I stepped back quickly, while he, with eyes fixed upon that fair-haired woman, who seemed the centre of a miniature court, failed to notice me. Upon his face was a dark, anxious look, an expression such as I had never before seen upon his countenance. Perhaps he was jealous of the attention shown by that dozen or so of men who were chatting and laughing with her.
Her appearance was scarcely that of the keeper of an illicit gaming-house. One would have expected to find some fine, dashing, handsome woman, in a striking gown, and with a profuse display of jewellery. On the contrary, she was quietly dressed in a pretty, graceful gown of dove-grey cashmere, the bodice cut low and trimmed with passementerie, a frock which certainly well became her rather tame style of beauty. The only ornament was a small half-moon of diamonds in her hair.
Ernest appeared to take in the situation at a glance, and with his back turned to her stood watching the baccarat, just as I had feigned to watch it. Through the great mirror before him, however, he could note all her actions. She was laughing immoderately at some remark made by one of her companions, and I noticed how Ernest's face went pale with suppressed anger. How haggard, how thin, how blanched, nervous, and ill he looked! Usually so smart in attire, his dress clothes seemed to hang upon him, his cravat was carelessly tied, and in place of the diamond solitaire I had bought at Tiffany's for him in the early days of our acquaintance—which he had worn when we met at Monte Carlo—there was only a plain pearl stud, worth perhaps ten centimes. Alas! he had sadly changed. His was, indeed, the figure of a man haunted by the ever-present shadow of his crime.
It was curious, I thought, that he did not approach her; but the reason for this became plain ere long. I had returned to the adjoining room, and was again watching the roulette, when suddenly she brushed past me on her way out into the corridor, into which several other rooms opened. Suddenly I heard his well-known voice utter her name in a hoarse whisper.
"Julie!"
Julie! The person mentioned in the letter of warning which she had torn up at Enghien!
She stopped, and recognising him for the first time, gasped:
"Ernest! You here?"
"Yes," he responded. "I told you that we should meet, and I have found you, you see. I must speak to you alone."
"Impossible," she responded. "To-morrow."
"No, to-night—now. What I have to say admits of no delay," and he strode resolutely at her side, while she, her face betraying displeasure at the encounter, unwillingly went forth into the corridor.
"Well," I heard her exclaim in impatience, "what is it you have to say to me? I thought when we parted it was agreed we were not to meet again."
"You hoped so, you mean," he answered hardly. "Come into one of these rooms, where we may be alone. Someone may overhear if we remain standing in this passage."
"Is what you want to say so strictly confidential, then?"
"Yes," he answered, "it is." Then, with every sign of reluctance and impatience, she opened a door behind them, and they passed into what appeared to be her ownpetit salon.
Again the fire of jealousy consumed me, and without thought of the consequences of my act, I went straightway to the door, and entering, faced them.
As I entered, Ernest turned quickly, then stood rigid and amazed.
"Carmela!" he gasped. "How came you here—to this place?"
"How I came here matters not," I answered, in a hard tone. "It is sufficient for you to know that I have entered here to demand an explanation from you and this woman—your accomplice."
"What do you mean?" cried his companion, in her broken English. "What do you mean by accomplice?"
"I refer to the murder of Reginald Thorne," I said, as quietly as I was able.
"The murder of Monsieur Thorne," repeated the woman. "And what have I to do, pray, with the death of that gentleman, whoever he may be?"
Ernest glanced at me strangely, and then addressed her in a firm voice.
"The person who murdered him was none other than yourself—Julie Fournereau."
I stood dumbfounded. Was it possible that he intended to endeavour to fix the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the words I had overheard, which were paramount to an admission?
"What!" she shrieked, in fierce anger, speaking in French. "You have sought me here to charge me with murder—to bring against me a false accusation? It is a lie! You know that I am innocent."
"That point, madame, must be decided by a judge," he answered, with marvellous coolness.
"What do you mean? I don't understand!" she exclaimed, with a slight quiver in her voice which betrayed a sudden fear.
"I mean that during the months which have elapsed since the murder of my friend Thorne, at Nice, I have been engaged in tracing the assassin—or, to put it plainly, in tracing you."
I stood there, utterly astounded. If his words were true, why had he been concealed on board theVisperain order to avoid arrest?
She laughed, instantly assuming an attitude of defiance.
"Bah!" she said. "You bring me here into this room to make this absurd and unfounded charge! You dare not say it before my friends. They would thrash you as if you were a mongrel of the streets!"
His cheeks were pale, but there was a fierce and resolute expression upon his countenance. The woman whom I had believed he loved was, it seemed, his bitterest enemy.
"I have not the slightest wish to bring upon you any greater exposure or disgrace than that which must inevitably come," he said coolly. "For months I have been waiting for this opportunity, and by means of the cipher fortunately discovered your return. I was then enabled to give the police some highly interesting information."
"The police!" she gasped, her face instantly blanched to the lips. "You have told them?"
"Yes," he responded, gazing steadily upon her, "I have told them."
"Then let me pass," she said hoarsely, making towards the door.
But in a moment he had barred her passage, then raised a small whistle quickly to his lips, and blew it shrilly.
"So this is your revenge! I was warned of this from Brussels!" she cried, turning upon him with a murderous light in her eyes. But almost before the words had left her mouth there were sounds of scuffling and shouting, a smashing of glass, and loud imprecations. The whistle had raised the alarm, and the police had entered the place, and were preventing the egress of the players.
Outside, in the corridor, there were several fierce scrimmages, but next instant the door opened, and there entered three detectives—of whom one was the wizen-faced little man who had betrayed such an interest in myself when at the Grand Café—accompanied by old Mr. Keppel, and the woman who had been my travelling companion in thewagon-lit. Certainly the arrangements perfected by the police in order that their raid upon the private gaming establishment might be successful in all respects had been elaborately prepared, for at the signal given by Ernest thecoupwas instantaneously effected, and the players, nearly all of whom were persons known as criminals, fell back entrapped and dismayed.
The old millionaire and his companion were just as astounded to find me present as Ernest had been. But there was no time at that exciting moment for explanations. The plan had apparently been arranged for the arrest of the white-faced woman, who now stood trembling before us.
"I tell you it's a lie!" she cried hoarsely. "I did not kill him."
But Ernest, turning to the shabby little man, said:
"I demand the arrest of that woman, Julie Fournereau, for the murder of Reginald Thorne at the 'Grand Hotel,' in Nice."
"You know her?" inquired the detective. "Have you evidence to justify the arrest?
"I have evidence that she committed the murder—that the sixty thousand francs stolen from the dead man's pockets were in her possession on the following morning; and, further, that on the night on which the murder was committed she was staying under another name at the very hotel in which Mr. Thorne was found dead."
"And the witnesses?"
"They are already in Paris, waiting to be called to give evidence."
A dead silence fell for a few moments. We each looked at one another.
The wretched woman, who had suddenly been denounced by the man with whom she had been so friendly at Monte Carlo, was standing in the centre of the room, swaying forward, supporting herself by clutching the edge of the small table. Her white lips trembled, but no word escaped from them. She seemed rendered speechless by the suddenness of the overwhelming charge.
The detective's voice broke the silence.
"Julie Fournereau," he said in French, advancing a few steps towards her, "in the name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Reginald Thorne at Nice."
"I am innocent!" she cried hoarsely, her haggard eyes glaring at us with a hunted look in them. "I tell you I am quite innocent!"
"Listen," said Ernest, in a firm tone, although there was a slight catch in his voice, which showed how greatly excited he was. "The reasons which have led me to this step are briefly these. Last December, while living here in Paris, I went south to spend the winter at Monte Carlo. I stayed at the 'Metropole,' and amid the cosmopolitan crowd there met the woman before you. One day there arrived at the same hotel, from Paris, my friend Reginald Thorne, whom I knew well in London, but who had lived in Paris for the past year. We were about together during the day, and in the Rooms that evening he encountered me walking beside this woman Fournereau. That same night he came to my room, and in confidence related to me a story which at the moment I regarded as somewhat exaggerated, namely, that he had been induced to frequent a certain gaming-house in Paris, where he had lost almost everything he possessed, and how he had ultimately discovered that an elaborate system of sharping had been practised upon him by the woman and her male accomplices. That woman, he told me, had left Paris suddenly just at the moment when he discovered the truth, and he had encountered her in the Rooms with me. Her name was Julie Fournereau."
I glanced at the wretched woman before us. Her wild eyes were fixed upon the carpet; her fingers were twitching with intense agitation; her breath came and went in short quick gasps. Ernest, in his exposure, was merciless.
"Had she seen him in the Rooms?" I inquired.
"Yes," he answered. "We had come face to face. He told me that, as he had been robbed of nearly all he possessed, he was determined to give information against her. She was, he told me, an associate of bad characters in Paris, and urged me to cut her acquaintance. His story was strange and rather romantic, for he gave me to understand that this woman had made a pretence of loving him, and had induced him to play in her house, with the result that he lost large sums to a certain man who was her accomplice. Personally, I was not very much charmed with her," Ernest went on, glancing at me. "She was evidently, as Thorne had declared, acquainted with many of the worst characters who frequent Monte Carlo, and I began to think seriously that my own reputation would be besmirched by being seen constantly in her company. Still, I tried to dissuade my friend from endeavouring to wreak justice upon such a person, arguing that, as he had lost the money in a private gaming establishment, he had no remedy in law. But he was young and headstrong—possibly suffering from a fit of jealousy. After several days, however, fearing that he might create a scene with this notorious woman, I at last induced him to go over to Nice and stay at the 'Grand.' While there, curiously enough, he met the lady who is here present, Miss Rosselli, and at once fell deeply in love with her."
"No," I protested, in quick indignation, "there was no love whatever between us. That I strongly deny."
"Carmela," he said, bestowing on me a calm and serious look. "In this affair I must speak plainly and openly. I myself have a confession to make."
"Of what?"
"Listen, and I'll explain everything." Then turning to the others, he went on: "Reginald fell violently in love with Miss Rosselli, not knowing that she had been engaged to become my wife. When, the day after meeting her at the hotel, he told me of his infatuation, and heard from me the whole truth, he seemed considerably upset. 'She loves you still,' he said. 'I feel certain that she does, for she has given me no encouragement.' I affected to take no notice of his words, but to me the matter was a very painful one. I had broken off the engagement, it was true, but my heart was now filled by bitter remorse. I had seen Carmela again; all the old love had come back to me, and I now despised myself for my mean and unwarrantable action. We had met several times, but as strangers; and knowing her proud spirit, I feared to approach her, feeling certain that she would never forgive."
"Forgive!" I cried. "I would have gladly forgiven!"
"Carmela," he said, turning again to me with a very serious expression on his face, "I regret being compelled to lay bare my secret thus before you, but I must tell them everything."
"Yes," I said. "Now that this woman is to bear the punishment of her crime, let us know all." Then I added bitterly: "Speak without any regard for my feelings, or even for my presence."
"A few days prior to his tragic end, poor Reggie had, as I have explained, moved over to the 'Grand' at Nice, but strangely enough, the same idea had occurred to this woman Fournereau. She preferred to live in Nice during Carnival, she told me, for she liked all the fun and gaiety. Whether it was for that reason, I know not, but at all events it seems clear, from inquiries recently completed in Nice, that one afternoon he met this woman at Rumpelmayer's, the fashionable lounge for afternoon tea, and in a sudden fit of anger declared that he would denounce her as an adventuress and swindler. Now it appears that his clients, the gamblers who frequent this place, number among them some of the most notorious and desperate members of the criminal fraternity, and the natural conclusion is that, fearing his exposure, she killed him."
"I deny it!" cried the wretched woman. "It is a false accusation, which you cannot prove."
"The extreme care and marvellous ingenuity by which the poor fellow's death was encompassed is shown by every detail of the case. Not a single point was apparently overlooked. Even the means by which he was assassinated have remained, until now, a mystery. But passing to the night of the tragedy, it will be remembered that he had won sixty thousand francs at roulette, and having left Miss Rosselli and her friends, he re-entered the Rooms and changed his winnings into large notes. Half an hour before, this woman, whom I had met earlier in the evening, and who had dined with me at Giro's, had wished me good-night. She had previously watched his success at the tables, and had followed him into the Casino when he re-entered to change the notes. The interval of about an hour between his leaving Monte Carlo and his arrival at the 'Grand Hotel' at Nice is still unaccounted for. Nevertheless, we know that this woman, whom he had threatened, travelled by the same train from Monte Carlo to Nice, that she entered the hotel a few minutes later and went to her room, and that next morning she had in her possession sixty notes, each for a thousand francs. It seems, however, that she quickly became alarmed lest suspicion might rest upon her, for the police had commenced active inquiries, and therefore she resolved to get rid of the stolen notes. This she did with the aid of an accomplice, a man named Vauquelin—a man very well known at Monte Carlo. This rascal, one of thehabituésof this place, went to the Carnival ball at the Nice Casino, and there gave Miss Rosselli the stolen money, intending that its possession should throw suspicion upon her. Some other members of that interesting gang of sharpers, who make this place their headquarters, going south in winter in search of pigeons to pluck, knowing Vauquelin's intention, posed as detectives, to whom Miss Rosselli innocently handed over the notes she had received."
He paused for a moment; then he continued: "Now, however, comes one of the most ingenious features of the affair. This woman, finding next day that her plot to throw suspicion upon Miss Rosselli had failed, turned her attention to myself. She was aware that a slight quarrel had occurred between Reggie and myself regarding his injudicious and futile action in seeking to denounce her, and, with others, had overheard some high words between us when we had met on the terrace at the Café de Paris on the afternoon previous to his death. She gave information to the police, and then left the Riviera suddenly. Next day I found myself under the observation of the police, and in order to escape arrest, induced Mr. Keppel—who has taken a great interest in the affair from the first, being one of the trustees under the will of Mr. Thorne, senior—to conceal me on board his yacht until such time as our inquiries in Paris could be completed. It was ascertained that this woman Fournereau, who had gone to Russia, intended to return to her apartment here upon a date she had arranged with one of her accomplices, a Corsican named Laumont. This is the reason why it seemed good to me to remain in hiding from the police until to-day. This is her first reception, notice of which was circulated among her friends by means of the cipher upon certain tables in the cafés on thegrands boulevards."
"Then you, too, were actually concealed on board theVisperaduring the whole cruise?" I exclaimed, in great surprise.
"No, I went ashore at Malta, and the vessel returned for me three weeks later," he replied.
"But this lady?" I inquired, indicating the handsome woman who had been my travelling companion in thewagon-.
"I am the mother of Reginald Thorne," she herself explained.
"You! Reggie's mother!" I cried, scarcely able to believe her words.
"Yes," she answered. "I was spending the winter in Cairo. Hearing of my poor son's death, I crossed from Alexandria, and arrived in Nice, only to find that theVisperahad sailed. A letter was awaiting me with full explanations, asking me to travel to Malta, and there join the yacht. This I did; but in order that my presence should not be known to those on board, I was placed secretly in the deck-cabin, and never left it. The blow that had fallen upon me on hearing of poor Reggie's death, combined with the constant imprisonment in that cabin, I believe upset the balance of my mind, for one night—the night before we put into Leghorn—I became unconscious. I was subject to strange hallucinations, and that night experienced a sensation as though someone was attempting to take my life by strangulation."
"I must explain," said old Mr. Keppel, addressing her. "It is only right that you should now know the truth. On the night in question you were unusually restless, and becoming seized by a fit of hysteria, commenced to shout and shriek all sorts of wild words regarding your poor son's murder. Now I had concealed you there, and fearing lest some of the guests should hear you, and that a scandal might be created, I tried to silence you. You fought me tooth and nail, for I verily believe that the close confinement had driven you insane. In the struggle I had my hands over your mouth, and afterwards pressed your throat in order to prevent your hysterical shrieks, when suddenly I saw blood upon your lips, and the awful truth dawned upon me that I had killed you by strangulation. Tewson, the chief steward—who, with the exception of Cameron, was the only person on board who knew of your presence—chancing to enter at that moment, made the diabolical suggestion that in order to get rid of the evidence of my crime I should allow him to blow up the ship. This I refused, and fortunately, half an hour later, I succeeded in restoring you to consciousness. Then we landed at Leghorn on the following evening, not, however, before I discovered that the real motive of Tewson's suggestion was that he had stolen nearly three thousand pounds in cash, notes, and securities from a box in Lord Stoneborough's cabin, and wished to destroy the ship so that his crime might thus be concealed. The man, I have discovered, has a very bad record, and has now disappeared. But time was pressing, so we all three left Leghorn for Paris, and I gave orders to Davis to take the yacht into the Adriatic, where I intended to rejoin it."
Then, briefly, I explained what I had seen and overheard on that wild, boisterous night in the Mediterranean; how I had followed the millionaire and the woman who was bent upon avenging the murder of her son; how I had sent the yacht on to Genoa, and how carefully I had watched the movements of all three during those days in Paris. All seemed amazed by my story—Ernest most of all.
"During that night in thewagon-lit," I said, addressing Mrs. Thorne, "I noticed two curious marks upon your neck. Upon your poor son's neck were similar marks."
"Yes," she replied; "they were birth-marks—known as the marks of thumb and finger. Poor Reggie bore them exactly as I do."
"And the woman who murdered him, and who so ingeniously attempted first to fasten the guilt upon Miss Rosselli, and then afterwards upon myself, is there!" cried Ernest, pointing at the trembling, pallid woman before us. "She killed him, because she feared the revelations he could make to the police regarding the place in which we are standing."
The woman Fournereau raised her head at Ernest's denunciation, and laughed a strange, harsh laugh of defiance.
"Bien!" she cried shrilly, with affected carelessness. "Arrest me, if you will! But I tell you that you are mistaken. You have been clever—very clever, all of you; but the assassin was not myself."
The police-officer now spoke to her:
"Then if you yourself are not guilty, you are aware of the identity of the murderer. Therefore I shall arrest you as being an accomplice. It is the same."
"No; I was not even an accomplice," she protested quickly. "I may be owner of this place; I may be a—a person known to you; but I swear I have never been a murderess."
The officer smiled dubiously.
"The decision upon that point must be left to the judges," he answered. "There is evidence against you. For the present that is sufficient."
"Monsieur Cameron has told you that I was threatened with exposure by the young Englishman," she said. "That is perfectly true. Indeed, all that has been said is the truth—save one thing. Neither did I commit the murder, nor had I any knowledge of it until afterwards."
"But the stolen notes were actually in your possession on the following morning," the detective observed in a tone of doubt.
"They were given to me for safe keeping."
"By whom?"
"I refuse to say."
The detective shrugged his shoulders, and smiles passed across the faces of his two companions.
"You prefer arrest, then?" he said.
"I prefer to keep my own counsel," she answered. "These persons," she continued, indicating us, "have believed themselves extremely ingenious, apparently taking upon themselves the duties of the police, and have arrived at quite a wrong conclusion. You may arrest me if you wish. I have nothing whatever to fear."
And she glanced around at us in open defiance. Indeed, so indifferent was she, that I felt convinced Ernest's theory of the committal of the crime had fallen to the ground.
The detective seemed, however, well aware of the woman's character, and proceeded to deal with her accordingly.
"You are charged with the murder," he said. "It is for you to prove your innocence."
"Who, pray, is the witness against me?" she demanded indignantly.
"Your accomplice!" cried Ernest quickly. "The man Laumont."
"Laumont!" she cried. "He—he has told you that I committed the crime; he has denounced me as the murderess?"
"He has," answered Ernest. "On that fatal night when poor Thorne entered the Rooms to change the notes I met him, and although we had had a few high words in the Café de Paris on the previous day, he approached me, asking my pardon, which I readily gave. He then inquired whether it was really true that Miss Rosselli had been engaged to me. I replied in the affirmative, and he then said that he did not intend to meet her again, but should leave for Paris in the morning. I tried to dissuade him, but his only reply was: 'She loves you still, my dear fellow. She can never forget you; of that I'm certain.' Then he left, and travelled to Nice without saying a single word to her. Arrived at the hotel, he went straight to her sitting-room and sat down to write her a letter of farewell. He commenced one, but destroyed it. This was afterwards found in the room. Then, just as he was about to commence a second letter, you—you, Julie Fournereau, entered, killed him, and stole the notes which you knew he carried in his pockets!"
"How did I kill him?" she demanded, her eyes flashing with anger.
"You yourself know that best."
"Ah! And Jean Laumont told you this elaborate piece of fiction, did he? It is amusing—very amusing!"
At a word from the chief detective, one of the officers left the room. We heard Laumont's name shouted loudly in the corridor, and a few minutes later he was ushered in by two officers.
I stood rooted to the spot at sight of him. The man was none other than Branca, the queer old fellow who had represented to me in Leghorn that our interests were identical. I saw how ingenious had been his actions, and how deeply-laid his plot. He had intended that I should sail to the Adriatic after he had obtained from me all the information I had collected.
On seeing us, he drew back in quick surprise, but in an instant the woman flew at him in fury.
"You have told them!" she shrieked. "You have led them to believe that I murdered the Englishman at Nice; you have declared that it was I who gave you the notes; I who killed him! You white-livered cur!"
His ugly countenance fell. Indignation had, in an instant, given place to fear. His sinister face was full of evil.
"And did you not give me the notes?" inquired the dwarfed man, now well dressed, and presenting a very different appearance from that he had shown at Leghorn. He had evidently been playing baccarat. "Why, there are at least two men in yonder room who were present when you handed them to me."
"I do not deny that," she answered. "I deny that I killed him."
"Then who did?"
"Who did?" she shrieked. "Who did?Why, you yourself!"
"You lie!" he cried fiercely, his cheeks in an instant ashen pale.
"I would have told them nothing," she went on quickly. "I would have allowed them to arrest me and afterwards discover their mistake, were it not that you had endeavoured to give me into their hands in order to save yourself. No, my dear friend, Julie Fournereau is loyal only to those who are loyal to her, as many have before found out to their cost. I would have saved you had you not led the police here to raid my house, to arrest my friends, and to hurry me away to prison for a crime that I did not commit. But listen! You deny the murder of the young Englishman. Well, shall I relate to them all that occurred?"
"Tell them what untruths you like," he growled fiercely. "You cannot harm me."
"Yes, madame," urged old Mr. Keppel, "tell us all that you know. We are determined now to get to the bottom of this affair."
"This man," she explained, "was the man who fleeced the unfortunate gentleman here in my house. I am not wishing to shield myself for a single moment—I desire only to tell the truth. Monsieur Thorne, when they last met here, accused him of cheating at baccarat; high words ensued, and the young man drew a revolver and fired, the bullet striking Laumont in the shoulder, whereupon he swore to be avenged. I knew well that a vow of vengeance taken by such a desperate character as Laumont was something more than mere idle words; and when he went to the Riviera, as he did each year, in search of inexperienced youths whom he could fleece, I shortly afterwards followed. He stayed first at the 'Hôtel de Paris' at Monte Carlo, but meeting young Thorne accidentally one afternoon, he discovered that the latter was living at the 'Grand' at Nice, and that same night transferred his quarters there. Now, Thorne had an intimate friend at Nice—Mr. Gerald Keppel—and it seemed as though Laumont desired to make the latter's acquaintance, with the ulterior motive of practising his sharper's tricks upon him. Be that as it may, I, in order to watch the progress of events, moved to the same hotel at Nice. I knew that Laumont was bent on vengeance, and felt certain that some terribledénouementwas imminent."
She paused, and glanced around at us. Then lowering her eyes, she went on:
"I am an adventuress, it is true; but I have still a woman's heart. I was determined, if possible, to prevent Laumont from wreaking vengeance upon the poor boy. It was for that reason I followed him to Nice and took up my abode there. On the day of the tragedy I was in the Rooms at Monte Carlo in the afternoon, and there saw him playing and winning; while just as he was leaving with Miss Rosselli, young Mr. Keppel and another lady, his pockets bulging with his gains, I saw Jean Laumont watching him. By the evil look he cast in his direction, I knew that the spirit of murder was in his heart. That evening I dined at Giro's with Monsieur Cameron, and afterwards left him in order to watch the movements of Jean and the young Englishman. The latter, after a short conversation with Monsieur Cameron in the hall of the Casino, descended by the lift to the station, and took train to Nice. I travelled by the same train, but in the crowd at Nice station I lost sight of him. He must have taken a fiacre immediately to the hotel, and furthermore, the Corsican must also have followed him, without knowing of my presence. I met some friends at the station, but on arrival at the hotel, twenty minutes later, I went straight up to my room. On the way I had to pass the door of Miss Rosselli's sitting-room, and just as I was approaching, my feet falling softly on the thick carpet of the corridor, the door opened noiselessly, and a man, after looking forth stealthily, came out and stole along to the room he occupied. That man was Jean Laumont."
"You saw him?" cried Ernest. "You actually saw him coming from the room?"
"Yes. Instantly, I suspected something wrong, and wondered for what purpose he had been in the ladies' sitting-room. Therefore, without hesitation, I pushed open the door and looked inside. Imagine my surprise when I found the unfortunate man writhing in agony upon the ground. I knelt by him, but recognising me as the woman at whose house he had been cheated, he shrank from me. 'That man!' he gasped with difficulty. 'That man has killed me!' and a few moments later his limbs straightened themselves out in a final paroxysm of agony, and he passed away."
Mrs. Thorne burst into a flood of tears.
The tow-haired woman was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed upon the face of the man against whom she had uttered that terrible denunciation.
"I stood there terrified—unable to move," she went on. "Laumont had, as I anticipated, killed him."
"Killed him? How can you prove it?" demanded the cunning card-sharper, Vauquelin, who had tricked me so cleverly, and who, in order to throw the police off the scent, pursued the harmless calling of hairdresser in that back street off the Boulevard St. Michel. Apparently he was the Corsican's champion. "How can you prove that Jean Laumont killed him?"
The woman Fournereau crossed the room quickly to a small rosewood bureau, and took therefrom a little cardboard box about a couple of inches square, such as is often used for containing cheap jewellery.
"I have something here," she said, addressing the man before her, "which was lying on the floor. You alone know its secret—a secret which I, too, have lately discovered."
And opening the box carefully, she displayed, lying in a bed of cotton-wool, what at first appeared to be a woman's steel thimble. Taking it from its hiding-place, and placing it upon the forefinger of her right hand, we saw that, instead of being what it at first appeared, it rose to a sharply-tempered steel point, about half an inch long, protruding from the finger-tip.
I glanced at the man accused. His face had blanched to the lips at sight of it.
"This," she explained, "I discovered on the floor close to where the dead man was lying. It is a diabolical invention of Laumont's, which he showed me a year ago, although he did not then explain its use. An examination which has been made by my friend, a chemist, has plainly indicated the truth. You will notice that the point is fine as a needle, but is hollow, like that of a hypodermic syringe. Within, at the point touched by the tip of the finger, is a small chamber filled with a most subtle and deadly poison, extracted from a small lizard peculiar to the Bambara country on the banks of the Upper Niger."
The point would, I saw, act just as the fang of a snake, for the thimble, when placed on the finger and pressed against the flesh of the victim, would inject the poison into the blood, causing almost instantaneous collapse and death. The puncture made by such a fine point would be indistinguishable, and the action of the poison, as we afterwards learnt, so similar to several natural complications that at the post-mortem examination doctors would fail to distinguish the real cause of death.
She held the diabolical thimble out for us to examine, saying:
"The mode in which this was used upon the unfortunate Monsieur Thorne was undoubtedly as follows:—He had seated himself at the table with his back to the door when the Corsican, Laumont, watching his opportunity, crept in with the thimble upon his finger. Before his victim was aware of his presence he had seized him by the collar from behind and pressed the point deep into the flesh behind the right ear, at a spot where the poison would at once enter the circulation. You will remember that the doctors discovered a slight scratch behind the ear, which they guessed to be the only mark resulting from the struggle which they believed had taken place. But there was no struggle. As has been proved by the person who examined for me this most deadly but inoffensive-looking weapon, anyone struck by it would become paralysed almost instantly. Plainly, then, the chair was broken by him as he fell against it in fatal collapse."
"And the stolen notes? What of them?" asked Mr. Keppel anxiously.
"Ah!" she answered. "Those accursed notes! On the following morning Laumont came to me and handed me the money, saying that as I knew the truth regarding the crime, he would trust me further, and give the money into my safe keeping. I took it, for, truth to tell, I knew that he could make some very unwelcome revelations to the police regarding this place and the character of the play here. Therefore I decided that, after all, silence was best, even though I held in my possession the thimble which, I presume, in his hurry to escape from the room, fell upon the floor and rolled away. I took the notes, and for some days kept them; but finding that the police were making such active inquiries, I returned them to him, and he then resolved upon giving them to Miss Rosselli, through one of his accomplices, either in order further to baffle the detectives or else to throw suspicion upon her. She was told some extraordinary story about a meeting in London, merely, of course, to put the police off the scent, and cause them to believe that the money was stolen by English thieves. Soon afterwards I knew that Monsieur Cameron was aware of the manner in which his friend had been cheated here. This caused me, from fear of being arrested on suspicion, to fly to Russia, arranging with my friends to return here on the 1st of May—to-day."
"The date of your return I learnt from Laumont himself," explained Ernest, "for, in the course of the inquiries I made immediately after the tragic affair, I found that he was your intimate associate, and in order to divert suspicion from himself he hinted at you being the assassin."
"He denounced me, not knowing that I held the actual evidence of his guilt in my hand," she cried, holding out the finger with the curious-looking thimble upon it. "Poor Monsieur Thorne is, I fear, not the first victim who has fallen beneath the prick of this deadly instrument."
"To whom do you refer?" inquired the detective quickly.
"To Monsieur Everton, the young Englishman who was found dead about a year ago in the Avenue des Acacias."
In an instant the man whom I had known in Leghorn as Branca sprang at her with all the fury of a wild beast, and, clutching her at the throat, tried to strangle her. His eyes were lit by the fierce light of uncontrollable anger, his bushy hair giving his white face a wild and terrible look, and it really seemed that before the detectives could throw themselves upon him, the murderer would tear limb from limb the woman who had confessed.
For a moment the detectives and the man and woman were all struggling wildly together. Suddenly a loud yell of pain escaped from the wretched Corsican, and releasing his hold, he drew back, with his left hand clasped upon his wrist.
He staggered, swayed unevenly, uttering terrible imprecations.
"Dieu!" he gasped. "You—you've killed me!"
What had happened was easy to understand. In the struggle the point of his cunning invention, which was still upon the woman's finger, had entered deeply the fleshy part of his wrist, injecting that poison that was so swift, and for which no antidote had ever been discovered.
As he staggered, two detectives sprang forward to seize him, but before they could do so, he reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily backward, overturning a small table beside which he had been standing.
Never was there a scene more ghastly. I shall remember every detail of it so long as I have power to draw my breath.
Five minutes later, the wretched man who had thus brought card-sharping and murder to a fine art had breathed his last in frightful agony, his ignominious career ended by his own diabolical invention.
My reader, I have throughout been perfectly frank with you—too frank, perhaps. But need I dwell further upon the stirring events of that night? It is assuredly sufficient to say that the persons arrested by the police numbered nearly forty, all of whom were charged with various offences, in addition to that of being found in an illicit gaming-house. Many of them, old offenders and desperate characters, notwithstanding the fact that they were outwardly respectable members of society, in due course received long periods of imprisonment, Vauquelin receiving a sentence of seven years. But Julie Fournereau, in view of the information she had given regarding poor Reggie's death, was dismissed with a fine of two thousand francs for carrying on the house in question. She has since disappeared into obscurity. Ulrica arrived in Paris next morning from Genoa, and was absolutely dumbfounded when we related the whole of the amazing story. That day, too, proved the happiest in all my life. Need I relate how, on the following morning, Ernest sought me and begged me to forgive? Or how, with tears of joy, I allowed him to hold me once more in his manly arms, as of old, and shower fervent kisses upon my face? No. If I were to begin to relate the joys that had now come to me, I should far exceed the space of a single volume. It is enough that you, reader, to whom I have made confession, should know that within a fortnight we all returned to London, and that while Ulrica became engaged to Gerald, and soon afterwards married him, with the old man's heartiest approval, Ernest again asked me to become his wife.
At Kensington Church, amid greatéclat, within a month of our arrival back in town, my happiness broke into full flower.
Ulrica tells me, in the privacy of her little blue boudoir in Eaton Square, that she is no longer world-weary, living only for excitement, as in the fevered days gone by, but that her life is full of a peaceful happiness that cannot be surpassed. Nevertheless, I cannot really bring myself to believe that she is any happier than I am with Ernest in our pretty home at Hyde Park Gate, for the estrangement has rendered him all the more dear to me, and we are indeed supremely content in each other's perfect love.
Mrs. Thorne, poor Reggie's mother, has returned to Hampshire, fully satisfied at having cleared up the mystery surrounding her son's tragic death; while old Benjamin Keppel, late of Johannesburg, and now of Park Lane and Ulverton Towers, in Hertfordshire, still spends his winters in rather lonely grandeur in his great villa amid the palms outside Nice, working in secret at his ivory-turning, and giving at intervals those princely entertainments for which he has become so famous in the cosmopolitan society which suns itself upon the Riviera.
As for Ernest and myself, we have not visited Nice since. We prefer Cairo for the winter, with a trip up to Luxor and Assouan, for we retain a far too vivid recollection of those dark days of doubt, desperation and despair, when it was our strange and tragic lot to be so darkly associated with The Gamblers.
THE END
Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.