"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 theVispera, 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.
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 atête-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 theVispera——"
"TheVispera?" 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.
"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 beribbonedrobe 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 thePetit Niçoisor theEclaireur, 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 mostchicof 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!"
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 theVispera. 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, wasthat 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.
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 thechevalier d'industrieand thedéclasséewoman 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 theascenseurs.
On the steps a well-dressed young Frenchman was lounging, and as I passed down I heard him humming to himself that catchychansonso popular at the café-concert:
"A bas la romance et l'idylle,Lea oiseaux, la forêt, le buissonDes 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 theVispera. 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 theVisperaone had no time forennui. 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.