I lay there wondering to myself if ever again I should feel any uplifting joy or any heartrending sorrow. Ah, if women could only outgrow the child-part of their natures, hearts would not bleed so much! One of the greatest surprises in life is to discover how acutely they can ache, how they can be strained to the utmost tension, crowded with agony, and yet not break. This is moralising, and smacks of sentiment, but it is true to nature, as many of us are forced to learn.
The train roared on; the woman above me slept soundly, and I, with tears starting to my eyes, tried hard to burn the bridges leading to the past, and seek forgetfulness in sleep. The process of burning can never be accomplished, thanks to our retentive memory; but slumber came to me at last, and I must have dozed some time, for when I awoke we were in Genoa, and daylight was already showing through the chinks of the crimson blinds.
But the woman who had told the curious story slept on. Probably the spinning of so much romantic fiction had wearied her brain. The story she had related could not, of course, be true. If she were really old Keppel's ward, then what motive had he in concealing her in that gilded deck-house, which was believed to be stored with curios? Who, too, was that unseen man whom he had apparently taken into his confidence—the man who had promised assistance by blowing up the yacht, with all hands?
I shuddered at the thought of that dastardly plot.
Yet Keppel had been declared by this unknown person to be the murderer of the woman now lying in the berth above me. Why?
The train was at a standstill, and I rose to peep out. As I turned to re-enter my berth, my eyes fell upon the sleeping form of my companion. Her face was turned towards me, and her opened bodice disclosed a delicate white throat and neck.
I bent quickly to examine more closely what I saw there. Upon the throat were two dark marks, one on either side—the marks of a human finger and a thumb—an exact repetition of the puzzling marks that had been found upon the throat of poor Reggie!
So still, so pale, and so bloodless were my mysterious companion's lips, that at the first moment I feared she might be dead. Her appearance was that of a corpse. But after careful watching I saw that she was breathing lightly, but regularly, and thus I became satisfied.
The curious marks, as though a man's hand had attempted to strangle her, were of a pale yellowish-brown, the colour of disappearing bruises. One was narrow and small, where the finger had pressed; the other wide and long, the mark of the thumb.
Again I returned to my berth, and as the express thundered on its way northward towards Turin, I tried to form some theory to account for my discovery of those curious marks upon her.
The hours of early morning crept slowly by. The sun rose over the beautiful vine-lands of Asti as we whirled forward towards the great Alpine barrier which so splendidly divides Italy from France; its rays penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman did not stir. She seemed as one in a trance.
Close beside me lay her dress-skirt. My eyes had been fixed upon it a hundred times during the night, and it now occurred to me that by searching its pocket I might discover something that would give me a clue to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she was still unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the skirt, placed my hand in the pocket and drew out the contents.
The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile leather, because in this I hoped to discover her visiting-card. But I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few pieces of French money, a couple of receipts from shops in Paris, and a tiny scrap of card, an inch square, with several numerals scribbled upon it.
The numbers were unintelligible, but when I chanced to turn the piece of thin pasteboard over, its reverse gave me an immediate clue. It was a piece of one of those red-and-black ruled cards used by gamblers at Monte Carlo to register the numbers at roulette. This woman, whoever she was, had evidently been to Monte Carlo, and the numbers scribbled there were those which she believed would bring her fortune. Every gambler has her strong-rooted fancies, just as she has her amusing superstitions, and her belief in unlucky days and unlucky croupiers.
Two facts were plain. First, that she bore marks upon her which were the exact counterpart of those found on poor Reggie; secondly, that she herself had been to Monte Carlo.
Her handkerchief was of fine lawn, but bore no mark, while the crumpled piece of paper—without which no woman's pocket is complete—proved, on examination; to contain only the address of some person in Brussels.
I carefully replaced all these articles, having failed to ascertain her name; and then I dozed again. She was already up, and dressed, when I awoke.
"Ah!" she laughed, "I see you've been sleeping well. I've had a famous night. I always sleep well when I travel. But I have a secret. A doctor friend of mine gave me some little tabloids of some narcotic—I don't know its name—but if I take one I sleep quite well for six or seven hours at a stretch."
"I awoke once, and you were quite sound asleep."
"Oh, yes," she laughed. "But I wonder where we are?"
I looked forth, and was just able to read the name of a small station as we dashed through it at a glorious speed.
"We're nearing Turin," I responded. Then suddenly recollecting that in an hour or so I should be compelled to face old Keppel in the corridor, I resolved on a plan, which I immediately proceeded to put in force. "I don't feel at all well this morning," I added. "I think I shall go to sleep again."
"I've some smelling salts here," she said, looking at me with an expression of sympathy. And she took out a small silver-topped bottle from her little reticule.
I took it and sniffed it gladly, with a word of thanks. If I did not wish to meet Keppel, I should be compelled to remain in that stuffy little den for something like another twenty-four hours, if the travellers intended to go on to Paris. The prospect was certainly not inviting, for a single night in a Continental sleeping-car running over a badly-laid line gets on one's nerves terribly. Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned in again, and at Turin, while my companion went forth and rejoined the man who had been my host, the conductor brought me the usual glass of hot coffee and a roll.
"I'm not well," I explained to the man who handed it to me. "Are you going through to Paris?"
"Si, signorina."
"Then please don't let me be disturbed, either at the frontier or anywhere else."
"Certainly—if the signorina has the keys of her baggage."
"I have no baggage," I replied. "Only see that I get something to eat—and buy me a novel. Italian, French—anything will do. And also some newspapers—Stampa,Corriere, andSecolo."
"Si, signorina." And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the man returned with a couple of new novels and half a dozen four-paged, badly-printed Italian newspapers, by means of which I managed to wile away the tedious hours as we sped on through Susa and the beautiful Alpine valleys.
From time to time my companion looked in to see how I was, offering to do anything for me that she could; then she returned to old Keppel, who was sitting on one of the little flap-seats in the corridor, smoking.
"The woman in with me is rather young—and quite charming," I heard her say to him. "She's been taken queer this morning. I expect the heat has upset her, poor thing! The berths here are very hot and close."
"Horribly! I was nearly asphyxiated," he answered.
Then, about half an hour later, I recognised his voice again. He was evidently standing with his companion close to the door of my compartment.
"We shall be in Paris about half-past eight to-morrow morning, it seems," he said.
"And theVisperawill be awaiting you at Naples?" she laughed.
"Davis is quite used to my erratic movements," he answered. "A reputation for eccentricity is very useful sometimes."
"But shall you rejoin her?"
He hesitated.
"I think it is most unlikely," he answered. "I've had enough of cruising. You, too, must be very tired of it."
"Tired!" she cried. "Imprisoned in the cabin all day long, with the windows closed and curtained, I felt that if it lasted much longer I must go mad. Besides, it was only by a miracle that I was not discovered a dozen times."
"But very fortunately you were not," he said.
"And all to no purpose," she observed, in a tone of weariness and discontent.
"Ah! that's another matter—quite another matter."
"I do wish you would satisfy my curiosity by telling me exactly what occurred on the night before we landed," she said. "You know what I mean?"
She evidently referred to the attempt upon her life.
"Well," he responded, in hesitation, "I myself am not quite clear as to what took place. I entered the cabin, you know, and found you lying unconscious."
"Yes, I know. I was thrown violently down by a sudden lurching of the ship, and must have struck my head against something," she replied. "But afterwards I remember experiencing a most curious sensation in my throat, just as though someone with sinewy fingers were trying to strangle me."
"Absurd!" he laughed. "It was only your imagination. The close confinement in that place, together with the rolling of the ship, had caused you a little light-headedness, without a doubt."
"But it was more than imagination. Of that I feel certain. There was blood upon my lips, you remember."
"Because in falling you had cut your lower lip. I can see the place now."
"I believe that someone tried to take my life."
"Rubbish! Why, who is there to suspect? I was the only soul on board who knew of your presence. Surely you don't suspect me of attempting murder?"
"Of course not," she answered decisively.
"Then don't give way to any wild imaginings of that sort. Keep a cool head in this affair."
The remainder of the conversation was lost to me, although I strained my ears to catch every sound. His words made it plain that she was in ignorance of the knowledge possessed by the unseen man whose voice I had overheard; and further, that both were acting together in order to obtain some object, the nature of which was, to me, a complete mystery.
She came a short time afterwards and kindly inquired how I felt. They were going to change into the dining-car, and she hoped I would not starve altogether. As I talked to her I recollected the strange marks I had seen upon her throat—those distinct impressions of finger and thumb. I looked again for them, but they were concealed by the lace of her high-necked bodice. There seemed a strange, half-tragic beauty about her face. She was certainly fifty, if not more, yet in the broad daylight I could detect no thread of silver in her hair. She was extremely well-preserved.
The conductor brought me a cutlet and a bottle of Beaujolais after we had passed through the Mont Cenis, and for some hours afterwards I lay reading and thinking. We were on our way to Paris, but with what motive I had no idea.
I wondered what they would think on board theVisperawhen they found me to be missing, and laughed aloud when I reflected that the natural conclusion would be that I had eloped with old Mr. Keppel. I rather regretted that I had told Ulrica nothing, but, of course, a telegram to her could explain everything on the morrow. The yacht would be lying safely in Genoa harbour awaiting her owner, who never intended to return.
And where was that unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I could not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to his share in the mystery.
The day passed slowly, and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The woman with the mysterious marks upon her neck returned, accompanied by her escort, from the dining-car, and sat chatting with him in the corridor. Their voices reached me, but I could distinguish little of their conversation. Suddenly, however, I thought I could hear a third voice in conversation—the voice of a man.
It sounded familiar. I listened again. Yes, it seemed as though I had heard that voice somewhere before. Indeed, I knew its tones perfectly well.
For some few minutes I lay listening, trying to catch the words. But the train was roaring through a deep cutting, and I could only hear disjointed words, or parts of sentences.
In my determination to see who it was, I carefully opened the door of the compartment, so that I could peer through the chink.
I bent forward until my eyes rested upon the speaker, who, lounging near, was engaged in serious conversation with Keppel and my travelling companion, as though he were an old friend.
In an instant I drew back and held my breath. Was this the man who had suggested the blowing up of theVispera? Surely not! Perhaps, however, he had actually travelled with us from Pisa in another carriage, or perhaps he had joined the train at some intermediate station. But by whatever means he had come there, the fact of his identity remained the same.
It was Ernest Cameron, the man I loved!
The discovery of Ernest's presence in the car was an entirely fresh development of the mystery. I had been ignorant of his acquaintance with Keppel, but that they were really close friends was evident by the rapid, rather apprehensive manner in which they were conversing.
I tried, and tried again, to overhear some of the words spoken; but in vain! Therefore I was compelled to remain in wonderment until the conclusion of that long and terribly tiring journey half across Europe.
Arrived at the Gare de Lyons in Paris, I entered a fiacre, and followed them across the city to the "Hôtel Terminus," that big caravansery outside the Gare St. Lazare, where they engaged four rooms on the first floor—a sitting-room and three bedrooms. Having taken every precaution to avoid being detected by either of them, I ascertained that the number of the sitting-room was 206. I at once engaged Number 205, the room adjoining, and ordered a lightdéjeunerto be taken there. I was faint, nervous, and tired after being cramped up for thirty hours, and was resting on the couch, when suddenly voices sounded in the next room, causing me to spring up and be on the alert in an instant.
Keppel and Ernest were speaking together,
"It's a risk, of course," the millionaire was saying in a low tone—"a great risk."
"But we've run greater in the course of this affair," the other responded. "You know how near to arrest I have been."
I held my breath. Arrest! What could he mean?
"It was fortunate that you escaped as you did."
"Thanks to you. Had you not concealed me on theVispera, and taken me on that cruise, I should have now been in the hands of the police."
"But they seem to possess no clue," Keppel observed.
"Fortunately for us, they do not," answered the man to whom I had given my heart. And he laughed lightly, as though he were perfectly confident of his own safety. "It was that transfer of the notes at the Carnival ball that puzzled them."
They were speaking of poor Reggie's murder!
I held my ear close to the dividing door, straining to catch every word. I was learning their secret. The two men whom I had least suspected were actually implicated in that dastardly crime. But what, I wondered, could have been their motive in taking the poor boy's life? Certainly robbery was not the incentive, for to old Keppel sixty thousand francs was but a paltry sum.
Again I listened, but as I did so the woman entered, and shortly afterwards the two men left the room and went down the stairs.
In an instant I resolved to follow them. Before they had gained the entrance-hall I had put on my hat and descended. They took a cab and first drove up the hill behind St. Lazare to the Boulevard des Battignolles, alighting before a large house where, from an oldconciergein slippers, Ernest received two letters. Both men stood in the doorway and read the communications through. I had followed in a cab. From their faces I could see that the letters contained serious news, and for some minutes they stood in discussion, as though undecided what to do.
At length, however, they re-entered the cab and drove back past the Opera, through the Rue Rivoli and across the Pont des Arts, turning into a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets beyond the Seine, and stopping before a small, uninviting-looking hairdresser's shop. They were inside for some ten minutes or so, while I stood watching a short distance off, my head turned away so that they should not recognise me if they came out suddenly.
When they emerged they were laughing good-humouredly, and were accompanied to the door by a rather well-dressed man, evidently a hairdresser, for a comb protruded from his pocket, and his hair was brushed up in that style peculiar to the Parisiancoiffeur.
"Good-day, messieurs," he said in French, bowing them into the fiacre, "I understand quite clearly. There is nothing to fear, I assure you—absolutely nothing!"
In that man's dark eyes, as he stood watching the cab as it drove off, was a strangely intense look. His face was triangular, with broad forehead and pointed chin. I imagined him to have a rather curious personality. Again I looked at his peculiarly brilliant eyes, and a strange truth flashed upon me. Yes, I remembered that curious expression quite distinctly.
He was the man who had worn the owl's dress in Carnival—the man who had returned to me the notes stolen from poor Reggie! He was an accomplice of the two men of whom I had never entertained the least suspicion.
The truth had been revealed in so amazing a fashion that I was completely staggered. Ernest was an assassin! Had he not admitted how near he had been to arrest, and congratulated himself upon his escape? Had not old Keppel aided him by concealing him on board theVispera? Once, alas! I had in the roseate days of youth believed in the man who had made love to me; who had flattered and caressed me, and who had declared that I should be his always. Ah! how well I remembered it! How bitterly all the past came back to me. And yet, until that very hour of my discovery that he was an assassin I had never ceased to love him—never for a single instant. We women are strange creatures.
I re-entered the cab, but in the Boulevard St. Michel my driver unfortunately lost sight of the men I had told him to keep in view. They must, I think, have turned suddenly into one of the many side streets, and thus reached the Quai.
For a few moments I sat back in hesitation. Should I return at once to the hotel, or should I go boldly to that man whom I had so fortunately discovered, and charge him with having had in his possession the stolen notes? If I adopted the latter course, I saw that I should only raise an alarm, and the pair I was watching would undoubtedly get clear away. No. The old proverb that "murder will out" had once more asserted its truth. I had made a most amazing discovery, and now my love for Ernest as a man having been transformed to hatred of him as an assassin, I meant slowly to weave a web about the criminals, and when it was complete, I intended to give information to the police, and thus avenge the poor boy's death.
I drove to the nearest telegraph-office and wired to Genoa, urging Ulrica to come to Paris without delay, for I sorely needed the counsel of the woman who was my best friend.
Then I returned to the "Hôtel Terminus." As I heard no one in the sitting-room adjoining, I lay down to rest, sleeping soundly, for my nerves were unstrung, and I was utterly worn out by fatigue and constant watchfulness.
When I awoke it was past seven o'clock, and quite dark. There was still no movement in the sitting-room adjoining. I dressed, and went across to dine at the Duval, over at the corner of the Rue du Havre, preferring that cheap restaurant to thetable d'hôteof the hotel, where I might possibly meet the three persons upon whom I was keeping watch.
An hour later, just as I was crossing the road to re-enter the hotel, I saw a man standing alone on the steps in hesitation. He wore a dark beard, and carried a long drab overcoat, such as men generally affect on race-courses; but notwithstanding his disguise, I perceived that it was Ernest. The beard made him look much older, and by the addition of a few lines to his face he had entirely altered his appearance. For some moments he puffed pensively at his cigar, then, glancing at his watch, descended the steps and strolled slowly along past the "Café Terminus," and continued to walk down the Rue du Havre as far as the Boulevard Haussmann, where he stopped before that popular rendezvous of Parisians, the "Grand Café."
After he had selected one of the tables, the last one towards the Madeleine, placed against the wall of the café, he ordered a coffee and liqueur. The night was bright, and the Boulevards, with their blazing globes of electricity, were full of life and movement.
From where I was sitting, at a smallbrasserieon the opposite side of the Boulevard, I watched him narrowly. He glanced up and down as though in constant expectation of meeting someone, and looked at his watch impatiently. He tossed off hisliqueurat a single gulp, but his coffee remained untasted, for it was evident that he was in a state of deep agitation. He had feared arrest for the murder of Reginald Thorne, and had taken refuge secretly on theVispera. Were not his own words sufficient to convince me of his guilt?
As I looked I saw him, while in the act of pretending to sip his coffee, bend down close to the marble table, which, after making certain that he was not observed, he scrutinised carefully. Twice he bent to look at it closely. Surely, I thought, there must be something of interest marked on that slab. Then he glanced at his watch again, paid, and strolled off down the Boulevard.
Whether to follow or whether to investigate that table, I was for the moment undecided; but I resolved upon the latter course. I crossed the road, made straight for the seat he had occupied, and as soon as I had ordered adubonnet, proceeded to examine the table. Very quickly I discovered what had interested him. Scrawled in pencil upon the marble were some letters quite unintelligible, but evidently a cipher message. It was no more than this:
J. TABAC. 22.
Another inscription had been written there, but it had been lately erased by some previous customer, who had apparently dipped his finger in the drippings of beer or coffee, and smeared it across. The writing was not very easy to discern in the half-light, for the table was so placed as to be in the deep shadows. Was it possible that the person who had erased the first message had written the second? Could it be that this person was the man whom I had been watching?
I had seen him bend over that table mysteriously, first glancing round to make certain that no one was watching. Why had he thus betrayed fear, if that message was not one of importance? Goron, the greatchefof the Parissûreté, had told me, when I met him at dinner once in London, how the criminals of Paris were fond of making the tops of the café tables the means of communication, and how many a crime had been discovered by the police with the aid of the keys they possessed to certain secret codes.
I looked again at the initial, the word "tabac," and the number 22 scrawled on the marble before me, and was puzzled to know what they could convey. Had Ernest really written them? The letters were printed, in order, no doubt, to prevent any recognition of the handwriting. I remembered that he had sat with his hand upon the table, as though toying idly with the matches; and further, I noticed that the liquid with which the erasure had been made was not yet entirely dry. I touched it with my gloved finger and placed it to my nose. There was an odour of coffee.
Now, if Ernest had really written that cipher message, he had substituted his for the one he had found standing there. With what purpose? To whom was this unintelligible word addressed? Having regard to the fact that the tables of cafés are usually washed down by the waiters every morning, it seemed plain that the person to whom he intended to convey the message would come there that night. Indeed, he had constantly looked at his watch, as though in expectation of the arrival of someone.
I paid thegarçonand left, returning some few minutes later to my previous place in front of the brasserie opposite, determined to wait and watch. The attendant brought me some illustrated papers, and while pretending to be absorbed in them, I kept my eye upon the table I had just vacated. A shabby, small, wizen-faced man in a silk hat, with a flat brim, passed and re-passed the spot where I was sitting, and, it seemed, eyed me rather suspiciously. But perhaps it was only my fancy, for when one is engaged in the work of bringing home to a criminal his crime, one is apt to look with undue suspicion upon all and sundry.
I think I must have been there nearly half an hour before a ragged, unkempt man, who had slunk past where I was seated and picked up several cigar-ends with a stick bearing a sharpened wire point, crossed over to the "Grand Café" and recommenced his search beneath the tables there. When he had secured some half-a-dozen cigar-ends, he moved quickly to the table in the shadow; and as he stooped, feigning to pick up a piece of unconsumed cigar, I saw that he glanced eagerly to see what message was written there.
Just at that moment the wizen-faced man who had evinced such an extraordinary interest in myself was standing idly upon the kerb close by, and was undoubtedly watching him.
The quick eyes of the old collector of cigar-ends apparently understood the message in an instant, for with back bent he continued his active search, betraying no further interest in that table in the shadow. If he had really gone there in order to ascertain the nature of the message, he concealed his real purpose admirably. Probably he was used to being watched by police agents. I saw him hobble along from café to café, his shrewd, deep-set eyes peering from beneath his shaggy brows, always in search of the small pieces of tobacco discarded by smokers.
With him also disappeared the shabby little man whose interest I had unwittingly aroused, and I remained alone, still irresolute and wondering.
I had paid, and was just about to rise and go, when of a sudden a smart victoria pulled up in front of the "Grand Café," and from it stepped a well-dressed woman, wearing a smart hat and an elaborate cape of the latestmode. Without hesitation she walked to the table in question and seated herself. In the darkness I could not distinguish her face, but I saw that even before the waiter could attend to her she had examined the table and read the message there written.
Was it, I wondered, intended for her?
The waiter brought what she ordered, a "bock," that favourite beverage with both Parisians and Parisiennes. I watched her narrowly, and at once saw something to convince me that the cipher was intended for her eye. She dipped her finger in the beer, and when no one was looking, drew it across the writing.
Was she young, or old, I wondered? She was settling her cape and chiffons preparatory to rising and re-entering her carriage; I also rose and crossed the road. As I stepped upon the asphalt on the opposite side, she crossed to where her smart carriage stood, brushing past me as she did so.
As the light fell across her face there was revealed to me a countenance with which I was only too familiar.
She was the woman who had usurped my place in Ernest's heart; the woman whom I had seen in his company at Monte Carlo; the woman who had laughed at me in triumph across the roulette table, because she knew that she held him beneath the spell of her insipid beauty.
I started to walk along the Boulevard towards the Opera. To that woman with the tow-coloured hair, the blue eyes and pink cheeks—the woman who had replaced me in his affections—Ernest had written that strange message in cipher, a message of warning it might be. I hated her. I really believe that if ever the spirit of murder has entered my heart, it was at that moment. I could have sprung upon her and killed her as she stepped into the carriage.
She had said no word to her coachman. He apparently knew where to drive. That cipher was perhaps an appointment which he had gone forward to keep, while she was now following. The thought convulsed me with anger. This man, Ernest Cameron, the man who had once held me in his arms and declared that he loved me, was, upon his own admission, an assassin.
I had somehow ceased to think of the old millionaire and the chattering woman whom he had concealed on board theVispera. All my thoughts were of the man who had, until then, held me as his helpless slave.
It may have been jealousy, or it may possibly have been the revulsion of feeling that had seized me on becoming aware of the terrible truth of his guilt, that caused me to vow to leave no stone unturned to secure his arrest and condemnation. I would follow her. She, that slim woman with the fair hair, had stolen him from me, but I determined that she should not be allowed to enjoy his society much longer. I had discovered the truth, and the blow that I intended to deal would be fatal to the happiness of both of them.
I laughed within myself as I got into a fiacre, and told the driver to keep her carriage in sight. I was not impatient. I would wait and watch until I had secured ample proof. Then I had but to apply to the police, and the arrest would be made. He, Ernest Cameron, had murdered and robbed the poor boy who had admired me, and with whom I had so foolishly flirted. It was the attention I had allowed him to pay to me that was primarily the cause of his assassination. Of that I had always been convinced. The moral responsibility rested upon myself.
I followed her straight up the Rue Lafayette to the Gare du Nord, where she alighted, and after speaking a moment with her coachman, dismissed her carriage. She evidently intended to leave Paris. I crept up quickly behind her in the long booking-office, and followed her in order to overhear her destination.
"First-class return to Enghien, please," she asked the girl who sold the tickets.
Enghien! I had heard of the place as being a popular resort near Paris, famous for its sulphur baths; but in what direction it lay, I had not the slightest idea. Nevertheless, the fact of her taking a return ticket, and having no baggage, showed that she did not intend to make a protracted stay. Therefore, when she was out of hearing, I took a ticket for the same destination; the price showed me that the distance could not be very great.
Secretly following her, I entered a train, and in half-an-hour alighted at a small suburban station, which was rather dimly lit. Outside, she entered a fiacre. Following her quickly, I drove through the narrow street of the little French town to the shore of a small lake, from which arose a strong and disagreeable odour of sulphur. She disappeared into the gaily-lit entrance of an illuminated garden, which I discovered to be the Casino of Enghien, an establishment where public gambling was permitted, and where there was a celebrated so-calledcerclefor baccarat. The place consisted of a garden extending along the shore of the lake, together with a large open-air café, a big theatre—where a variety performance was in progress—and beyond, the public gaming-room, play in which proved to be of the usual kind permitted at French and Belgian resorts.
It was a decidedly pretty place. The long festoons of coloured lights were reflected in the lake, while out towards the pine-covered island were many small boats decorated with paper lanterns. In the garden there was quite a crowd of Parisians, who had gone there in the evening to lounge in the fresh air, or to stake their francs upon the little horses or upon the miniature railway. The band was playing, and the smart pleasure-seekers were promenading over the gravelled walks, laughing gaily, and chatting merrily.
The woman upon whom I was keeping such a close watch strolled through the gardens, peering hither and thither, as though in search of someone. It was theentr'acte, and the theatre, one side of which was open towards the garden, had emptied. At Enghien theentr'actesare long, in order to allow people to go to the gaming-room. Two men I recognised ashabituésat Monte Carlo, one of them middle-aged, well-dressed and black-bearded, who invariably wore white kid gloves. He was half bald, and his face showed marks of premature age brought on by dissipation. The other, who was younger, was his partner. They were well-known figures at Monte Carlo, and had evidently left there and come north, now that, the season being over, there were no more pigeons to be plucked in the private gaming-rooms of the Riviera.
The woman at length took a seat at one of the café tables, deep in the shadow of a tree, and ordered aconsommation. I suspected that she had an appointment with someone, and therefore resolved to watch. As far as I could observe, she had never once detected my presence, and if she did now, she most probably would not recognise me, dressed as I was in an old stuff gown. She had seen me, I recollected, in the smart Monte Carlo toilettes, in which I presented such a different appearance. I took up a position on one of the seats by the lakeside, opposite the café, a spot from which I could see all that might come to pass.
I must here admit that my continual search was growing terribly wearisome. Unused to acting the spy, my nerves had been during those days of travel and adventure strained to their utmost tension. For five nights sleep had scarcely come to my eyes, so constant was the vigil I had kept, and for five days I had existed in feverish anxiety on the very horns of a dilemma. I sat there watching the passing crowd of gay Parisiennes, and breathing the fresh evening air from across the lake. On the other shore were large mansions, with their lawns sloping down to the water, reminding me of English houses on the upper reaches of the Thames. From time to time a night-bird skimmed the placid water, causing it to eddy in the starlight. From across the water came feminine laughter from a passing boat, and a girl's voice reached me from far away, trilling the refrain of Paulette Darty's "romance-waltz," which I supposed had just been sung in the café-concert:
"Donne-moi ta lèvre, ta lèvre rose,Qu'amoureusement ma lèvre s'y poseEt qu'étroitement tous deux enlacésNos querelles soient querelles de baisers."
Yes, the scene was certainly charmfxing. I, like thousands of the people who go to Paris, and who know the Rue Rivoli better than they do Oxford Street, had never troubled to spend an evening at Enghien. The Casino would really be a delightful one were it not for the presence of that curse to French and Belgian popular resorts—thetapis vert. Dozens of similar places are spoilt by the introduction of those tables, for play and thedemi-mondeare inseparable, just as are baccarat and blackguards.
The electric bells had rung to announce that the variety entertainment was about to be resumed, and the crowd from the gaming-room and from the garden was making its way back to the theatre, to be entertained by the drolleries of Paulus and the riskychansonsof Liane de Vries, when, of a sudden, I noticed that the woman who had stolen my lover's heart had half-risen and given her hand to a stranger, evidently the man she had been expecting.
He was short of stature, and well-dressed, for in the shadow where he stood I could see the wide expanse of starched shirt-front displayed by his open overcoat, and could tell that he wore an opera-hat.
She re-seated herself, evidently pleased by his arrival, while he stood for a moment bending towards her and speaking earnestly. Then he drew back, laughed merrily, and seated himself opposite her.
He sat back in the half-darkness, so that I was unable to distinguish his face. But his presence there was sufficient to tell me that this woman, by whom Ernest had been fascinated, was a worthless person, who made secret assignations unknown to the unfortunate man, who probably believed her to be the very paragon of all the virtues.
How would Ernest act if he were aware of the actual truth? I wondered. Would he still have confidence in his pink-and-white doll?
Perhaps. Men are incomprehensible creatures where their love is concerned. When fascinated by a woman's smile, they will lick the hand that cuffs them; they will allow Aspasia to drench them withvin mousseux, to smother them with chiffons, to stifle them withmots, and to sell them forrouleaux, and yet make no audible complaint.
To love and to hate seem to be the two things which it is most natural and most easy for women to do. In these two principles how many of the actions of our lives originate. How important is it, therefore, that we should learn early in life to love and hate aright. Most women believe that they love virtue and hate vice. But have the majority of them clearly ascertained what virtue and vice are? Have they examined the meaning of these important words? Have they listened to the plausible reasoning of what we call Society, where things are spoken of by false names, and where vice is vulgar in the common herd, but sanctioned aschicamong the select few? Or have they gone directly to the eternal and immutable principles of good and evil?
I must confess that, tutored by Ulrica, I had long ago listened to Society's reasonings, and had thus become a worldly woman. Now a worldly woman is necessarily a woman possessing tact, and able at the same time to tell untruths with grace, and successfully to act a part whenever necessary.
Woman is gifted by nature with a remarkable quickness of perception, by means of which she is able to detect the earliest approach of aught tending to destroy that high-toned purity of character for which, even in the days of chivalry, she was more reverenced and adored than for her beauty itself. This quickness of perception in minute and delicate points, with the power which woman also possesses of acting upon it instantaneously, has, in familiar phraseology, obtained the name of tact; and when this natural gift is added to good taste, the two combined are of more value to a woman in the social and domestic affairs of every-day life than the most brilliant and intellectual endowments could be without them.
You, my friend and confidante, know well that when a woman is possessed of a high degree of tact, she sees, as if by a kind of second sight, when any little emergency is likely to occur; or when, to use a more familiar expression, things do not seem likely to go right. She is thus aware of any sudden turn in conversation, and prepared for what it may lead to; but above all, she can penetrate into the state of mind of those with whom she is placed in contact, so as to detect the gathering gloom upon another's brow, before the mental storm shall have reached any formidable height; to know when the tone of voice has altered, when an unwelcome thought has presented itself, and when the pulse of feeling is beating higher or lower in consequence of some apparently trifling circumstance which has just come to pass.
Most women flatter themselves upon this valuable acquirement, and the scandal-monger most of all. In the life of every woman there have been critical moments, when this natural intuition has led her into a knowledge of the truth. During the days when I was acting as a spy, my quickness of perception was put to the test times without number, and again there, in the Casino of Enghien-les-Bains, I was compelled to exercise all my woman's cunning.
The man who had just joined the fair lounger beneath the tree was, I judged, much beneath middle height, but in the darkness height is always deceptive. All I could see distinctly was that he wore a black overcoat, a black tie, and either white or lavender gloves. Evidently he was of that type of male elegant commonly to be seen in the neighbourhood of public gaming-tables. Men of this type are usually hard-up, live by sponging on friends, affect a rather select circle, and are the leaders of masculine fashion. The Italians call a man belonging to this class aduca senza ducati.
He was leaning his elbows upon the table, and had entered into an earnest conversation. Both heads were bent together, and he was apparently relating some facts which were, to her, of the utmost interest, for now and then she shrugged her narrow shoulders, and gesticulated with not a little vivacity. I was, however, too far off to overhear a single syllable of the conversation.
The man, I saw, had taken from his pocket some letters, one of which she held in her hand, bending forward into the light so as to read it. What she read apparently angered her, for she tossed it back to him in disgust, and struck her hand upon the table with a quick ejaculation. This caused some words between them. I imagined that, in her outburst of temper, she had made some charge against him which he now stoutly denied, for of a sudden both were gesticulating violently. As most of the promenaders had entered the theatre, the garden was at that moment practically deserted; but the orchestra in the illuminated bandstand was playing, drowning all their words, and preventing attention being directed to their altercation.
I sat there by the lake-side, watching with breathless interest. What would I not have given to be sufficiently near to catch the drift of their conversation!
Presently, in the height of their argument, he pushed a second letter before her face roughly, as though to convince her of his words; but she, seeing in his action a desire to insult her, snatched the letter from his hands, tore it into fragments, and cast them in his face.
It was done in an instant, and sitting as they were in that secluded corner in the shadow, none witnessed the incident save myself.
The man rose quickly, with an air of fierce resentment, bowed to her with mock courtesy, and strode off. But as he passed out into the gaslight, I saw his face, and recognising it, could not suppress a cry of amazement.
He was not young, as I had supposed, but old and decrepit. The countenance was the ugly, sinister one of Branca, the queer old fellow with whom I had had such a strange interview in Leghorn only a few days before.
This discovery increased the mystery. Yet it was plain that he was acting according to his promise, and was leaving no effort untried in order to solve the problem. But why? What possible interest could he have in discovering the truth regarding Reggie's assassination?
Certainly his appearance was greatly altered. Instead of the unkempt, shuffling Italian whom I had visited in the Via Magenta, in Leghorn, he was spruce, well-shaven, and smartly dressed, although his dwarfed and slightly deformed personality could not be disguised.
The look upon his countenance was the reverse of reassuring. Ugly even when smiling, his face was distorted by rage, and absolutely forbidding, as he walked hurriedly past within half-a-dozen feet of me, and away towards the exit from the garden. The insult he had sustained was one which angered him terribly, and if ever vengeance was written upon a man's face it was written upon his.
The queer old fellow had puzzled me greatly ever since that eventful evening at Leghorn. To me there was such an absence of motive that his actions were doubly remarkable. And yet I could never get away from the fact that he knew of old Keppel's intention to go to Ragusa before it had been announced to us; and he was also well acquainted with all the facts of poor Reggie's tragic end, and the subsequent action on the part of both the police and myself. Besides, he had told me of Ernest's whereabouts, of which I was in ignorance, and now it appeared that he had been, until a moment ago, on friendly terms with the woman who had robbed me of the one man who in all the world was dear to me.
Utterly dumbfounded by his presence there, I watched him walk down the long gravelled path beside the lake, past the landing-stage, and out towards the public road. Indeed, I think I was too astonished at that moment to rise and follow the man who had declared our interests to be identical.
I turned and glanced across at the woman. She had risen, shaken out her skirts, and hastily drawn her light cape about her shoulders, as for a moment she stood in hesitation, looking after her companion.
Her brow was knit, and I seemed to watch determination becoming more and more strongly marked upon her face. Then she hurried quickly after him.
I rose, too, but a thought flashed across my mind. He had not gathered up the fragments of the letter before leaving. They were, no doubt, still there. What could the letter contain that it should so incense her?
Without hesitation I moved across to the table so lately occupied, and there saw scattered on the ground in the vicinity several pieces of torn paper, which I gathered swiftly into my hand. They were portions of a letter written on white-edged, smoke-grey paper of a fashionable pattern. Fortunately, no waiters were in the near neighbourhood, and I was enabled to continue my search, for any stray scraps might, I reflected, be of importance. After I had picked up a piece that had been blown some distance off, I placed all the fragments carefully in my pocket, and made my way toward the brightly-lit entrance.
As there were no cabs, I was compelled to walk to the station, which occupied me quite a quarter of an hour. It appeared certain that both the man and the woman would return to Paris, and that the woman hoped to meet Branca at the railway-station.
When I arrived, however, I found that the train had just departed for the Gare du Nord, and that there was not another for nearly an hour. If they had both left by the train I had so narrowly missed, then they had successfully escaped me.
The baresalle d'attenteat Enghien is not a cheerful place at night, when the single gas jet is turned low, and the doors leading out upon the platform are securely locked. Here, again, I was confronted by a difficulty, namely, that if, perchance, the pair had not caught the train, they would probably enter the waiting room. To remain there was manifestly dangerous, if I did not wish my identity to be revealed.
My chief regret was that I had missed Branca. I had no means of communicating with him, for I had no idea where he was staying, and he certainly did not know my address, or else he would have sent me word that he was in Paris. All I could hope was that the woman had caught him up and detained him, and that they would return together by the next train.
Deciding that to rest in the waiting-room was injudicious, I went out and crossed to the little café opposite, where the tables on the pavement were shaded by a row of laurels in tubs, in the usual French style. I wished to piece together the precious letter in my pocket without being observed. I entered the place and sat down. A consumptive waiter and a fat woman presiding over the bottles on the small counter were the only occupants, and after ordering a "limonade," I drew forth scrap after scrap of the torn letter and spread it out upon the table.
It was written in French, in a feminine hand, but it was some time before I could piece the fragments together so as to read the whole. At last I succeeded, and discovered it to be dated from the "Grand Hotel" at Brussels. It ran as follows:
"My dear Laumont,—See Julie the instant she returns from Moscow, and warn her. Someone has turned traitor. Tell her to be extremely careful, and to lie low for the present. If she does not, she will place us all in jeopardy. Advise her to go to London. She would be safe there. So would you. Bury yourselves.—Hastily, your friend,"SIDONIE."
Laumont! Who, I wondered, was Laumont?
Was it possible that the woman referred to as Julie was actually the person who had so fascinated Ernest? If so, the warning was a strange one; and she had disregarded it by tearing up the letter and casting it into Branca's face.
"Bury yourselves." The injunction was expressive, to say the least of it. Some person unknown had turned traitor, and had told the truth regarding some matter which had apparently been a secret. The letter was a mysterious one, from every point of view.
A dozen times I read it through, then carefully collected the scraps and replaced them in my pocket.
The person to whom the letter was addressed was, without doubt, an accomplice of the woman Julie, while their correspondent, who was named Sidonie, and who stayed at the "Grand Hotel" in Brussels, was anxious that both should escape to London. The woman Julie had been in Moscow. Was it possible that this woman who had attracted Ernest had during my absence in the Mediterranean been in Russia? Perhaps she had.
Yet I had no ground whatever for believing the woman whom I had seen at Monte Carlo, and had so recently followed from Paris, to be named Julie. My suspicions might, for aught I knew, be entirely groundless.
From where I sat I could watch all persons entering the station, but my heart sank within me when at length it was time for me to cross to take the train for Paris, for my search along the platform was a fruitless one.
Both had evidently left by the earlier train, and the absence of a fiacre at the door of the Casino had caused me to lose sight of them.
Alone in the dimly-lit railway compartment, as the train passed through the suburb of St. Denis and on to the Gare du Nord, I reflected deeply. My brain was awhirl with the events which had occurred so rapidly since landing at Leghorn. I knew not whether Captain Davis had received my telegram and had left for Genoa, or whether the message had been delayed until he had received that package which was destined to send theVisperato the bottom.
On every side I saw plot and counterplot, the most dastardly of them all being the determination of Keppel to destroy his yacht. And Ulrica? What of her? That she was on board was almost certain; she might even then be sailing southward to her doom.
Yet I had warned her, and I hoped that she had come ashore as we had arranged. The only possibility I feared was a disinclination upon her part to offend the old millionaire. If she found the course altered to Genoa, a change which I had endeavoured to effect by my telegram, she might possibly have gone on there. All that I prayed for was that my wire had reached Davis's hand before the package supposed to contain the statuette.
Keppel at that moment no doubt believed theVisperato have gone down, and was prepared for the receipt of the astounding news from one or other of the Mediterranean ports. Possibly he believed that he had a perfect answer to the question as to why he had left the vessel, but to me it seemed as though he would meet with considerable difficulty, if the worst had really happened.
There might, too, be a survivor, and a survivor's testimony in such a case would be awkward.
As the train, with itsimpériales, or seats above the third-class carriages, rushed on toward Paris, I pondered, too, upon Branca's sudden reappearance. There was something uncanny about the fellow. His knowledge was as extensive as his cunning was low and ingenious.
For what reason, I wondered, had he met that tow-haired woman who had been Ernest Cameron's good genius at Monte Carlo? Why, too, had she taken the trouble to go out to Enghien for the purpose of seeing him?
One theory alone took possession of my mind, namely, that there was a secret between them. Possibly he had been acquainted with her; they might even have been friends. But it was quite evident that they had quarrelled, and he had been gravely offended by the insult offered him.
Each night-train from Enghien to the Gare du Nord always brought home a large number of returning gamblers and pleasure-seekers, so when we came to a standstill, the quai quickly became crowded by persons whom I had noticed strolling in the Casino. In vain, however, I searched for the pair whose movements I had been watching. I was compelled to acknowledge myself baffled, and to take a fiacre back to the "Hôtel Terminus."
Fearing lest any of the trio might be lounging at the café in front of the hotel, where arriving cabs file slowly past, I dismissed the vehicle at the corner of the Rue du Havre, and approached the hotel on the opposite side of the way.
One of my chief difficulties was the entering and leaving the hotel, for I never knew whom I might meet. I had had several narrow escapes from recognition, notwithstanding every possible precaution.
At last, however, after carefully examining all who were lounging about the entrance, I managed to slip in, passing the big-moustachedconcierge, and ascending by the lift to my own room, utterly worn out by anxiety and fatigue.
Even though tired out, I slept but little that night. I tried, times without number, but in vain, to solve the secret of that cipher message—or warning, was it?—written upon the table before the "Grand Café." But neither the initial nor the word "tabac" conveyed to me any meaning whatever. One fact seemed particularly strange, namely, the reason why the ragged collector of cigar-ends should have searched for it; and, further, why the word written there should have been "tabac." Again, who was the shabby, wizen-faced individual who had watched that table with such eagerness and expectancy?
As I reflected, I became impressed by the idea that the table itself was one of those known to be a notice-board of criminals, and therefore at night it was watched by the police.
The great Goron, that past-master in the detection of crime, had, I remembered, told me that in all the quarters of Paris, from thechicAvenue des Champs Elysées to the lower parts of Montmartre, there were certain tables at certain cafés used by thieves, burglars, and other such gentry, for the exchange of messages, the dissemination of news, and the issue of warnings. Indeed, the correspondence on the café tables was found to be more rapid, far more secret, and likely to attract less notice than the insertion of paragraphs in the advertisement columns of the newspapers. Each gang of malefactors had, he told me, its own particular table in its own particular café, where any member could sit and read at his leisure the cipher notice, or warning, placed there, without risking direct communication with his associates in rascality.
Had the man whom I had so fondly loved actually allied himself with some criminal band, that he knew their means of communication, and was in possession of their cipher? It certainly seemed as though he had. But that was one of the points I intended to clear up before denouncing him to the police.
Next morning I rose early, eager for activity, but there seemed no movement in the room adjoining mine. All three took their coffee in their bedrooms, and it was not till nearly eleven o'clock that I heard Keppel in conversation with the mysterious woman who had been my travelling companion.
"Ernest is running a great risk," he was saying. "It's quite unnecessary, to my mind. The police are everywhere on the alert, for word has, of course, come from Nice. If he is unfortunate enough to fall into their hands, he'll only have himself to blame."
"But surely you don't anticipate such a thing?" she asked, in genuine alarm.
"Well, he goes about quite openly, well knowing that his description has been circulated through every town and village in France."
"And if he were arrested, where should he be?" inquired the woman, in dismay.
"In a very awkward predicament, I fear," he responded. "That's the very reason why I'm trying to persuade Cameron to act with greater discretion. He's well known, you see, and may be recognised at any moment in the street. If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might be different."
"It's certainly ridiculous for him to run his head into a noose. I must speak to him at once."
"He's out. He went out before six this morning, the chambermaid tells me."
"That's odd! Where's he gone?"
"I don't exactly know. Somewhere in the country, I should think."
"What if he is already arrested?"
"No, don't let's anticipate such acontretemps. Matters are, however, beginning to look serious enough, in all conscience," he answered.
"Do you think we shall succeed?" she inquired eagerly.
"We have been successful before," he responded confidently. "Why not now? We have only to exercise just a little more care and cunning than that exercised by the police. Then, once beyond suspicion, all the rest is perfectly plain sailing."
"Which means that we must make a perfectcoup."
"Exactly. The whole scheme must be carried out firmly and without a hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very hot water."
"Knowing this should make us desperate," she observed.
"I'm desperate already," he replied, in a quiet voice. "It will not go well with anyone who tries to thwart us now. It's a matter of life or death."
What new plot had been hatched I could not guess. What was this fresh conspiracy that was intended? His carefully-guarded words awoke in me an intense curiosity. I had already overheard many things, and still resolved to possess myself in patience, and to continue my ever-watchful vigil. There was, according to the old man's own words, a desperate plot in progress, which the conspirators were determined to carry out at all hazards, even up to the point of taking another human life.
I wrote down on a piece of paper the cipher which I had found scrawled upon the table, and tried by several means to reduce it to some intelligible message, but without success. It was evidently in one of those secret codes used by criminals, and therefore I had but a remote chance of discovering a key to what so often had puzzled the cleverest detectives of the sûreté.
The day passed without any important incident. I remained in my room awaiting the return of the man whose strange action had puzzled me on the previous night, and who was now running such risk of arrest. If he returned, I hoped to overhear his conversation with his companions; but unfortunately he did not come back. All was quiet in the adjoining chamber, for Keppel and the woman with the strange marks had evidently gone out in company.
About seven o'clock I myself dressed and went forth, strolling idly along until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, in front of the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly sharks on the watch for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these polyglot swindlers can easily fix upon persons who change cheques as likely victims, and track them down. Suddenly it occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table before the "Grand Café." This I did, but found only the remains of some cipher which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day, for the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint pencil-marks remained.
As I sat there, I chanced to glance across the road, and to my surprise saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the kerb. He was evidently keeping that table under observation. While pretending not to see him, I drank my coffee, paid, rose from my seat, and walked away; but as the watcher at once followed me, I returned to the hotel.
It is not pleasant for a woman to be followed by a strange man, especially if she is bent upon making secret inquiries, or is watching another person, so when I had again returned to my room I presently bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel—the one which leads straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare. By means of this door I managed to escape the little man's vigilance, and entering a cab, drove down to the Pont des Arts. As I had nothing particular to do, it occurred to me that if I could find the littlecoiffeur's, where I had seen the man with whom I had danced on the night of the Carnival ball, I might watch, and perhaps learn something. That this man was on friendly terms with both Keppel and Cameron had been proved by that scrap of confidential conversation I had chanced to overhear.
The difficulty I experienced in recognising the narrow and crooked street was considerable, but after nearly an hour's search through the smaller thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel, my patience was rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the opposite side. The place was in darkness, apparently closed. Scarcely had I passed, however, when someone emerged from the place. It was, I felt quite sure, the man who had worn the owl's dress. He was dressed rather elegantly, and seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, no one meeting him in the street would have believed him to be a barber.
Almost involuntarily, I followed him. He lit a cigarette, and then walked forward at a rapid pace down the Boulevard, across the Pont Neuf, and turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering maze to me, he suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large house, and made some inquiry of theconcierge.
"Madame Fournereau?" I heard the old man answer gruffly. "Yes. Second floor, on the left."
And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes went forward, and up the stairs.
Madame Fournereau! I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that name before.
I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there until the man emerged again, when, as I lifted my eyes, I happened to see the name-plate at the street corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, "tabac" occurred to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last discovered her name and her abode.
I think at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during the past month or so, that I believe my actions were characterised by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think I was in my right senses that night, or I should not have dared to act alone and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad's death, and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs, was strong upon me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments. "Amor dà per mercede, gelosia e rotta fede."
Had I remained to reason with myself, I should never have entered that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth, and to meet that woman face to face, I entered boldly and, without a word to theconcierge, passed up to the second floor.
The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, far more handsome within than without. The stairs leading to the flats were thickly carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, though, judging by the exterior, I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat Parisianbonnein a muslin cap answered my summons.
"Madame Fournereau?" I inquired.
"Oui, madame," answered the woman, as she admitted me to the narrow but well-furnished entrance-hall. "Madame is expecting you, I believe. Will you please enter?"
I saw in an instant that I was mistaken for a guest, and quickly made up my mind to use this mistake to the best possible advantage.
My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men's hats and women's capes. From the room beyond came quite a babel of voices. I walked forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was a private gambling-house. Madame's guests, a strange and motley crowd, came there to play games of hazard.
In the room I had entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at Monte Carlo, and around it were some twenty well-dressed men and women, all intent upon the game. Notes and gold were lying everywhere upon the numbers and the single chances, and the fact that no silver was there was sufficient testimony that high stakes were usual. The air was close and oppressive, for the windows were closed and heavily curtained, and above the sound of excited voices rose that well-known cry of the unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier in crimped shirt front and greasy black:
"Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"
Advancing to the table, I stood there unnoticed in the crowd. Those who saw me enter undoubtedly believed me to be a gambler, like themselves, for it appeared as though madame's guests were drawn from various classes of society. Although the atmosphere was so stifling, I managed to remain cool, and affected to be interested in the game by tossing a louis upon the red.
I won. It is strange that carelessness at roulette invariably brings good fortune. I glanced about me, eager to discover madame herself, but saw neither her nor the barber whom I had followed to this place. At the end of the room there were, however, a pair of long sage-green curtains, and as one of the players rose from the table and passed between them, I saw that another gaming-room lay beyond, and that the gamblers were playing baccarat, the bank being held by a superior-looking old gentleman who was wearing the crimson ribbon of the Legion d'Honneur in the lapel of his dining-jacket.
Boldly I went forward into that room, and in an instant saw that I was not mistaken, for there, chatting to a circle of men and women at the opposite end of thesalon, was the small, fair-haired woman whom I had seen in Ernest's company at Monte Carlo, and whom I had followed to Enghien. The man who had given me the stolen notes was standing near her, listening to her account of a pleasure trip from which she had apparently only just returned.
A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, walked straight up to her, shook hands, and expressed their delight that she had returned to Paris to resume her entertainments.
"I, too, am glad to return to all my friends, messieurs," she laughed. "I really found Monte Carlo very dull, after all."
"You were not fortunate? That is to be regretted."
"Ah!" she said. "With such a maximum, how can one hope to gain? It is impossible."
I stood watching the play. As far as I could see, it was perfectly fair; but some of the players, keen-faced men, were evidently practised card-sharpers, swindlers, or men who lived by their wits. The amount of money constantly changing hands surprised me. As I stood there, one young man, scarcely more than a lad, lost five thousand francs with perfectsang-froid. The women present were none of them young, but were mostly elderly and ugly, of that stamp so eternally prominent in the Principality of Monaco. The woman, when she turns gambler, always loses her personal beauty. It may be the vitiated atmosphere in which she exists; it may be the constant tension of the nerves; or it may, perchance, be the unceasing, all-consuming avarice—which, I know not. All I am certain of is that no woman can play and at the same time remain fresh, youthful, and interesting.
Until that moment I had remained there unnoticed in the excited crowd, for I had turned my back upon Madame Fournereau, lest she should recognise in me the woman whom Ernest had undoubtedly pointed out to her either in the Rooms, in Giro's, or elsewhere.
But as I began to pass back to the adjoining room, where I considered there would be less risk of recognition, the green curtains suddenly opened, and Ernest Cameron stood before me.