The queer-looking old man sitting there before me, fidgeting slightly in his chair, was indeed a very grotesque figure. From what he had said, I could no longer doubt that he was aware of the whole of the curious circumstances at Nice, and was likewise well acquainted with the manner in which my relations with Ernest had been broken off.
How he had accomplished his manifestly clever espionage in Nice I knew not. Certainly I had never noticed his presence, either in Nice or in the Rooms at Monte Carlo. Besides, if he had presented himself at the bureau of the Casino in such clothes as he wore at that moment he would have been refused admission. A man is not allowed to enter if his trousers are turned up in wet weather, while the cycling tourist in knickerbockers is promptly shown the door by the semi-military janitors. Yet from words he had let drop, he showed himself intimate with all the features of the play of both Ulrica and Ernest Cameron, and must have been present in the crowd around the table.
The mystery surrounding the affair increased each moment. And now this dwarfed old man, of whose name I was unaware, desired me to combine my efforts with his.
With that end in view he settled to talk with me seriously, pointing out that poor Reggie had been murdered secretly, and that it was my duty to discover the truth, and bring his assassin to justice. I admitted this, of course, but failed entirely to see what connection the old fellow could have with it. To me, in my ignorance of the truth, he appeared to have entered into a matter which did not in the least concern him.
"From what I have already told the signorina, I think she will be convinced that our interests are really identical," he said presently, after we had been talking some time. "My own inquiries have been independent of yours, but the result has been the same. To put it plainly, neither of us has discovered any clue whatsoever. Is not that the truth?"
"Unfortunately so," I exclaimed. "All my efforts have been unavailing."
"That is the reason we must combine," he urged. "A woman cannot hope to elucidate such a mystery unaided. It is impossible."
He was a crafty old fellow, this dwarfed person, with the grotesque features. He eyed me strangely, and more than once I entertained misgivings that he was not acting altogether straightforwardly. Somehow, his surroundings did not strike me as those of a man who had sufficient money to travel hither and thither in order to take up a task in which the police had ignominiously failed. From his rather reluctant admissions, I gathered that he was acting at the instigation of poor Reggie's friends; yet he was not altogether explicit upon that point, and a good deal of doubt existed in my mind.
"Well," I said at last, in order to bring matters to a point, "and how do you suggest that we should combine our forces, Signor——" and I hesitated purposely, in order to give him an opportunity of telling me his name.
"Branca—Francesco Branca," he exclaimed, concluding my sentence.
"Well, Signor Branca, I am ready to listen to any suggestions you may make in order successfully to trace the assassin."
"We must first understand each other perfectly," responded the queer old man. "You have not yet told me the full extent of your inquiries, or whether you entertain any suspicion of any person. You have been yachting these past five weeks. Has nothing occurred to arouse suspicion during that period? If we are to combine, we must know the extent of each other's investigations, and the result," he added. "What has been the nature of your life on board theVispera?"
"Pleasant, on the whole," I responded.
"Has nothing occurred?" he inquired, looking at me with a straight and searching glance.
"You speak as though you already have knowledge of something," I said, endeavouring to smile.
"I simply ask the question," he squeaked, in his high-pitched voice.
At first I hesitated whether to tell him the truth; yet when I reflected upon his statement that he was acting in the interests of Reggie's family, I became induced to tell the old fellow the truth regarding my discovery in the deck-house, and the plot I had overheard.
Contrary to my expectations, my statement did not disturb him in the least. He only raised his grey brows with an expression of surprise, and said:
"Then I was correct in my surmise that certain persons on board the yacht are not your friends, signorina. Was I not?"
"You were," I admitted. "But it is Mr. Keppel himself who will be responsible for the blowing up of the vessel, because he has acquiesced in a suggestion made by a person unknown."
"You never saw the man who was speaking with this Mr. Keppel? You are certain of that?"
"Quite. He was very careful not to come within range of the open ventilator."
"A wary person, evidently," grunted the old fellow. "Depend upon it, he has some very strong motive for the vessel being sent to the bottom with all on board. The captain suspects nothing, I take it?"
"Absolutely nothing. Ought we to warn him?"
"Warn him!" cried the old man. "Why, certainly not. We must remain quite quiet, and be extremely careful not to show our hand. Their secret is ours. For us that is sufficient at the present juncture," he added, with an air of contentment.
"But delay may result in the catastrophe," I said. "The yacht may sail at any moment when it pleases her owner to cast her away."
"Well," he said, after a few moments of hesitation, "what you have told me certainly increases the mystery, and is deeply interesting. You have, I suppose, no suspicion that any of the yacht's officers are aware of the plot?"
"The unseen originator of the conspiracy may have been an officer, for aught I know," I said. "I have related the occurrence to you just as it took place. I know exactly nothing more."
"But you must discover more," he declared anxiously. "The matter must not rest here. If what you say is really true, then there has been murder done on board. The mysterious passenger is a perplexing feature, to say the least. Describe her to me as fully as you can."
I acted upon his suggestion. Unfortunately, however, suspended as I had been in that tearing wind on the night of my discovery, I had been unable to take in every detail of her features. But I gave him a description as minute as was possible, and it apparently satisfied him.
"Strange," he murmured, "very strange! To me it seems as though your discovery leads us into an entirely different channel of inquiry. Surely Keppel himself had nothing to do with the assassination of young Signor Thorne!" he added slowly, as though the startling theory only that moment occurred to him.
More than once already had that same suspicion crossed my mind, but I had always laughed it to scorn. There was an utter absence of motive, that convinced me of its impossibility.
And yet, had I not actually heard with my own ears Keppel confess to a murder which he himself had committed?
"Do you think that the lady could have come on board at Algiers?" he inquired.
"I cannot tell," was my answer. "The deckhouse has been kept closed and curtained during the whole cruise. It was that fact which aroused my feminine curiosity."
"If the fact caused you to investigate, it may also have induced others to make inquiry," he remarked. "Do you think it has?"
"How can I tell? One fact is certain, namely, that I am the only person who was a witness of the crime, or who overheard the unseen man's suggestion."
"You would be unable to recognise the voice of that person?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded. "In that wild hurricane it was difficult to distinguish the tone of voice."
He remained thoughtfully silent for a long time. The muscles of his grotesque face worked strangely, and in his eyes was a crafty look which somehow gave me the impression that he was aware of more than he had told me.
"Well," he exclaimed at last, shifting his position slightly and looking me straight in the face, "and what is your present suggestion?"
"It seems very plain that if the yacht sails she is doomed, with all on board," I said, "therefore, she must not leave Leghorn."
"I quite grant that," responded my companion; "but how can you prevent it? Her owner is a person of many eccentricities. This morning he says he will remain here a week, yet to-night, when you are all calmly asleep, he may order his captain to put to sea. Who is to prevent him? Neither you nor myself."
"My intention is to keep a strict watch upon his movements, and ascertain where he goes, and whether any explosive is taken on board," I said.
"A most laudable intention, but I fear it is one that you will find very difficult to execute," he said. "If I may be permitted to advise, you should leave that matter to me, and turn your attention rather to the locked deck-house. By some means you must gain an entry, and see what is really concealed there."
"I am well aware of what secret is hidden there, without gaining an entrance," I responded.
"You tell me that the woman is dead," he observed. "Well, I do not doubt you; but I nevertheless consider it strange that if she is dead, and the persons concerned in her decease wished to get rid of the body, they have not already dropped it overboard. Such a matter would not be at all difficult in the night. Why would Keppel, a parsimonious man, consent to the total destruction of a yacht of the costly character of theVispera? It is utterly unreasonable."
"From one point of view I quite agree with you," I argued; "but there may be further reasons why the yacht should be cast away—reasons of which we are ignorant."
"But is it reasonable that the owner of a yacht would enter the port of Leghorn with a body on board?" he queried. "No. The officials are too prying. Depend upon it, the body is no longer on board. They've got rid of the evidence of the crime—Keppel and this unknown accomplice of his."
"Then if such is the truth, why should they plot to cast the vessel away?"
"That is exactly my argument. I am convinced that although the question of blowing up theVisperamay have been mooted, the project has now been abandoned. At first it appeared to me more likely that Keppel and his associate would place some explosive on board and make an excuse for not sailing in the vessel. But on reflection it seems obvious that the body cannot now be on board, and therefore no end would be gained by casting the ship away. No, there is no danger in returning on board—none whatever. True, Keppel is very eccentric, like many man of great wealth, and may sail again at any moment; but it is equally certain that the dastardly project is not to be put into execution."
"Then you believe that all is quite safe on board?"
"I am quite convinced of it. Your best plan of action, if you agree to combine your efforts with my own, is to return and use every means to gain an entrance to the deck-house. I have not the slightest expectation that you will discover any actual trace of the crime, but I somehow feel confident that what it contains will give us some clue."
"A clue to the mystery in Nice?" I inquired eagerly.
"Yes," he responded, not without some hesitation. "I believe that we shall gain knowledge from that carefully-guarded cabin."
"But it is always locked," I protested, "and Keppel keeps the key upon his chain."
"You must exercise your woman's ingenuity," he laughed. "Already you have proved yourself to be as keen and resourceful as any professional detector of crime. Continue, and we shall succeed."
"If, as you appear to anticipate, we sail to-night, we may not meet again," I remarked. "Shall I address you here in case of necessity?"
"No. Do not write to me. We know not into whose hands the letter might fall," he answered quickly. "We shall meet again, signorina, never fear—in Leghorn, or in some other city. I shall travel by land, you by sea."
"But what causes you to anticipate that theVisperawill leave to-night?" I demanded, for he spoke with such authority that I was puzzled.
"I read certain telegrams which Keppel sent off to-day. I followed him to the telegraph-office, and watched him write. He probably believed that I could not read English. From the messages, it appeared that theVisperais to go direct from here to Ragusa, in the Adriatic, and thence to Venice."
"Then we are turning back again!" I cried in dismay. "It was understood that we were on our way to Marseilles, where the party was to break up."
"Exactly, but theVispera'sitinerary appears to have now been altered by its eccentric owner, and as soon as possible you will leave for the Adriatic."
"Well," I said frankly, "to tell the truth, I have no desire to go on board again."
"But it is imperative," the old fellow declared quickly; "absolutely imperative! You must not drop your inquiries at this the most critical moment. You must find means to enter that deck-house. Spare no pains, and use every endeavour and every wile to gain your end. We must know what is hidden there."
"Shall you go to Venice and meet me there?" I inquired anxiously.
"Ah, I cannot tell! So much depends upon the inquiries I am making, and upon future occurrences. But we shall meet soon, never fear!"
Certainly it was curious to find in that Italian port, into which, as far as I could gather, we had put on mere chance, a man who had the whole mystery at his fingers' ends, and who, like myself, was sparing no pains to elucidate it. But had we put into Leghorn by mere chance; or had it all been cunningly prearranged?
"Then I am not to write to you?" I said, somewhat dissatisfied.
"No, decidedly not," was his response. "We must in this affair exercise every precaution in order to make certain that our intentions are not discovered by the guilty parties. Return on board, remain ever watchful, allow nothing to escape you, and make Keppel himself your especial study, at the same time seeking for means by which to enter the forbidden deck-house."
"I take it, Signor Branca, that this apartment is not your own?" I said, as I glanced round the place.
"Mine!" he laughed. "Oh, dear no! I am only here temporarily, in order to meet you. In an hour I leave here—whither I know not. I was in Rome last night, I am here to-night; to-morrow night I may be in Milan, or Turin, or Nice—who knows?"
He spoke in French for the first time, and I saw by his excellent accent that, so far from my first estimate of him being correct, he was a thorough cosmopolitan. It seemed a pity that his personal appearance was sufficiently ugly to be remarkable.
I glanced at the watch in my bangle and saw that as it was already past eleven o'clock, it was high time for me to return on board. Therefore I rose to bid my strange host "Addio."
He bowed to me with a courtly grace which rendered his dwarfed figure more than usually grotesque, bending so low that his fringe of grey beard almost touched his knees.
"Addio, signorina," he said. "Do not relax your efforts for a single moment. Accompany theVisperaon the remainder of its cruise, and seek to obtain all the knowledge you can. For my part, I shall do my best; and I have much to do—very much, I assure you. But I am confident that before we meet again we shall both have obtained a clue to the mysterious death of the young Signor Thorne."
"One moment," I said, after some hesitation, for I was reluctant to approach a subject which preyed ever upon my mind. "Answer me truthfully. Do you entertain suspicion that Mr. Thorne's assassin was the man who once loved me—Ernest Cameron?"
He regarded me in profound surprise.
"No," he responded promptly. "I am convinced of the contrary. There could have been no motive, and besides——"
He paused, not finishing the sentence.
"Well?"
"Besides, the inquiries I made in Nice and Monte Carlo gave a result identical with those made by the police, namely, that Signor Cameron was innocent."
"If you have no suspicion of him, then I am content," I declared, breathing more freely.
My dwarfish companion smiled knowingly, for he was aware that I still loved the man who had abandoned me. Yet there was a strange look in his keen dark eyes that I had not before noticed. As I drove back through the silent streets of the Italian city, down to the port, his sinister countenance, with its indescribable expression of craftiness, haunted me incessantly. Why that final glance of his had produced such an impression upon me I was, even after many hours spent in wonderment, utterly at a loss to explain.
Will you, my reader, forgive me if for a few moments I am prosy? I speak only of what is so very near my woman's heart.
When we think of what Society might be to us, it becomes a painful thing to speak of what it is. When we, who are world-weary, think of the seasons of mental refreshment which might be enjoyed, the possible interchange of mutual trust and kindness, the awakening of new ideas, the correction of old ones, the sweeping away of prejudice and the establishment of thought, the extension of benevolence and the increase of sympathy, confidence, and good faith which might thus be brought about amongst the families of mankind, we become filled only by regret that the young and the joyous spirit, buoyant with the energies of untried life and warm with the generous flow of unchecked feeling, must so soon become disillusioned.
You, my reader, know too well how soon we all tire of the eternal shams which go to make up our present social life. You yourself are weary of it, though perhaps you hesitate to confess this openly, because such a confession would be an offence against theconvenances.Convenances!Bah! Society as it now exists is such that no mother, once she has launched her daughter into its maelstrom by that process known as "coming out," ever hopes to receive back to the peaceful nest the wing so lately fledged, unruffled by its flight, the snowy breast unstained, or the beating heart as true as when it first went forth elated by the glowing hope of finding in Society what it never yet was rich enough to yield.
And yet the charge we women bring against Society for its flattery and its falsehood is an old-established one, and we go on year after year complaining in the same strain; those who have expected most, and have been the most deceived, complaining in the bitterest terms.
Having run the whole gamut of Society's follies, I had become heartsick; and never was the bald truth more forcibly impressed upon me than that night when, on descending to my cabin on board theVispera, I found Ulrica there—the gay, careless Ulrica, whosesang-froidnothing ever ruffled—examining one of my newest gowns. She was an average woman, one of ten thousand or more to be found any day during the season between Hyde Park Corner and Kensington Church, gay and chic, with just that slight touch of the cosmopolitan which always proves so attractive to men. It is women such as she whose sentiments and feelings give tone to Society, and Society—which now apes the tone, the manners, and the dress of the modern Aspasia—influences the sentiments and feelings of English life.
"Why, how horribly late you are, dear!" Ulrica began, when I entered my cabin. "We've all been thinking that you were lost, or else that the Countess had induced you to remain with her. Gerald has taken a cab back to Ardenza to look for you."
This announcement caused me considerable annoyance, but I affected to pass it by, laughingly remarking that I had stayed late with my old schoolfellow.
"These Italian ports are always cut-throat places, Gerald said; and when you were not back at half-past ten, he decided to go and look for you."
"Very kind of him," I remarked. "You all dined on board, I suppose?"
"No. Mr. Keppel decided upon dining ashore, so we went to a thoroughly Italian hotel—the 'Giappone,' I believe it was called. It was quite a plain, unpretending place, but the food was really extraordinary. I've never had better cooking, even at the 'Carlton.'"
"I know it well," I said.
Indeed, everyone who knows Leghorn knows the "Giappone." As the "Star and Garter" is to Richmond, so is the "Giappone" to Leghorn. Only the "Giappone," clean, plain and comfortable, has never assumed the designation of "hotel," but still rejoices in the fact that it is merely analbergo, or inn. Of recent years throughout the Italy of the tourist there have sprung up great glaring caravanseries, where the cooking is a bad imitation of the French style, where the Italian waiters are bound to speak French, and the name of the hostelry is French (the "o" in hotel always bearing a circumflex), and where the accommodation is third-rate, at exorbitant prices. It is, therefore, refreshing to find analbergolike the "Giappone," where not a soul speaks either English or French, which still retains its old-fashioned character, and is noted throughout the whole kingdom for its marvellous cooking and absurdly low charges. It is perhaps fortunate that the Cookite has never discovered that long, white-paintedsalle-à-mangerwhere, upon each small table, stands the great flask of Tuscan wine, and where one can dine as a millionaire for the Italian equivalent of two shillings. Some day the place will be "discovered," but happy those who know it now, before its homelike character is swept away.
"Where is Mr. Keppel?" I inquired, anxious to know whether he had come on board.
"In the smoking saloon. There has been music, and I left him chatting with Lord Stoneborough ten minutes ago."
"What are our future movements? Have you heard?"
"Oh, yes! I forgot to tell you. At dinner to-night old Mr. Keppel announced that we should remain here another couple of days or so, and then go up the Adriatic to Ragusa, and later proceed to Venice. We're to land there, instead of at Marseilles."
Her reply surprised me, for it showed that the queer old man I had visited had actually spoken the truth and was apparently well up in all the millionaire's intentions.
"Why have the plans been changed?" I inquired, as I drew off my gloves.
"Oh, because several of the people wanted to go up to Switzerland, I believe, and have induced old Keppel to land them at Venice, instead of in the South of France. The Viscera is to lay up at Fiume, it seems."
"But only yesterday he told me that he intended to sail home in her to Portsmouth," I said.
"My dear, the old fellow is as full of plans as he is of sovereigns, and is a most vague person regarding his future movements. Somehow, I can't tell in what manner, to me he seems to have changed wonderfully during the past few days."
"Do you think so?" I asked quickly. It was strange that she should have detected a difference in his manner.
"Yes. I sat next to him at dinner to-night, and couldn't help noticing how nervous and queer he seemed. Perhaps it's one of those penalties of wealth which people are so fond of telling us about. If I had wealth I wouldn't heed the so-called penalties, would you, dear? The possession of only another five hundred a year would make me one of the happiest women in the world."
"That's the universal cry," I laughed. "Why aren't you more original, Ulrica?"
"Because it's such bad form to be original nowadays, when everything has been said before. There is no further smartness in conversation. A woman can only shine by the aid of Paquin, or some other Vendome artist."
And so she chattered on merrily, until at length her eye caught my little travelling clock, when she saw that it was already an hour past midnight. The tramping of men on deck had ceased, and all had grown quiet, save for a low pumping sound from the engine-room.
"Well, dear," she said, "I suppose it's time to turn in. We all go over to Pisa to-morrow to see the sights—Leaning Tower, Cathedral, and that sort of thing. I've seen them all before, and so have you."
I smiled. When a child, I had stood beneath the campanile, marvelling at what Suor Angelica used to say was one of the seven wonders of the world; had knelt in reverence in the Duomo, and wandered in amazement through the old marble-built Campo Santo—how many years ago, I did not care to reflect.
"You will go with them?" I said.
"We must both go, much as it bores us. For myself, I hate sight-seeing at any time, and more especially the re-visitation of things one has seen in one's early youth. Yachting is delightful, and I love it. But the enthusiasm of one's friends when they get ashore is always apt to become tiresome. No, my dear Carmela, we're in for a day of self-sacrifice to-morrow."
I sighed. For myself, I would have preferred to remain in Leghorn, for to me Pisa always seems like a marble-built city of the dead. A single visit there in the course of a life-time is sufficient for most people, and the modern tourist,en routefor Rome, generally "does" the sights in a couple of hours, and is glad to get away to the Eternal City. For the archæologist there is much of interest, but we women of the world are neither dry-as-dust professors nor ten-days-in-Italy tourists, and care nothing for the treasuries of its Archivio di Stato, the traditions connected with the miracle-working and carefully-veiled "Madonna sotto gli Organi," the tattered banners of the Knights of St. Stephen, or why the Messa dei Cacciatori was instituted. To me, as to most people who have once set foot in Pisa, its mediæval glories are mouldy.
When Ulrica had left me, I stood before the small mirror of my tiny, white-enamelled cabin, gazing blankly at my own reflection. Why had Ernest forsaken me in favour of that tow-haired, doll-like person, whose parentage no one knew, and whose manners, as far as I had been able to observe them, savoured more of Kennington than Kensington? I was good-looking, still young, still attractive, still sufficiently alluring to cause men to turn and glance after me. That candid friend, my mirror, told me so each time I sought its opinion. And yet I who loved him with all my soul was abandoned!
The queer old man's injunctions recurred to me. It was necessary that I should investigate what was contained in that locked deck-house over my head. But how?
Gerald had told us that the place contained curiosities purchased in Tangier, an explanation evidently given by his father. That this was not the truth I was already aware. Yet if the body of the mysterious female passenger was still there, it was remarkable that the Customs officers had not found it. Still, the men of the Italian dogana are easily bribed. They get half the fines imposed upon contraband, a fact which makes them very eager to discover dutiable articles—and nearly everything is liable to taxation in Italy—but a sly douceur is to them always preferable to the labour entailed in searching a ship and finding nothing to reward them. Davis, the bluff, red-faced captain, or one of his officers, being well aware of this, might, for aught I knew, have judiciously dispensed a few paperlire.
Though old Branca had given his opinion that there was no longer any danger of the dastardly plot being carried into effect, I was not at all convinced of the safety of the vessel. Thus, without removing my hat, I sat on the edge of my narrow little berth for a long time, thinking. We were to sail for the Adriatic. That in itself was suspicious; for why should we retrace our course down the Italian coast again, when the intention had been to make for Marseilles? Keppel had some strong and secret motive for so suddenly altering our plans.
The pumping in the engine-room had been succeeded by the low whirr of the dynamo. At that hour all on board were asleep; for lying as we were off the Mole, there was no necessity for a night-watch to be kept; therefore I decided to venture back on deck, ostensibly to take the air and admire the clearness of the magnificent Italian night, but really to take observations of the locked deck-house.
Stealthily, on tiptoe, I crept out of my cabin, and up the stairs on to the deck. The night was brilliant—one of those which the dweller on the Mediterranean shore knows so well in spring, calm, balmy, starlit, with the crescent moon shedding its light over the distant range of mountains far inland. The lights of the harbour were reflected by the dark, unsteady waters; and from the ancient lighthouse shone the bright rays of warning far across old Neptune's highway.
As I emerged on deck, before me extended the long line of electric lamps along the Passeggio to Ardenza, and behind me lay the brightly-lit City of Leghorn, complex and mysterious. From across the port came the sound of steam winches, interspersed now and then with the low rumbling of coal being shot into barges—the produce of Cardiff and Newcastle, disembarked by some "tramp" eager for departure; and once there came from over the water the hoarse note of a steam siren announcing a vessel's immediate sailing.
I lingered for a moment, affecting to enjoy the night air, but really to disarm the suspicion of anyone who might be astir. All on board was quiet, however, and the silence reassured me. I crept forward to the deck-house, passing its closed and curtained port-holes.
My heart leaped quickly. There was a light within.
As I slowly picked my way past I distinctly heard a voice, but could not recognise it. The sound, however, made it apparent that two persons were within. Carefully I walked around, but found all three port-holes heavily curtained. At one I listened, but could distinguish nothing. It was a man's voice; that was all I could tell.
I bethought myself of the ventilator by which I had before been enabled to overhear the conversation within, and wondered whether it was open. Without hesitation I swung myself up to the top of the deck-cabin, but was dismayed to find the small aperture tightly closed. I listened, but only heard a voice speaking in a gruff tone. As to what words were said I could obtain no idea. The voice sounded like that of old Mr. Keppel, but even of this I was not altogether certain.
Were the occupants of that locked cabin engaged in perfecting the plot to destroy theVispera? To me it seemed very much as if they were. I slid down from my position, which was rather insecure for a woman, and concealed myself in the dark and narrow gangway between the deck-house and the covering of a hatchway, in order to watch the exit.
I suppose I must have crouched there for a full half-hour. When one is watching eagerly, however, time always appears longer.
The steamer whose siren had awakened the echoes of the port had swung from her moorings, and slowly glided past us to the open sea, making a southward course; while work on the collier appeared to be finished, and the whole port had settled down to the peace of night.
Suddenly I heard the voices within raised, as if in altercation. I rose at once, and placed my ear to the glass of the curtained port-hole.
"I tell you it's a lie—a confounded lie!" I heard a man's voice exclaim. "You can have no basis for any such allegation."
"I only state plainly what I think," responded the other. "All the facts tend to show that such was the case."
The other man laughed a dry, cynical laugh.
"And what do your guests think of this sudden change of plans?" he asked.
"Think!" responded Keppel, for one voice I now recognised as his. "They are happy enough. The Adriatic is always more attractive for yachting than the Mediterranean."
"Well," responded his companion, "act just as you think fit. I shall not advise."
"It is not for you to advise," answered the owner of theVisperasharply. "You are my servant, and therefore must do my bidding."
"You asked my advice, sir, ten minutes ago, otherwise I should not have presumed to speak as I have just spoken."
"You are a great deal too presumptuous on board theVispera, Davis," Keppel snapped. "Please recollect that when I am here I am master."
His words proved that the man with whom he was speaking was the captain.
"I regret if you've taken any word or action of mine as presumptuous, sir," responded the skipper gruffly. "I'm a seafaring man, sir, and ain't much used to polite society."
"When I give my orders I expect them to be obeyed without question, Captain Davis."
"I'm ready to obey what orders you give, sir. I'll take theVisperato any point of the compass you like. You pay me £28 10s. a month, and I'm yours to command."
"Very well, Davis. Then listen," I heard Keppel say, although he lowered his voice somewhat. "My instructions to you are entirely confidential, you understand. To-morrow I shall send on board a small case. It will be rather heavy, for it contains a piece of marble statuary from Pisa. You'll receive it by the last train, at about midnight, and when you've got it aboard you'll sail at once for Ragusa."
"Without the guests?"
"No. You will take them with you," was Keppel's response. "Mr. Gerald is going to Florence in the morning, so he will be absent. So shall I."
"You will join us later, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes. Perhaps at Venice. But you'll receive telegraphic orders from me at Ragusa."
"Then I'm not to sail before I receive the case?" observed the captain.
"No. It will arrive by the last train, and will be addressed to you. Send someone to the station for it, and put it in a safe place in the hold. It is a valuable statuette that has been bought for me. So mind it doesn't get damaged."
"Well, sir," responded the captain, "I can't answer for those Italian railways; but you can be sure I'll take good care of it here."
"Very well. Recollect what I have told you is entirely confidential. The party is due at Pisa to-morrow, but will return to dine on board. I have a lot of business to attend to on shore, so possibly I may not return with them. If I don't sail with you, don't be surprised."
"I quite understand, sir," replied the captain. "I shall keep my own counsel, and sail as soon as I get the box. Had I better call at Naples if you don't sail with us?"
"No. If I cannot come, put into Palermo. I'll wire you there."
"All right, sir," was the response.
Davis, a trustworthy old Mediterranean skipper, who knew the rugged Italian coast as well as he did the Thames Embankment, and who had spent half a lifetime on colliers and tramps between Gibraltar and the Greek Islands, was a short, stout, round-faced man who wore a very thick pea-jacket even in the warmest weather, and who was always speaking of his "missus an' the kids," kept snug by him at Barking.
I had often had chats with him, for he had initiated me into the mysteries of taking sights, and had given me many a lesson in nautical affairs. He was full of droll stories, and had more than once delighted us by relating his humorous experiences while cycling ashore in company with the engineer, whom he always referred to as his "chief." He was fond of potent drinks, and sometimes was heard using strong language to the men, in the usual manner of Mediterranean skippers; but he was, nevertheless, a safe man, and had commanded several passenger boats of a well-known line.
I discovered that the particular port-hole at which I was listening was not screwed down tightly, and therefore I could distinguish the voices.
"Recollect," his master went on, "you are not to wait for me. To-morrow evening at dinner you must give the guests to understand that you have received immediate orders to sail, otherwise they may go off to the theatre or somewhere, and you'll experience a difficulty in re-collecting them. Then send for the box, and get away as soon as possible."
"I shan't wait a minute for you, sir, depend upon it. Let me get that box, and theVisperawill soon be steaming past Gorgona."
"And I don't want the guests to think this has been arranged between you and me, recollect. They may consider it rather a slight for neither myself nor my son to be on board. But you must explain next day how business pressed upon me at the last moment, and prevented me from sailing. Tell them I'll join the yacht at Palermo. In fact," he added, "tell them any lies you like. I know you're a glorious liar!"
The skipper laughed.
"A captain's first duty, sir, is to know how to lie to consuls and Customs officers. The Board o' Trade ought to examine him in this art before granting him his certificate. A skipper who can't lie—and especially here in the Mediterranean—ain't worth the smell of an oil-rag. He's more bother to his owners than he's worth."
"Well, just exercise your untruthful proclivities upon my guests on this occasion, Davis, and I shall not forget to find something handsome for you at the end of this cruise. Up to the present I have had no cause whatever to complain."
"Glad to hear that, sir. Very glad, indeed," responded the old navigator. "To handle a boat like theVisperais different to handling a coal barge from Cardiff, for instance. Aboard of the latter you can get work out of your men by swearin' at them, and even out o' the boilers by just calling them a few names what ain't polite. But on board of this here yacht I'm always afraid of openin' my mouth, and that's the truth. With ladies about you have to be so awful careful. I know," he added, "that I could have made much better time if I might only have given my tongue a bit o' liberty."
"Give it liberty in your own cabin, Davis," laughed the millionaire. "The ladies are not used to nautical epithets."
"No, sir. Not this cruise," was the other's response. "I'm storing of 'em up to be used on the trip home, when we're without passengers. The atmosphere'll turn blue round and over this yacht then, I can promise you."
His master laughed again, and said:
"Very well. As long as you perfectly understand my instructions, that is sufficient. Put into Palermo, and if you receive no telegram there, go on at once to Ragusa. Remember to make it plain to the guests that I'm very busy, and that I shall rejoin you in Sicily."
"Never fear, sir."
"And recollect the box," was Keppel's injunction.
"I'll send two men who speak Italian up to the railway station to meet the last train. Will it be too heavy to be brought down to the port on a cab?"
"Oh, no! It is quite small—merely a statuette," the millionaire explained. "See that it is stored in a dry place. Somewhere near the engine-room would be best."
"I'll see to that, sir. Any other orders?"
"No. Only be very careful that when you put into Palermo those confounded Customs officers don't break open the case. They may injure its contents. Best put it into a cabin and let them seal up the door, as they do the wines."
"All right, sir. They're uncommon handy with their lead seals down at Palermo. I'll have it placed along with the wines, then it'll be as safe as in the bank."
"Mr. Barnes is still at the Villa Fabron, so if you want to make any communication, and don't know my whereabouts, wire to him," Keppel said. "Just at present my movements are somewhat uncertain."
"I'll remember that, sir," replied the captain. I heard a movement as though he had risen to go back to his berth. "But I'd like to mention one thing, if I may, sir. Do you know, I was quite surprised to find you in here to-night. This place has been locked up during the whole cruise, and the reason of it has been a mystery to both the crew and the passengers. The men are very superstitious, and more than once declared that something uncanny was hidden here."
"What nonsense!" cried the owner of the yacht. "You see what is in here. Only some of that Moorish furniture which I bought at Tangier on the voyage out."
"But the men have declared to me that they've seen lights within, and heard strange noises," said the bluff skipper dubiously.
"They'll say theVisperais haunted next," the other laughed. "Well," he added, "you can see for yourself that there's nothing supernatural here. You sailors see omens in everything, Davis."
"I'm no believer in ghosts, or anything of that kind myself," was the response; "but one night, when we were off Pantalleria, I was on the bridge, and saw with my own eyes lights shining through these curtains. I'll swear it!"
"Perhaps I had gone there myself for some purpose," Keppel explained rather lamely.
"No, I don't think that, sir, for you were asleep in your own cabin."
"Well, I alone have the key, so no one else could have entered."
"That's just my argument," the captain declared. "There's something uncanny about this deck-house, but what it is I can't quite make out. The look-out man one night swore that he heard a scream coming from it, and I had the devil's own job to persuade him to the contrary."
"That look-out man had had his grog, I suppose, and mistook the whistling of the wind in the rigging," responded the old millionaire, with an air of nonchalance. "All such superstitious fears are rubbish."
"To the landsman, yes, but not to the sailor, sir," was the skipper's response. "When we see a light in the port-hole of an empty cabin, we know one thing is quite certain," he said gravely.
"And what's that?"
"That the ship will go down before very long."
"That's cheerful," remarked the owner of theVispera. "And when do you and your crew expect that interesting event to occur, pray?"
"Well, sir, of course we can't tell. Only I, myself, would like to get back to Barking once again before theVisperagoes away from under me."
"Are you a fool, Davis?"
"I hope not, sir."
"Well, it seems to me that such superstitions don't suit a hard, practical man like yourself. You've held a master's certificate for the past twenty years or more, and surely by this time you aren't upset or unnerved by the gossip of the forecastle?"
"Not usually, Mr. Keppel. But in this case I confess I am a bit dubious. I saw the mysterious light myself."
"I might have gone there for some purpose or other, and forgot to switch off the light."
"Yes, but it disappeared during the time I watched it," was the response. "To make sure that you were not there I sent a man down to your cabin, and he found you asleep there. So you couldn't have been in here."
"Electric lights have queer vagaries," the owner of the vessel remarked. "Perhaps the continual vibration of the engines injured the lamp, and extinguished it just at that moment. That's not at all an uncommon circumstance, as you know well."
"No, sir!" I heard Davis say in a tone of conviction; "there was either somebody in here, or else something uncanny. Of that I'm quite certain."
"Stowaways don't usually luxuriate in electric lights," laughed Keppel. "No, Davis, without doubt there is some quite simple explanation of what you believe to be a phenomenon. Think no more about it. Leave omens and all such things to these superstitious Italians."
The captain gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, which marked a habit of his. He was a hale and merry fellow, but from what he had said, it was evident he entertained a strong suspicion that he had carried a mysterious passenger. That all traces of the crime had been removed was plain, otherwise old Mr. Keppel would not have invited his captain to talk with him there. Of course he had done this in order to convince Davis that nothing was amiss. Indeed, the millionaire's coolness surprised me, for it was remarkable. Yet it showed plainly one fact, namely, that by some means or other the body of the unfortunate passenger had been got rid of, just as old Branca had declared.
Our host now intended to send on board a box said to contain a statuette, and at the same time, accompanied by his son, to desert his guests and leave the vessel to its fate.
To me there was but one theory: that box he had spoken of would contain the explosive which was destined to send theVisperato the bottom.
But what was the motive if, as seemed so probable, all evidence of the crime had been completely effaced?
We have an ancient proverb in Tuscany which says, "Rimediare al male fin dal suo principio." This very excellent maxim I was endeavouring to carry out. But it is always difficult—extremely difficult, especially for a woman.
When I had at length crept back to my cabin, fearing discovery by one or other of the pair whose interesting conversation I had overheard, I bolted my door and gave myself up to reflection. To act was imperative. The mysterious old man in the Via Magenta, who seemed so well informed as to Keppel's movements, and who had even told me the whereabouts of Ernest, was wrong in his surmise that the dastardly plot to blow up the yacht had been abandoned. The vessel was to sail to her doom. I alone knew the truth, and upon me devolved the duty of saving the lives of all on board.
If I failed, then the millionaire's yacht would be added to that long list of vessels which have sailed merrily from port, never to be seen or heard of afterwards. How many of these have been wilfully blown up for the sake of insurance money or of private vengeance is a question bitter to contemplate, and hard to answer. Certain it is that the elements are not responsible for all the vessels posted at Lloyd's as "missing" during recent years.
Slowly I undressed and entered my berth, but was unable to sleep, so full was my mind of grave thoughts. For a full half-hour I heard tramping in the deck-cabin above me; then all grew silent, and at last I dozed.
The dressing-bell awakened me in the morning, and after I had dressed I went along to Ulrica's cabin, where she was preparing herself with an ill grace to accompany the party to Pisa.
"I'm awfully tired of this trip!" I exclaimed, seating myself wearily upon the edge of the berth, "Five weeks at sea is quite sufficient for all purposes, without being taken around the Adriatic merely on account of old Keppel's whim."
"So am I terribly tired of it, my dear," Ulrica declared. "I only wish I could make some excuse to stay ashore."
That was exactly what I desired. I had no intention of sailing again in the doomed vessel, and had determined that she should not.
"Why can't we both stay ashore?" I suggested.
"Well, I can't," she responded, "for one simple reason. Gerald is leaving for Florence this morning; and if it were found that I, too, were missing, evil tongues would at once begin to wag."
"My dear Ulrica," I said, "I, for one, am very much obliged to old Keppel for his hospitality; but, nevertheless, I don't mean to be one of a party shipped up and down the Mediterranean like a cargo of coals. I don't intend to sail again."
"What, dear!" she cried. "Are you really serious? What's the cause of this sudden revolt?
"I'm bored to death," I replied. "And there are one or two persons on board that I intend to avoid in future; Mrs. Langdon, for instance—the old tabby!"
"Tabby is the correct term," Ulrica laughed. "I've never been able to find out where old Keppel discovered that rejuvenated skeleton. Her paint and powder are absolutely wicked."
"Listen, there's the breakfast bell," I said. "We'll all go over to Pisa and do the amiable with the others, and afterwards we must discover some matter which requires our urgent presence on shore—you understand?
"Exactly," she said.
"I leave the excuses to you, my dear; you're so excellent at soft sawder. Remember that at all hazards I don't sail. I hope you are equally determined."
"I'm quite with you," she declared. "Of course, we don't want to offend the old gentleman, for he's a useful person to know when one winters on the Riviera. Nevertheless, I quite agree that to be shipped up and down the Mediterranean like this is something beyond a joke. I wonder why the others stand it?"
"Why they stand it? Because he's a millionaire, and nearly all of them are indebted to him in some way or other. They can't demur. It isn't policy on their part to do so."
And so it was agreed between us that by hook or by crook we should either forget to sail, or openly present our apologies to our host.
After breakfast, always a merry meal when in port, but sometimes a sparsely-attended one when the mistral was blowing, we all took train to Pisa, accompanied by Keppelpère et fils, the latter wishing us a temporary farewell and going on to Florence, whence, he told us, he should return on the following night to rejoin us on our cruise.
I knew that he had not the least intention of doing so. He had actually told Ulrica privately that he was compelled to go by Milan and Bâle to Berlin, on some pressing business for his father.
The day's excursion to see the Leaning Tower and other wonders of the marble-built city by the Arno was, as far as the others were concerned, a success. To Ulrica and myself, who acted as guides, it was a day of absolute self-sacrifice. The only redeeming feature was the excellence of our lunch at the little unpretending restaurant beside the river, called the Nettuno. Any of my readers who have occasion to visit Pisa should remember it, and should carefully avoid those glaring hotels near the station, just as they should avoid the station-buffet.
At five o'clock we returned to Leghorn, wearied out, and at half-past six dined together on board. During the whole of the day I had managed to attach myself to old Mr. Keppel, in order to watch his movements; but, quite contrary to my expectations, he did not excuse himself by saying that he wished to make purchases; and further, instead of remaining in Pisa, as I expected he would do, he actually returned and took his usual seat at the head of the dining-table.
There was music after dinner, and several of the men, including the millionaire, went to the smoking-room.
Was it possible, I wondered, for him to have again changed his plans? I sat in the saloon until nearly eight o'clock, but being anxious, I rose and went up on deck, in order to ascertain whether our host was still with his friends.
I passed the door of the smoking-room and peered in, uttering some chaffing words with affected gaiety.
Keppel was not there.
"They are asking for Mr. Keppel in the saloon," I said. "I thought he was here."
"No," responded Lord Stoneborough. "He went ashore a little time ago."
"Oh, thanks," I said. "I'll tell them."
The millionaire had escaped me!
I dashed down to my cabin, and without hesitation changed my dinner-frock for a dark stuff dress that I had never worn on board; then, going again on deck, I induced one of the sailors to row me ashore at once, securing the man's silence by a tip of half-a-sovereign.
If our eccentric host intended to leave Leghorn, he must leave by train and return to Pisa. Therefore at the corner of the Via Grande I entered a tram, and shortly afterwards alighted at the station. The great platform was dimly lit and deserted, for no train would depart, they told me, for another hour. It was the mail, and ran to Pisa to catch the night express to the French frontier at Modane. Most probably Keppel meant to catch this train.
Should I wait and watch?
The idea occurred to me that if that unseen individual who had been present in the deck-house, and had suggested the destruction of theVispera, had come ashore, he would certainly meet Keppel somewhere.
The time dragged on. The short train was backed into the station, but no passenger appeared. A controller inquired if I intended to go to Pisa, but I replied in the negative. At last several passengers approached leisurely, as is usual in Italy, one or two carrying wicker-covered flasks of Chianti to drink in viaggio; the inevitable pair of white-gloved carabineers strolled up and down, and the train prepared to start.
Of a sudden, almost before I was aware of it, I was conscious of two figures approaching. One was that of old Mr. Keppel, hot and hurrying, carrying a small brown hand-bag, and the other the figure of a woman, wearing a soft felt hat and long fawn travelling-cloak.
I drew back into the shadow to allow them to pass without recognising me. The miscreant had, it seemed to me, cleverly disguised himself as a woman.
Hurrying, the next moment they passed me by in search of an empty first-class compartment. The controller approached them to ask for their tickets. Keppel searched his pockets in a fidgety fashion, and said in English, which, of course, the man did not understand:
"We're going to the frontier."
The man glanced leisurely at the tickets, unlocked one of the doors, and allowed them to enter.
As the woman mounted into the carriage, however, a ray of light fell straight across her face, and revealed to my wondering eyes a countenance that held me absolutely bewildered.
The discovery I made at that moment increased the mystery tenfold. The countenance disclosed by the lamplight in the badly-lit station was not that of a man in female disguise, as I had suspected, but of a woman. Her identity it was that held me in amazement, for in that instant I recognised her as none other than the dark-haired, handsome woman whom I had seen lying dead upon the floor of the deck-house on the previous night.
Why were they leaving the yacht in company? What fresh conspiracy was there in progress?
I had always believed old Benjamin Keppel to be the soul of honour, but the revelations of the past few hours caused me utter bewilderment. I stood there in hesitation, and glancing up at the clock, saw that there were still three minutes before the departure of the train. Next moment I had made a resolve to follow them and ascertain the truth. I entered the booking-office, obtained a ticket to Modane, the French frontier beyond Mont Cenis, and a few moments later was sitting alone in a compartment at the rear of the train. I had no luggage, nothing whatever save the small travelling reticule suspended from my waist-belt. And I had set out for an unknown destination!
The train moved off, and soon we were tearing through the night across that wide plain which had been the sea-bottom in those mediæval days when the sculptured town of Pisa was a prosperous seaport, the envy of both Florentines and Genoese, and past the spot marked by a church where St. Peter is said to have landed. Well I knew that wide Tuscan plain, with its fringe of high, vine-clad mountains, for in my girlhood days I had wandered over it, making my delighted way through the royal forest and through the gracious vinelands.
At last, after three quarters of an hour, we ran into the busy station at Pisa, that point so well known to every tourist who visits Italy. It is the highway to Florence, Rome, and Naples, just as it is to Genoa, Turin, or Milan; and just as the traveller in Switzerland must at some time find himself at Bâle, so does the traveller in Italy at some time or other find himself at Pisa. Yet how few strangers who pass through, or who drive down to look at the Leaning Tower and the great old Cathedral, white as a marble tomb, ever take the trouble to explore the country beyond. They never go up to quiet, grey, old Lucca, a town with walls and gates the same to-day as when Dante wandered there, untouched by the hand of the vandal, unspoilt by modern progress, undisturbed by tourist invaders. Its narrow, old-world streets of decaying palaces, its leafy piazzas, its Lily theatre, its proud, handsome people, all are charming to one who, like myself, loves Italy and the gay-hearted Tuscan.
Little time was there for reflection, however, for on alighting at Pisa I was compelled to conceal myself until the arrival of the express on its way from Rome to Paris. While I waited, the thought occurred to me that theVisperawas still in peril, and that I alone could save her passengers and crew. Yet, with the mysterious woman still alive, there could, I pondered, be no motive in destroying the vessel. Perhaps the idea had happily been abandoned.
Nevertheless, the non-appearance of the individual whose voice I had heard, but whom I had not seen, was disconcerting. Try as I would, I could not get rid of the suspicion aroused by Keppel's flight that foul play was still intended. If it were not, why had the old millionaire not continued his cruise? As the unknown woman had been concealed on board for several weeks, there was surely no reason why she should not have remained there another three or four days, until we reached Marseilles! No. That some unusually strange mystery was connected with the whole affair, I felt confident.
I peered out from the corner in which I was standing, and saw Keppel and his companion enter the buffet. As soon as they had disappeared, I made a sudden resolve, entered the telegraph office, and wrote the following message:
"To Captain Davis. S.Y. 'Vispera' in port, Livorno.—Have altered arrangements. Sail at once for Genoa. Box I spoke of will join you there. Leave immediately on receipt of this.—KEPPEL."
I handed it in to the telegraphist, saying in Italian:
"I want this delivered on board to-night, most particularly."
He looked at it, and shook his head.
"I fear, signorina," he answered, with grave politeness, "that delivery is quite impossible. It is after hours, and the message will remain in the office, and be delivered with letters in the morning."
"But it must reach the captain to-night," I declared.
The man elevated his shoulders slightly, and showed his palms. This was the Tuscan gesture of regret.
"At Livorno they are not, I am sorry to say, very obliging."
"Then you believe it to be absolutely useless to send the message, in the expectation of it being delivered before morning?"
"The signorina understands me exactly."
"But what can I do?" I cried in desperation. "This message must reach the captain before midnight."
The man reflected for a moment. Then he answered me.
"There is but one way I can suggest."
"What is that?" I cried anxiously, for I heard a train approaching, and knew it must be the Paris express.
"To send a special messenger to Livorno. A train starts in half an hour, and the message can then be delivered by 11 o'clock."
"Could you find me one?" I asked. "I'm willing to bear all expenses."
"My son will go, if the signorina so wishes," he answered.
"Thank you so much," I replied, a great weight lifted from my mind. "I leave the matter entirely in your hands. If you will kindly see that the message is delivered, you will be rendering, not only to myself, but to a number of other people, a very great service."
"The signorina's instructions shall be obeyed," he answered.
When he had said this I placed some money to cover expenses upon the counter, again thanked him, and left, feeling that although I had been guilty of forgery, I had saved the yacht from destruction.
The train, with its glaring head-lights, swept into the station from its long journey across the fever-stricken Maremma marshes, but I saw with considerable dismay that there was but one sleeping-car—the only through car for the frontier. I was therefore compelled to travel in this, even at the risk of meeting Keppel in the corridor. One cannot well travel in one of those stuffy cars of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits without being seen by all one's fellow-travellers. It was thus my first difficulty presented itself.
I watched my host and his companion enter the car, and from the platform saw them shown to their respective berths by the conductor. Keppel was given a berth in a two-bed compartment with another man, while the tall dark woman was shown to one of the compartments reserved for ladies at the other end of the car.
With satisfaction I saw the old millionaire take his companion's hand and wish her good-night. As soon as his door had closed, I mounted into the car and demanded a place.
"The signorina is fortunate. We have just one berth vacant," answered the conductor in Italian. "This way, please," and taking me along the corridor, he rapped at the door of the compartment to which he had just shown the mysterious woman.
I left it to the conductor to explain my presence, and after entering, closed and bolted the door behind me.
"I regret that I've been compelled to disturb you, but this is the only berth vacant," I said in English, in a tone of apology, for when I noticed that her black eyes flashed inquiringly at me, I deemed it best to be on friendly terms with her.
"Don't mention it; I'm English," she answered, quite affably. "I'm pleased that you're English. I feared some horrid foreign woman would be put in to be my travelling companion. Are you going far?"
"To the frontier," I responded vaguely. The extent of my journey depended upon the length of hers.
Then, after a further exchange of courtesies, we prepared for the night and entered our narrow berths, she choosing the upper one, and I the lower.
As far as I could judge, she was fifty, perhaps more, though she was still extremely handsome, her beauty being of a Southern type, and her black hair and coiffure, with huge tortoise-shell comb, giving her a Spanish appearance. She wore several beautiful rings, and I noticed that on her neck, concealed during the day by her bodice, was some tiny charm, suspended by a thin gold chain. Her voice and bearing were those of an educated woman, and she was buxom without being at all stout.
The roar of the train and the grinding of the wheels as we whirled through those seventy odd suffocating tunnels that separate Pisa from Genoa rendered sleep utterly impossible, so by mutual agreement we continued our conversation.
She seemed, like the "Ancient Mariner," to be needing someone to whom she could tell her story. She wanted an audience able to realise the fine points of her play. From the outset she seemed bursting with items about herself, little dreaming that I was acting as spy upon her.
I secretly congratulated myself upon my astuteness, and proceeded to draw her out. Her slight accent puzzled me, but it was due, I discovered, to the fact that her mother had been Portuguese. She seemed to label everything with her own intellectual acquirements. To me, a perfect stranger, she chatted during that night-journey about her fine figure and her power over men, about her ambitions and her friends. But her guardian interfered with her friends. He was an old man, and jealous; had her money invested, and would not allow her to look at a man. If she paid the least attention to any man in particular, she received no money. She was not forty, she told me, and her guardian, who was also in the train, was over seventy.
When she was not telling me the story of her loves, and her father, mother, and step-father, she filled in the time by telling me about some man she called Frank, who had a pretty-faced wife addicted to the bad habit known as secret drinking.
"Trouble?" she wandered on. "Oh, I've had such lots and lots of it that I'm beginning to feel very old already. Troubles, I always think, are divided into two classes—one controlled by a big-horned, cloven-hoofed devil, and the other by the snippy little devil that flashes in and out of our hearts. The big devil is usually placed upon us by others. It follows us. Sometimes we can evade it, but at others it catches us up on its horns and gives us a toss. We come down into the dust, crumpled, with all courage, ambition and hope absorbed in despair. We pick ourselves up in desperation. All that is best in us is so deadened that even our consciences cannot hear a whisper; or, on the other hand, we steel ourselves, and make a resolve which lifts us to a moral and mental victory, and to all that is noblest in ourselves and humanity."
I laughed, admitting that there was much truth in her words.
"And the other—the little imp?" I asked.
"The other—this insane perversity of human nature, gets hold on us whether we will or not. It makes us for the time ignore all that is best in ourselves and in others—it is part of us. Though we know well it resides within ourselves, it will cause our tears to flow and our sorrows to accumulate, it is a fictitious substance, with possibly a mint of happiness underlying it. We are always conscious of it, but insanity makes us ignore it for so long that the little imp completes its work, and the opportunity is lost. But why are we moralising?" she added. "Let's try and get to sleep, shall we?"
To this I willingly acquiesced, for truth to tell, I did not give credence to a single word of the rather romantic story she had related regarding herself, her friends, and her jealous guardian. In these post-Grundian days I had met women of her stamp many times before. The only way to make them feel is to tell them the truth, devoid of all flattery.
She struck me as a woman with a past—her whole appearance pointed to this conclusion. Now a woman with a chequered past and an untrammelled present is always more or less interesting to women, as well as to men. She is a mystery. The mystery is that men cannot quite believe a smart woman with knowledge, cut loose from all fetters, to be proof against flattery. She queens it, while they study her. Interest in a woman is only one step from love for her—a fact with which we, the fairer sex, are very well acquainted.
Ulrica had once expressed an opinion that pasts were not so bad if it were not for the memories that cling to them; not, of course, that the pasts of either of us had been anything out of the ordinary. Memories that cling to others, or the hints of a "past," certainly make you of interest to men, as well as a menace to the imagination of other women; but the memories that hover about yourself are sometimes like truths—brutal.
Memories! As I lay there upon my hard and narrow bed, being whirled through those suffocating tunnels in the cliffs beside the Mediterranean, I could not somehow get away from memory. The story this mysterious woman had related had awakened all the sad recollections of my own life. It seemed as though an avalanche of cruel truths was sweeping down upon my heart. At every instant memory struck a blow that left a scar deep and unsightly as any made by the knife. There was tragedy in every one. The first that came to me was a day long ago. Ah me! I was young then—a child in fears, a novice in experience—on that day when I admitted to Ernest my deep and fervent affection. How brief it all had been! I had, alas! now awakened to the hard realities of life, and to the anguish the heart is capable of holding. The sweetest part of love, the absolute trust, had died long ago. My heart had lost its lightness, never to return, for his love toward me was dead. His fond tenderness of those bygone days was only a memory.
Yet he must have loved me! With me it had been the love of my womanhood, the love that is born with youth, that overlooks, forgives, and loves again, that gives friendship, truth and loyalty. What, I wondered, were his thoughts when we had encountered each other at Monte Carlo? He showed neither interest nor regret. No. He had cast me aside, leaving me to endure that crushing sorrow and brain torture which had been the cause of my long illness. He remembered nothing. To him our love was a mere incident. It is no exaggeration to describe memory as the scar of truth's cruel wound.