"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 latestchanson:
"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."
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 greenpersiennes, 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, theVispera, 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 confoundedcontrôle."
"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 cheappension, 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 presentclienteleof 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.
"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 atête-à-têtewith 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 Nicecouturière—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 theVisperalying 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 theVispera?" 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!"
Late that night Ulrica made merry at my expense. She had noticed me walkingtête-à-têtewith 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 naturalchic, her taste in dress and her style ofcoiffure, 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 pinkpeignoir.
"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 theVisperaexcept 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 Carnivalbal masquéat 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 wasen 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 thegrand mondeof 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 velvetloup, 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."
"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 yourbona 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."