The gamblers
Date: 2023-06-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Monte-Carlo (Monaco) -- Fiction

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Title: The gamblers

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: June 24, 2023 [eBook #71037]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1901

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLERS ***

"The person who murdered him was none other than yourself." p. 293.

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 charmfxing. 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.

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Table of Contents

- THE GAMBLERS
- CHAPTER I IS PURELY PERSONAL
- CHAPTER II TELLS SOMETHING ABOUT LOVE
- CHAPTER III IS A MYSTERY
- CHAPTER IV RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS
- CHAPTER V DEALS WITH A MILLIONAIRE
- CHAPTER VI PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT
- CHAPTER VII MAINLY CONCERNS THE OWL
- CHAPTER VIII NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT
- CHAPTER IX SHOWS THE BIRD'S TALONS
- CHAPTER X MAKES ONE POINT PLAIN

- CHAPTER XI DESCRIBES A MEETING AND ITS SEQUEL

- CHAPTER XII CARRIES ME ON BOARD THE "VISPERA"

- CHAPTER XIII DISCLOSES A MILLIONAIRE'S SECRET

- CHAPTER XIV IN WHICH I MAKE A RESOLVE

- CHAPTER XV IN WHICH WE PAY A VISIT ASHORE

- CHAPTER XVI DISCUSSES SEVERAL MATTERS OF MOMENT

- CHAPTER XVII DESCRIBES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
- CHAPTER XVIII CREATES ANOTHER PROBLEM
- CHAPTER XIX A MILLIONAIRE'S MANOEUVRES

- CHAPTER XX WHEREIN CAPTAIN DAVIS SPEAKS HIS MIND

- CHAPTER XXI IS ASTONISHING
- CHAPTER XXII IS MORE ASTONISHING
- CHAPTER XXIII CONFIDES THE STORY OF A TABLE

- CHAPTER XXIV IN WHICH MATTERS ASSUME A VERY COMPLEX ASPECT

- CHAPTER XXV PRESENTS A CURIOUS PHASE
- CHAPTER XXVI GIVES THE KEY TO THE CIPHER
- CHAPTER XXVII PIECES TOGETHER THE PUZZLE
- CHAPTER XXVIII REVEALS THE TRUTH
- CHAPTER XXIX CONTAINS THE CONCLUSION
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE