés
  Nos querelles soient querelles de baisers."


Yes, the scene was certainly charming.  I, like thousands of the
people who go to Paris, and who know the Rue Rivoli better than they
do Oxford Street, had never troubled to spend an evening at Enghien.
The Casino would really be a delightful one were it not for the
presence of that curse to French and Belgian popular resorts--the
_tapis vert_.  Dozens of similar places are spoilt by the
introduction of those tables, for play and the _demi-monde_ are
inseparable, just as are baccarat and blackguards.

The electric bells had rung to announce that the variety
entertainment was about to be resumed, and the crowd from the
gaming-room and from the garden was making its way back to the
theatre, to be entertained by the drolleries of Paulus and the risky
_chansons_ of Liane de Vries, when, of a sudden, I noticed that the
woman who had stolen my lover's heart had half-risen and given her
hand to a stranger, evidently the man she had been expecting.

He was short of stature, and well-dressed, for in the shadow where he
stood I could see the wide expanse of starched shirt-front displayed
by his open overcoat, and could tell that he wore an opera-hat.

She re-seated herself, evidently pleased by his arrival, while he
stood for a moment bending towards her and speaking earnestly.  Then
he drew back, laughed merrily, and seated himself opposite her.

He sat back in the half-darkness, so that I was unable to distinguish
his face.  But his presence there was sufficient to tell me that this
woman, by whom Ernest had been fascinated, was a worthless person,
who made secret assignations unknown to the unfortunate man, who
probably believed her to be the very paragon of all the virtues.

How would Ernest act if he were aware of the actual truth?  I
wondered.  Would he still have confidence in his pink-and-white doll?

Perhaps.  Men are incomprehensible creatures where their love is
concerned.  When fascinated by a woman's smile, they will lick the
hand that cuffs them; they will allow Aspasia to drench them with
_vin mousseux_, to smother them with chiffons, to stifle them with
_mots_, and to sell them for _rouleaux_, and yet make no audible
complaint.

To love and to hate seem to be the two things which it is most
natural and most easy for women to do.  In these two principles how
many of the actions of our lives originate.  How important is it,
therefore, that we should learn early in life to love and hate
aright.  Most women believe that they love virtue and hate vice.  But
have the majority of them clearly ascertained what virtue and vice
are?  Have they examined the meaning of these important words?  Have
they listened to the plausible reasoning of what we call Society,
where things are spoken of by false names, and where vice is vulgar
in the common herd, but sanctioned as _chic_ among the select few?
Or have they gone directly to the eternal and immutable principles of
good and evil?

I must confess that, tutored by Ulrica, I had long ago listened to
Society's reasonings, and had thus become a worldly woman.  Now a
worldly woman is necessarily a woman possessing tact, and able at the
same time to tell untruths with grace, and successfully to act a part
whenever necessary.

Woman is gifted by nature with a remarkable quickness of perception,
by means of which she is able to detect the earliest approach of
aught tending to destroy that high-toned purity of character for
which, even in the days of chivalry, she was more reverenced and
adored than for her beauty itself.  This quickness of perception in
minute and delicate points, with the power which woman also possesses
of acting upon it instantaneously, has, in familiar phraseology,
obtained the name of tact; and when this natural gift is added to
good taste, the two combined are of more value to a woman in the
social and domestic affairs of every-day life than the most brilliant
and intellectual endowments could be without them.

You, my friend and confidante, know well that when a woman is
possessed of a high degree of tact, she sees, as if by a kind of
second sight, when any little emergency is likely to occur; or when,
to use a more familiar expression, things do not seem likely to go
right.  She is thus aware of any sudden turn in conversation, and
prepared for what it may lead to; but above all, she can penetrate
into the state of mind of those with whom she is placed in contact,
so as to detect the gathering gloom upon another's brow, before the
mental storm shall have reached any formidable height; to know when
the tone of voice has altered, when an unwelcome thought has
presented itself, and when the pulse of feeling is beating higher or
lower in consequence of some apparently trifling circumstance which
has just come to pass.

Most women flatter themselves upon this valuable acquirement, and the
scandal-monger most of all.  In the life of every woman there have
been critical moments, when this natural intuition has led her into a
knowledge of the truth.  During the days when I was acting as a spy,
my quickness of perception was put to the test times without number,
and again there, in the Casino of Enghien-les-Bains, I was compelled
to exercise all my woman's cunning.

The man who had just joined the fair lounger beneath the tree was, I
judged, much beneath middle height, but in the darkness height is
always deceptive.  All I could see distinctly was that he wore a
black overcoat, a black tie, and either white or lavender gloves.
Evidently he was of that type of male elegant commonly to be seen in
the neighbourhood of public gaming-tables.  Men of this type are
usually hard-up, live by sponging on friends, affect a rather select
circle, and are the leaders of masculine fashion.  The Italians call
a man belonging to this class a _duca senza ducati_.

He was leaning his elbows upon the table, and had entered into an
earnest conversation.  Both heads were bent together, and he was
apparently relating some facts which were, to her, of the utmost
interest, for now and then she shrugged her narrow shoulders, and
gesticulated with not a little vivacity.  I was, however, too far off
to overhear a single syllable of the conversation.

The man, I saw, had taken from his pocket some letters, one of which
she held in her hand, bending forward into the light so as to read
it.  What she read apparently angered her, for she tossed it back to
him in disgust, and struck her hand upon the table with a quick
ejaculation.  This caused some words between them.  I imagined that,
in her outburst of temper, she had made some charge against him which
he now stoutly denied, for of a sudden both were gesticulating
violently.  As most of the promenaders had entered the theatre, the
garden was at that moment practically deserted; but the orchestra in
the illuminated bandstand was playing, drowning all their words, and
preventing attention being directed to their altercation.

I sat there by the lake-side, watching with breathless interest.
What would I not have given to be sufficiently near to catch the
drift of their conversation!

Presently, in the height of their argument, he pushed a second letter
before her face roughly, as though to convince her of his words; but
she, seeing in his action a desire to insult her, snatched the letter
from his hands, tore it into fragments, and cast them in his face.

It was done in an instant, and sitting as they were in that secluded
corner in the shadow, none witnessed the incident save myself.

The man rose quickly, with an air of fierce resentment, bowed to her
with mock courtesy, and strode off.  But as he passed out into the
gaslight, I saw his face, and recognising it, could not suppress a
cry of amazement.

He was not young, as I had supposed, but old and decrepit.  The
countenance was the ugly, sinister one of Branca, the queer old
fellow with whom I had had such a strange interview in Leghorn only a
few days before.




CHAPTER XXV

PRESENTS A CURIOUS PHASE

This discovery increased the mystery.  Yet it was plain that he was
acting according to his promise, and was leaving no effort untried in
order to solve the problem.  But why?  What possible interest could
he have in discovering the truth regarding Reggie's assassination?

Certainly his appearance was greatly altered.  Instead of the
unkempt, shuffling Italian whom I had visited in the Via Magenta, in
Leghorn, he was spruce, well-shaven, and smartly dressed, although
his dwarfed and slightly deformed personality could not be disguised.

The look upon his countenance was the reverse of reassuring.  Ugly
even when smiling, his face was distorted by rage, and absolutely
forbidding, as he walked hurriedly past within half-a-dozen feet of
me, and away towards the exit from the garden.  The insult he had
sustained was one which angered him terribly, and if ever vengeance
was written upon a man's face it was written upon his.

The queer old fellow had puzzled me greatly ever since that eventful
evening at Leghorn.  To me there was such an absence of motive that
his actions were doubly remarkable.  And yet I could never get away
from the fact that he knew of old Keppel's intention to go to Ragusa
before it had been announced to us; and he was also well acquainted
with all the facts of poor Reggie's tragic end, and the subsequent
action on the part of both the police and myself.  Besides, he had
told me of Ernest's whereabouts, of which I was in ignorance, and now
it appeared that he had been, until a moment ago, on friendly terms
with the woman who had robbed me of the one man who in all the world
was dear to me.

Utterly dumbfounded by his presence there, I watched him walk down
the long gravelled path beside the lake, past the landing-stage, and
out towards the public road.  Indeed, I think I was too astonished at
that moment to rise and follow the man who had declared our interests
to be identical.

I turned and glanced across at the woman.  She had risen, shaken out
her skirts, and hastily drawn her light cape about her shoulders, as
for a moment she stood in hesitation, looking after her companion.

Her brow was knit, and I seemed to watch determination becoming more
and more strongly marked upon her face.  Then she hurried quickly
after him.

I rose, too, but a thought flashed across my mind.  He had not
gathered up the fragments of the letter before leaving.  They were,
no doubt, still there.  What could the letter contain that it should
so incense her?

Without hesitation I moved across to the table so lately occupied,
and there saw scattered on the ground in the vicinity several pieces
of torn paper, which I gathered swiftly into my hand.  They were
portions of a letter written on white-edged, smoke-grey paper of a
fashionable pattern.  Fortunately, no waiters were in the near
neighbourhood, and I was enabled to continue my search, for any stray
scraps might, I reflected, be of importance.  After I had picked up a
piece that had been blown some distance off, I placed all the
fragments carefully in my pocket, and made my way toward the
brightly-lit entrance.

As there were no cabs, I was compelled to walk to the station, which
occupied me quite a quarter of an hour.  It appeared certain that
both the man and the woman would return to Paris, and that the woman
hoped to meet Branca at the railway-station.

When I arrived, however, I found that the train had just departed for
the Gare du Nord, and that there was not another for nearly an hour.
If they had both left by the train I had so narrowly missed, then
they had successfully escaped me.

The bare _salle d'attente_ at Enghien is not a cheerful place at
night, when the single gas jet is turned low, and the doors leading
out upon the platform are securely locked.  Here, again, I was
confronted by a difficulty, namely, that if, perchance, the pair had
not caught the train, they would probably enter the waiting room.  To
remain there was manifestly dangerous, if I did not wish my identity
to be revealed.

My chief regret was that I had missed Branca.  I had no means of
communicating with him, for I had no idea where he was staying, and
he certainly did not know my address, or else he would have sent me
word that he was in Paris.  All I could hope was that the woman had
caught him up and detained him, and that they would return together
by the next train.

Deciding that to rest in the waiting-room was injudicious, I went out
and crossed to the little café opposite, where the tables on the
pavement were shaded by a row of laurels in tubs, in the usual French
style.  I wished to piece together the precious letter in my pocket
without being observed.  I entered the place and sat down.  A
consumptive waiter and a fat woman presiding over the bottles on the
small counter were the only occupants, and after ordering a
"limonade," I drew forth scrap after scrap of the torn letter and
spread it out upon the table.

It was written in French, in a feminine hand, but it was some time
before I could piece the fragments together so as to read the whole.
At last I succeeded, and discovered it to be dated from the "Grand
Hotel" at Brussels.  It ran as follows:


"_My dear Laumont,--See Julie the instant she returns from Moscow,
and warn her.  Someone has turned traitor.  Tell her to be extremely
careful, and to lie low for the present.  If she does not, she will
place us all in jeopardy.  Advise her to go to London.  She would be
safe there.  So would you.  Bury yourselves.--Hastily, your friend,_
"SIDONIE."


Laumont!  Who, I wondered, was Laumont?

Was it possible that the woman referred to as Julie was actually the
person who had so fascinated Ernest?  If so, the warning was a
strange one; and she had disregarded it by tearing up the letter and
casting it into Branca's face.

"Bury yourselves."  The injunction was expressive, to say the least
of it.  Some person unknown had turned traitor, and had told the
truth regarding some matter which had apparently been a secret.  The
letter was a mysterious one, from every point of view.

A dozen times I read it through, then carefully collected the scraps
and replaced them in my pocket.

The person to whom the letter was addressed was, without doubt, an
accomplice of the woman Julie, while their correspondent, who was
named Sidonie, and who stayed at the "Grand Hotel" in Brussels, was
anxious that both should escape to London.  The woman Julie had been
in Moscow.  Was it possible that this woman who had attracted Ernest
had during my absence in the Mediterranean been in Russia?  Perhaps
she had.

Yet I had no ground whatever for believing the woman whom I had seen
at Monte Carlo, and had so recently followed from Paris, to be named
Julie.  My suspicions might, for aught I knew, be entirely groundless.

From where I sat I could watch all persons entering the station, but
my heart sank within me when at length it was time for me to cross to
take the train for Paris, for my search along the platform was a
fruitless one.

Both had evidently left by the earlier train, and the absence of a
fiacre at the door of the Casino had caused me to lose sight of them.

Alone in the dimly-lit railway compartment, as the train passed
through the suburb of St. Denis and on to the Gare du Nord, I
reflected deeply.  My brain was awhirl with the events which had
occurred so rapidly since landing at Leghorn.  I knew not whether
Captain Davis had received my telegram and had left for Genoa, or
whether the message had been delayed until he had received that
package which was destined to send the _Vispera_ to the bottom.

On every side I saw plot and counterplot, the most dastardly of them
all being the determination of Keppel to destroy his yacht.  And
Ulrica?  What of her?  That she was on board was almost certain; she
might even then be sailing southward to her doom.

Yet I had warned her, and I hoped that she had come ashore as we had
arranged.  The only possibility I feared was a disinclination upon
her part to offend the old millionaire.  If she found the course
altered to Genoa, a change which I had endeavoured to effect by my
telegram, she might possibly have gone on there.  All that I prayed
for was that my wire had reached Davis's hand before the package
supposed to contain the statuette.

Keppel at that moment no doubt believed the _Vispera_ to have gone
down, and was prepared for the receipt of the astounding news from
one or other of the Mediterranean ports.  Possibly he believed that
he had a perfect answer to the question as to why he had left the
vessel, but to me it seemed as though he would meet with considerable
difficulty, if the worst had really happened.

There might, too, be a survivor, and a survivor's testimony in such a
case would be awkward.

As the train, with its _impériales_, or seats above the third-class
carriages, rushed on toward Paris, I pondered, too, upon Branca's
sudden reappearance.  There was something uncanny about the fellow.
His knowledge was as extensive as his cunning was low and ingenious.

For what reason, I wondered, had he met that tow-haired woman who had
been Ernest Cameron's good genius at Monte Carlo?  Why, too, had she
taken the trouble to go out to Enghien for the purpose of seeing him?

One theory alone took possession of my mind, namely, that there was a
secret between them.  Possibly he had been acquainted with her; they
might even have been friends.  But it was quite evident that they had
quarrelled, and he had been gravely offended by the insult offered
him.

Each night-train from Enghien to the Gare du Nord always brought home
a large number of returning gamblers and pleasure-seekers, so when we
came to a standstill, the quai quickly became crowded by persons whom
I had noticed strolling in the Casino.  In vain, however, I searched
for the pair whose movements I had been watching.  I was compelled to
acknowledge myself baffled, and to take a fiacre back to the "Hôtel
Terminus."

Fearing lest any of the trio might be lounging at the café in front
of the hotel, where arriving cabs file slowly past, I dismissed the
vehicle at the corner of the Rue du Havre, and approached the hotel
on the opposite side of the way.

One of my chief difficulties was the entering and leaving the hotel,
for I never knew whom I might meet.  I had had several narrow escapes
from recognition, notwithstanding every possible precaution.

At last, however, after carefully examining all who were lounging
about the entrance, I managed to slip in, passing the big-moustached
_concierge_, and ascending by the lift to my own room, utterly worn
out by anxiety and fatigue.




CHAPTER XXVI

GIVES THE KEY TO THE CIPHER

Even though tired out, I slept but little that night.  I tried, times
without number, but 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 "tabac" conveyed
to me any meaning whatever.  One fact seemed particularly strange,
namely, the reason why the ragged collector of cigar-ends should have
searched for it; and, further, why the word written there should have
been "tabac."  Again, who was the shabby, wizen-faced individual who
had 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 it was watched by the police.

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, far
more secret, and likely to attract less notice 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 member could sit and read at his leisure
the cipher notice, or warning, placed there, without risking direct
communication with his associates in rascality.

Had the man whom I had so fondly loved actually allied himself with
some criminal band, 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 till 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 is unfortunate enough to
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 he 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 recognised at any
moment in the street.  If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might
be different."

"It's certainly ridiculous 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 beyond suspicion, all
the rest is perfectly plain sailing."

"Which means that we must make a perfect _coup_."

"Exactly.  The whole scheme must be carried out firmly and without a
hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very hot water."

"Knowing this should make us desperate," she observed.

"I'm desperate already," he replied, in a quiet voice.  "It will not
go well with anyone 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
awoke in me an intense curiosity.  I had already overheard many
things, and still resolved to possess myself in patience, and to
continue my ever-watchful vigil.  There was, according to the old
man's own words, a desperate plot in progress, which the conspirators
were determined to carry out at all hazards, even up to the point of
taking 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, and therefore I had but
a remote chance of discovering a key to what so often had puzzled the
cleverest detectives of the sûreté.

The day passed without any important incident.  I remained in my room
awaiting the return of the man whose strange action had 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, strolling idly
along until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard
des Italiens, in front of the Opera.  There are always many idlers
there, mostly sharks on the watch for the unsuspecting foreigner.
The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from
the corner these polyglot swindlers can easily fix upon persons who
change cheques as 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
kerb.  He was evidently keeping that table under observation.  While
pretending not to see him, I drank my coffee, paid, rose from my
seat, and walked away; but as the watcher at once followed me, I
returned to the hotel.

It is not pleasant for a woman to be followed by a strange man,
especially if she is bent upon making secret inquiries, or is
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 means of this door I managed to escape the little man's vigilance,
and entering a cab, drove down to the Pont des Arts.  As I had
nothing particular to do, it occurred to me that if I could find the
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 chanced to overhear.

The difficulty I experienced in recognising the narrow and 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 someone emerged from the place.
It was, I felt quite sure, the man who had worn the owl's dress.  He
was dressed rather elegantly, and seemed to possess quite an air of
distinction.  Indeed, no one meeting him in the street would have
believed 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, he 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, as I lifted my eyes, I happened to
see the name-plate 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 at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly.  So many
and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during the
past month or so, that I believe my actions were characterised 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 I was in my
right senses that night, or I should not 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, gelosia e rotta fede._"

Had I remained to reason with myself, I should never have entered
that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth, and to
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, far more handsome
within than without.  The stairs leading to the flats were thickly
carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, though, judging by the
exterior, 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 Parisian _bonne_
in a muslin cap answered my summons.

"Madame Fournereau?" I inquired.

"_Oui_, madame," answered the woman, as she admitted me to the narrow
but well-furnished entrance-hall.  "Madame is expecting you, I
believe.  Will you please enter?"

I saw in an instant that I was mistaken for a guest, and quickly made
up my mind to use this mistake to the best possible advantage.

My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men's hats and women's
capes.  From the room beyond came quite a babel 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 had entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at
Monte Carlo, and around it were some twenty well-dressed men and
women, all intent upon the game.  Notes and gold were lying
everywhere upon the numbers and the single 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 crimped 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.  Although the atmosphere was so stifling,
I managed to remain cool, and affected to be interested in the game
by tossing a louis upon the red.

I won.  It is strange that 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 to this place.
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 the
gamblers were playing baccarat, the bank being held by a
superior-looking old gentleman who was wearing 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, and whom I had
followed to Enghien.  The man who had given me the stolen notes was
standing near her, listening to her account of a pleasure trip from
which she had apparently only just returned.

A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, walked straight up
to her, shook hands, and expressed their 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.  "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 by 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 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 recognise in me the woman whom Ernest had undoubtedly pointed
out to her either in the Rooms, in Giro's, or elsewhere.

But as I began to pass back to the adjoining room, where I considered
there would be less risk of recognition, the green curtains suddenly
opened, and Ernest Cameron stood before me.




CHAPTER XXVII

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 before seen upon his countenance.  Perhaps he was
jealous of the attention shown by that dozen or so of men who were
chatting and laughing with her.

Her appearance was scarcely that of the keeper of an illicit
gaming-house.  One would have expected to find some fine, dashing,
handsome woman, in a striking gown, and with a profuse display of
jewellery.  On the contrary, she was quietly dressed in a pretty,
graceful gown of dove-grey cashmere, the bodice cut low and trimmed
with passementerie, a frock which certainly well became her rather
tame style of beauty.  The only ornament was a small half-moon of
diamonds in her hair.

Ernest appeared to take in the situation at a glance, and with his
back turned to her stood watching the baccarat, just as I had feigned
to watch it.  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 worn when we met
at Monte Carlo--there was only a plain pearl stud, worth 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.

It was 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 suddenly
she brushed past me on her way out into the corridor, into which
several other rooms opened.  Suddenly I heard his well-known voice
utter her name in a hoarse whisper.

"Julie!"

Julie!  The person mentioned in the letter of warning which she had
torn up at Enghien!

She stopped, and recognising 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, "what is it you have to
say to me?  I thought when we parted it was agreed we were 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 standing in this passage."

"Is what you want to say so strictly confidential, then?"

"Yes," he answered, "it is."  Then, with every sign of 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, and then addressed her in a firm
voice.

"The person who murdered him was none other than yourself--Julie
Fournereau."

I stood dumbfounded.  Was it possible that he intended to endeavour
to fix the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the words
I had overheard, which were paramount to an admission?

"What!" she shrieked, in fierce anger, speaking in French.  "You have
sought me here to charge me with 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 thrash you as if you were a mongrel of the streets!"

His cheeks were pale, but there was a fierce and resolute expression
upon his countenance.  The woman whom I had believed he loved was, it
seemed, his bitterest enemy.

"I have not the slightest wish to bring upon you any greater exposure
or disgrace than that which must inevitably come," he said coolly.
"For months I have been waiting for this opportunity, and by means of
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, then raised a small
whistle quickly to his lips, and blew it shrilly.

"So this is your revenge!  I was warned of this from Brussels!" she
cried, turning upon him with a murderous light in her eyes.  But
almost before 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, and were preventing 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 perfected by the police in
order that their raid upon the private gaming establishment might be
successful in all respects had been elaborately prepared, for at the
signal given by Ernest the _coup_ was instantaneously effected, and
the players, nearly all of whom were persons known as criminals, fell
back entrapped and dismayed.

The old millionaire and his companion were just as astounded to find
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 white-faced woman, who now stood
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.  "Have you 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 very hotel in which Mr. Thorne was found dead."

"And the witnesses?"

"They are already in Paris, waiting to be called to give evidence."

A dead silence fell for a few moments.  We each looked at one another.

The wretched woman, who had 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 forward, supporting herself by clutching
the edge of the small table.  Her white lips trembled, but no word
escaped from them.  She seemed rendered speechless by the suddenness
of the overwhelming charge.

The detective's voice broke the silence.

"Julie Fournereau," he said in French, 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 quite innocent!"

"Listen," said Ernest, in a firm tone, although there was a slight
catch in his voice, which showed how greatly excited he was.  "The
reasons which have led me to this step are briefly these.  Last
December, while living here in Paris, I went south to spend the
winter at Monte Carlo.  I stayed at the 'Metropole,' and amid the
cosmopolitan crowd 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 London, but who had lived 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 to me a
story which at the moment I regarded as somewhat exaggerated, namely,
that 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 the woman and her male accomplices.  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 merciless.

"Had she seen him in the Rooms?" I inquired.

"Yes," he answered.  "We had come face to face.  He told me that, as
he had 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 in her house, with the result that he lost large sums to
a certain man who was her accomplice.  Personally, I was not very
much 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
endeavouring to wreak justice upon such a person, arguing that, as he
had lost the money in a private gaming establishment, he had no
remedy in 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 at last 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, bestowing on me a calm and 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 been engaged to become my wife.  When, the day
after meeting her at the hotel, he told me of his infatuation, and
heard from me the whole 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 by 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 very serious
expression on his face, "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 without any
regard for my feelings, or even for 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 gaiety.  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 Rumpelmayer'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 his 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 poor fellow's
death was encompassed is shown by every detail of the case.  Not a
single point was apparently overlooked.  Even the means by which he
was assassinated have 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 Giro's, had wished me
good-night.  She had previously watched his success at the tables,
and had 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 a
thousand francs.  It seems, however, that she quickly became alarmed
lest suspicion might rest upon her, for the police had commenced
active inquiries, and therefore she resolved to get rid of the stolen
notes.  This she did with the aid of an accomplice, a man named
Vauquelin--a man very well known at Monte Carlo.  This rascal, 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 that interesting gang of sharpers, who make this place their
headquarters, going south in winter in search of pigeons to pluck,
knowing Vauquelin's intention, posed as detectives, to whom Miss
Rosselli innocently handed over the notes she had received."

He paused for a moment; then he 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 occurred 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 on
the terrace at the Café de Paris on the afternoon previous to his
death.  She gave information to the police, and then left the Riviera
suddenly.  Next day I found myself under the observation of the
police, and in order to escape arrest, induced Mr. Keppel--who has
taken a great interest in the affair from the first, being 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 apartment here upon a date
she had arranged with one of her accomplices, a Corsican named
Laumont.  This is the reason why it seemed good to me to remain in
hiding from the police until to-day.  This is her first reception,
notice of which was circulated among her friends by means of the
cipher upon certain tables in the cafés on the _grands boulevards_."

"Then you, too, were actually concealed on board the _Vispera_ during
the whole cruise?" I exclaimed, in great surprise.

"No, I went ashore at Malta, and the vessel returned for me three
weeks later," he replied.

"But this lady?" I inquired, indicating the handsome woman who had
been my travelling companion in the _wagon-_.

"I am the mother of Reginald Thorne," she herself explained.

"You!  Reggie's mother!" I cried, scarcely able to believe her words.

"Yes," she answered.  "I was spending the winter in Cairo.  Hearing
of my poor son's death, I crossed from Alexandria, and arrived in
Nice, only to find that the _Vispera_ had sailed.  A letter was
awaiting me with full explanations, asking me to travel to Malta, 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 left it.  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 someone 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, with the exception of Cameron, was the only
person on board who knew of your presence--chancing to enter 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, half an hour later, I 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 nearly three
thousand pounds in cash, notes, and securities from a box in Lord
Stoneborough's cabin, and wished to destroy the ship so that his
crime might thus be concealed.  The man, I have discovered, has a
very bad record, and has now disappeared.  But time was pressing, so
we all three left Leghorn for Paris, and I gave orders to Davis to
take the yacht into the Adriatic, where I intended to rejoin it."

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 on to Genoa, and how carefully I
had watched the movements of all three during those days in Paris.
All seemed amazed by 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 the woman who murdered him, and who so ingeniously attempted
first to fasten the guilt upon Miss Rosselli, and then afterwards
upon myself, is there!" cried Ernest, pointing at the trembling,
pallid woman before us.  "She killed him, because she feared the
revelations he could make to the police regarding the place in which
we are standing."

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 now spoke to her:

"Then if you yourself are not guilty, you are aware of the identity
of the murderer.  Therefore 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 Englishman," she said.  "That is perfectly true.  Indeed,
all that has been said is the truth--save one thing.  Neither did I
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 smiles 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 quite a wrong conclusion.  You may 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 Ernest's theory of the
committal of the crime had fallen to the ground.

The detective seemed, however, well aware of the woman's character,
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 demanded indignantly.

"Your accomplice!" cried Ernest quickly.  "The man Laumont."

"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 poor 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 saying a
single 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 you this elaborate piece of fiction, did
he?  It is amusing--very amusing!"

At a word from the chief detective, one of the officers left the
room.  We heard Laumont's name shouted loudly in the corridor, and a
few minutes later he was ushered in by two officers.

I stood rooted to the spot at sight of him.  The man was none other
than Branca, the queer old fellow who had represented to me in
Leghorn that our interests were identical.  I saw how ingenious had
been his actions, and how deeply-laid his plot.  He had intended that
I should sail to the Adriatic after he had obtained from me all the
information I had collected.

On seeing us, he drew back in quick surprise, 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 Englishman at Nice; you have declared that it was
I who gave you the notes; I who killed him!  You white-livered cur!"

His ugly countenance fell.  Indignation had, in an instant, given
place to fear.  His sinister face was full of evil.

"And did you not give me the notes?" inquired the dwarfed man, now
well dressed, and presenting a very different appearance from that he
had shown at Leghorn.  He had evidently been playing baccarat.  "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 answered.  "I deny that I killed him."

"Then who did?"

"Who did?" she shrieked.  "Who did?  _Why, you yourself!_"

"You lie!" he cried fiercely, his cheeks in an instant 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 endeavoured 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 friends, and to hurry me away to prison for a
crime that I did not commit.  But listen!  You deny the murder of the
young Englishman.  Well, shall I relate to them all that occurred?"

"Tell them what untruths you like," he growled fiercely.  "You cannot
harm me."

"Yes, madame," urged 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.  Monsieur Thorne,
when they last met here, accused him of cheating at baccarat; high
words ensued, and the young man drew a revolver and fired, the bullet
striking Laumont in the shoulder, whereupon he swore to be avenged.
I knew well that a vow of vengeance taken by such a desperate
character 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 transferred his quarters there.  Now, Thorne had an intimate
friend at 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 as 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 day of the tragedy I was
in the Rooms at Monte Carlo in the afternoon, and there saw him
playing and winning; while just as he was leaving with Miss Rosselli,
young Mr. Keppel and another lady, his pockets bulging with his
gains, I saw Jean Laumont watching him.  By the evil look he cast in
his direction, I knew that the spirit of murder was in his heart.
That evening I dined at Giro's with Monsieur Cameron, and afterwards
left him in order to watch the movements of Jean and the young
Englishman.  The latter, after a short conversation with Monsieur
Cameron in the hall of the Casino, descended by the lift to the
station, and took train to Nice.  I travelled by the same train, but
in the crowd at Nice station I lost sight of him.  He must have taken
a fiacre immediately to the hotel, and furthermore, the Corsican 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, came
out 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 ladies' sitting-room.  Therefore, without
hesitation, I pushed open the door and looked inside.  Imagine my
surprise when I found the unfortunate man writhing in agony upon the
ground.  I knelt by him, but recognising 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 tow-haired woman 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 anticipated, killed him."

"Killed him?  How can you prove it?" demanded the cunning
card-sharper, Vauquelin, who had tricked me so cleverly, and 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.
Apparently he was the Corsican's champion.  "How can you prove that
Jean Laumont killed him?"




CHAPTER XXVIII

REVEALS THE TRUTH

The woman Fournereau crossed the room quickly to a small rosewood
bureau, and took therefrom a little cardboard box about a couple of
inches square, such as is often used for containing cheap jewellery.

"I have something here," she said, addressing the man before her,
"which was lying on the floor.  You alone know 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 placing it upon the forefinger
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 diabolical invention of Laumont's, which
he showed me a year ago, although he did not then explain its use.
An examination which has been made by my friend, a chemist, has
plainly indicated 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 Bambara country on 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 against the flesh of
the victim, would inject the poison into the blood, causing almost
instantaneous collapse and death.  The puncture made by such a fine
point would be indistinguishable, and the action of the poison, as we
afterwards learnt, so similar to several natural complications that
at the post-mortem examination doctors would fail to distinguish the
real cause of death.

She held the diabolical thimble out for us to examine, saying:

"The mode in which this was used upon the unfortunate Monsieur Thorne
was undoubtedly as follows:--He had seated himself at the table with
his back to the door when the Corsican, Laumont, watching his
opportunity, crept in with the thimble upon his finger.  Before his
victim was aware of his presence 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, which they guessed to be the only mark resulting from the
struggle which they believed had taken place.  But there was no
struggle.  As has been proved by the person who examined for me this
most deadly but inoffensive-looking weapon, anyone struck by it would
become paralysed almost instantly.  Plainly, then, the chair was
broken by him as he fell against it in fatal collapse."

"And the stolen notes?  What of them?" asked 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, through one of his accomplices, either
in order further to baffle the detectives or else to throw suspicion
upon her.  She was told some extraordinary story about a 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 Monsieur Cameron was aware of the manner in
which his friend had been cheated here.  This caused me, from fear of
being arrested on suspicion, to fly to Russia, arranging with my
friends to return here on the 1st of May--to-day."

"The date of your return I learnt from Laumont himself," explained
Ernest, "for, in the course of the inquiries I made immediately after
the tragic affair, I found that he was your intimate associate, and
in order to divert suspicion from himself he hinted at you being the
assassin."

"He denounced me, not knowing that I held the actual evidence of his
guilt in my hand," she cried, holding out the finger with the
curious-looking thimble upon it.  "Poor Monsieur 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 Monsieur Everton, the young Englishman who was found dead about a
year ago in the Avenue des Acacias."

In an instant the man whom I had known in Leghorn as Branca sprang at
her with all the fury of a wild beast, and, clutching her at the
throat, tried to strangle her.  His eyes were lit by the fierce light
of uncontrollable anger, his bushy hair giving his white face a wild
and terrible look, and it really seemed that before the detectives
could throw themselves upon him, the murderer would tear limb from
limb the woman who had confessed.

For a moment the detectives and the man and woman were all struggling
wildly together.  Suddenly a loud yell of pain escaped from the
wretched Corsican, and releasing his hold, he drew back, with his
left hand clasped upon his wrist.

He staggered, swayed unevenly, uttering terrible imprecations.

"_Dieu!_" he gasped.  "_You--you've killed me!_"

What had happened was easy to understand.  In the struggle the point
of his cunning 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 for which no antidote had ever been
discovered.

As he staggered, two detectives sprang forward to seize him, but
before they could do so, he reeled, clutched at the air, and fell
heavily backward, overturning a small table beside which he had been
standing.

Never was there a scene more ghastly.  I shall remember every detail
of it so long as I have power to draw my breath.

Five minutes later, 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 XXIX

CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION

My reader, I have throughout been perfectly frank with you--too
frank, perhaps.  But need I dwell further upon the stirring events of
that night?  It is assuredly sufficient to say that the persons
arrested by the police numbered nearly forty, all of whom were
charged with various offences, in addition to that of 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, Vauquelin receiving a sentence of seven years.  But
Julie Fournereau, in view of the information she had given regarding
poor Reggie's death, was dismissed with a fine of two thousand francs
for carrying on the house in question.  She has since disappeared
into obscurity.  Ulrica arrived in Paris next morning from Genoa, and
was absolutely dumbfounded 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 manly arms, as of old, and shower fervent kisses upon my
face?  No.  If I were to begin to relate the joys that had 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 London, 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.

At Kensington Church, amid great _éclat_, within a month of our
arrival back in town, my happiness broke into full flower.

Ulrica tells me, in the privacy of her little blue boudoir in Eaton
Square, that she is no longer world-weary, living only for
excitement, as in the fevered days gone by, 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 in our pretty home at Hyde Park Gate, 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, poor Reggie's mother, has returned to Hampshire, fully
satisfied at having cleared up the mystery surrounding her son's
tragic death; while old Benjamin Keppel, late of Johannesburg, and
now of Park Lane and Ulverton Towers, in Hertfordshire, still spends
his winters in rather lonely grandeur in his great 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 famous in the cosmopolitan society which suns itself upon
the Riviera.

As for Ernest and myself, we have not visited Nice since.  We prefer
Cairo for the winter, with a trip up to Luxor and Assouan, for we
retain a far too vivid recollection of those dark days of doubt,
desperation and despair, when it was our strange and tragic lot to be
so darkly associated with The Gamblers.



THE END



_Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey._