The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe gamblersThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The gamblersAuthor: William Le QueuxRelease date: June 24, 2023 [eBook #71037]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1901Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLERS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The gamblersAuthor: William Le QueuxRelease date: June 24, 2023 [eBook #71037]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1901Credits: Al Haines
Title: The gamblers
Author: William Le Queux
Author: William Le Queux
Release date: June 24, 2023 [eBook #71037]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1901
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLERS ***
The person who murdered him was none other than yourself."The person who murdered him was none other than yourself."p.293.
Title page
By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of"Of Royal Blood," "The UnderSecretary," "The Seven Secrets," etc.
London:HUTCHINSON & CO.Paternoster Row
CONTENTS
Chapter
I.Is Purely PersonalII.Tells Something about LoveIII.Is a MysteryIV.Relates some Astounding FactsV.Deals with a MillionaireVI.Places Me in a PredicamentVII.Mainly Concerns the OwlVIII.Narrates a Mysterious IncidentIX.Shows the Bird's TalonsX.Makes One Point PlainXI.Describes a Meeting and Its SequelXII.Carries Me on Board the "Vispera"XIII.Discloses a Millionaire's SecretXIV.In Which I make a ResolveXV.In Which We pay a Visit AshoreXVI.Discusses Several Matters of MomentXVII.Describes a New AcquaintanceXVIII.Creates Another ProblemXIX.A Millionaire's ManoeuvresXX.Wherein Captain Davis Speaks his MindXXI.Is AstonishingXXII.Is More AstonishingXXIII.Confides the Story of a TableXXIV.In Which Matters Assume a Very Complex AspectXXV.Presents a Curious PhaseXXVI.Gives the Key to the CipherXXVII.Pieces Together the PuzzleXXVIII.Reveals the TruthXXIX.Contains the Conclusion
THE GAMBLERS
No. I dare not reveal anything here, lest I may be misjudged.
The narrative is, to say the least, a strange one; so strange, indeed, that had I not been one of the actual persons concerned in it I would never have believed such things were possible.
Yet these chapters of an eventful personal history, remarkable though they may appear, nevertheless form an unusual story—a combination of circumstances which will be found startling and curious, idyllic and tragic.
Reader, I would confess all, if I dared, but each of us has a skeleton in the cupboard, both you and I, for alas! I am no exception to the general rule prevailing among women.
If compelled by a natural instinct to suppress one single fact, I may add that it has little or nothing to do with the circumstances here related. It concerns only myself, and no woman cares to supply food for gossips at her own expense.
To be brief, it is my intention to narrate plainly and straightforwardly what occurred, while hoping that all who read may approach my story with a perfectly open mind, and afterwards judge me fairly, impartially, and without the prejudice likely to be entertained against one whose shortcomings are many, and whose actions have perhaps not always been tempered by wisdom.
My name is Carmela Rosselli. I am English, of Italian extraction, five-and-twenty years of age, and for many years—yes, I confess it freely—I have been utterly world-weary. I am an only child. My mother, one of the Yorkshire Burnetts, married Romolo Annibale, Marchese Rosselli, an impecunious member of the Florentine aristocracy, and after a childhood passed in Venice I was sent to the Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in the Val d'Ema, near Florence, to obtain my education. My mother's money enabled the Marchese to live in the reckless style customary to a gentleman of the Tuscan nobility; but, unfortunately for me, both my parents died when I was fifteen, and left me in the care of a second cousin, a woman but a few years older than myself—kind-hearted, everything that was most English and womanly, and in all respects truly devoted to me.
Thus it was that at the age of eighteen I received the maternal kiss of the grave-eyed Mother Superior, Suor Maria, and of all the good sisters in turn, and then travelled to London, accompanied by my guardian, Ulrica Yorke.
Like myself, Ulrica was wealthy; and because she was very smart and good-looking she did not want for admirers. We lived together at Queen's Gate for several years, amid that society which circles around Kensington Church, until one rather dull afternoon in autumn Ulrica made a most welcome suggestion.
"Carmela, I am ruined, morally and physically. I feel that I want a complete change."
I suggested Biarritz or Davos for the winter,
"No," she answered. "I feel that I must build up my constitution as well as my spirits. The gayer Continent is the only place—say Paris for a month, Monte Carlo for January, then Rome till after Easter."
"To Monte Carlo!" I gasped.
"Why not?" she inquired. "You have money, and we may just as well go abroad for a year to enjoy ourselves as vegetate here."
"You are tired of Guy?" I observed.
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders, pursed her lips, and contemplated her rings.
"He has become a little too serious," she said simply.
"And you want to escape him?" I remarked. "Do you know, Ulrica, I believe he really loves you."
"Well, and if he does?"
"I thought you told me, only a couple of months ago, that he was the best-looking man in London, and that you had utterly lost your heart to him."
She laughed.
"I've lost it so many times that I begin to believe I don't nowadays possess that very useful portion of the human anatomy. But," she added, "you pity him, eh? My dear Carmela, you should never pity a man. Not one of them is really worth sympathy. Nineteen out of every twenty are ready to declare love to any good-looking woman with money. Remember your dearest Ernest."
Mention of that name caused me a twinge.
"I have forgotten him!" I cried hotly. "I have forgiven—all that belongs to the past."
She laughed again.
"And you will go on the Continent with me?" she asked. "You will go to commence life afresh. What a funny thing life is, isn't it?"
I responded in the affirmative. Truth to tell, I was very glad of that opportunity to escape from the eternal shopping in the High Street and the round of Kensington life, which daily reminded me of the man whom I had loved. Ulrica knew it, but she was careful to avoid all further mention of the grief that was wearing out my heart.
At the outset of our pilgrimage to the South of Europe we went to Paris. In the gay city two women with money and without encumbrances can have a really good time. We stayed at the "Chatham," a hotel much resorted to by our compatriots, and met there quite a lot of people we knew, including several rather nice men whom we had known in London, and who appeared to consider it their duty to show us the sights, many of which we had seen before.
Need I describe them? I think not. Those who read these lines probably know them all, from that sorry exhibition of terpsichorean art in the elephant at the Red Windmill down to the so-calledcabarets artistiquesof the Montmartre, "Heaven," "Hell," and the other places.
Each evening we dined at six, and went forth pleasure-seeking, sometimes unattended, and at others with our friends. We were catholic in our tastes. We sawLa Bohêmeat the Opera, and attended a ball at the Bullier; we strolled along the carpeted promenade of Aspasia at the Folies Bergères, and laughed at the quadrilles at the Casino, and at that resort of the little work-girls, the Moulin la Galette; we listened to the cadence of Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful voice, and to the patter of therevueat La Scala; we watched the dancing of La Belle Otero and the statuesque poses of Degaby. Truly, we had our fill of variety theatres.
In common, too, with the foreigner who goes to "see life" in Paris, we did the round of the restaurants—from supper at the Cafê de Paris, or the Cafê Américain, to the humble two-franc dinner at Léon's in the Rue St. Honoré, or the one-franc-fifty lunch at Gazal's in the Place du Théâtre Français. We had our meal, too, one evening at that restaurant which is seldom even mentioned in respectable circles, the "Rat Mort," in the Place Pigalle. Yes, with money one is seldomtristein Paris, and I was really sorry when, in the last week of the year, after Felicita had packed our trunks, we set out for the Riviera.
Travelling on those abominable gridirons which on the Continent are called railways, is absolutely disgusting after our own English lines, with their dining-cars and other comforts. Of all the railways that intersect the Continent, the P.L.M., which has a monopoly to the Mediterranean, is the most inconvenient, disobliging, and completely abominable. To obtain the smallest comfort on the eighteen-hour journey between Paris and Nice, an addition of three pounds is charged upon the first-class fare, and that for a single night in a third-rate sleeping-car! Ulrica said it was termed thetrain de luxeonly because it looks swagger to travel by it. We occupied a couple of berths in it, but agreed that the additional three pounds were ill-spent indeed, for the badly-cooked food was absurdly dear.
Moreover, as the water for toilet purposes gave out before reaching Lyons, we had to buy bottles of mineral water, and perform our ablutions in a mixture of Vichy Celestins and eau-de-cologne. It was remarked by an old and apparently experienced traveller that the water in thewagons litsis purposely scanty in order to increase the takings of the restaurant cars; and I certainly believed him.
For a woman young in years I have had considerable experience of European railways, from the crawling Midi of France to the lightning Nord; but for dirt and dearness, commend me to the great highway to the Riviera. To take a small trunk from Paris to Nice costs more than the fare of one's maid; while to those who do not pay for the train of luxury, but travel in the ordinary padded horse-boxes, the journey means a couple of days of suffocation and semi-starvation.
"My dear Carmela," said Ulrica, while we were on the journey, "I've thought of a plan. Why not go to some cheap hotel, or evenpensionat Nice, and play at Monte Carlo with the money we save?"
I had never seen the far-famed Monte Carlo, but as the idea of economy seemed an excellent one, I at once endorsed her suggestion, and that same night we found ourselves at one of thosepensionswhich flourish so amazingly well at Nice.
Reader, have you ever lived in an Englishpensionon the Riviera? Have you ever inhabited a small cubicle containing a chair, a deal table, a narrow bed—with mosquito curtains—and a hung-up looking-glass, and partaken of that cheap, ill-cooked food, the stale-egg omelette and the toughbiftek, served in the baresalle-à-mangerby one of those seedy, unshaven waiters who appear to be specially bred for the cheap Riviera boarding-houses? Have you ever spent an evening with that mixed crowd of ascetic persons who nightly congregate in the fustysalon, play upon a cracked piano, screech old-fashioned sentimentalities, exhibit their faded finery, paste jewels and bony chests, and otherwise make the hours, following dinner absolutely hideous? If not, a week of this life will be found to be highly amusing.
"My dear," Ulrica whispered, as we followed the proprietress, a buxom Frenchwoman in black satin, along the bare, white-washed corridor to our rooms, "hotel or work-house—which?"
There was a comfortless look everywhere, even though the spread of the blue sea and the palm-planted Promenade des Anglais were magnificent parts of the view, and the warm winter sunshine streamed into our tiny rooms—chambers so small that our trunks had to be placed in the corridor.
We changed our frocks and went down to dinner, discovering thesalle-à-mangerby its smell. What a scene presented itself at thattable d'hôte! The long table was crowded by a host of dowdy women, generally wearing caps of soiled lace and faded ribbons, with one or two dismal-looking and elderly men. Of spinsters there were not a few, and of widows many, but one and all possessed the stamp of persons of small means struggling perseveringly to obtain their fill for the ten francspar jourwhich they paid for their "south rooms."
As new-comers, we were directed to seats at the bottom of the table; and after we had suffered from a watery concoction which the menu described aspotage, we proceeded to survey our fellow-guests in that cheap and respectablepension.
That they were severely respectable there could certainly be no doubt. There were a couple of drawling English clergymen, with their wives—typical vicars' wives who patronised their neighbours; two or three sad-faced young girls, accompanied by ascetic relatives; a young Frenchman who eyed Ulrica all the time; one or two hen-pecked husbands of the usual type to be found in such hostelries of the aged; and an old lady who sat in state at the extreme end of the table, and much amused us by her efforts at juvenility. Besides ourselves, she was apparently the only person who had a maid with her; and in order to exhibit that fact, she sent for her smelling-salts during dinner. She was long past sixty, yet dressed in a style becoming a girl of eighteen, in bright colours and lace, her fair wig being dressed in the latest Parisian style, and the wrinkles of her cheeks filled up by various creams and face powders.
"That old crow is an absolute terror!" observed Ulrica to me in an undertone, and out of sheer devilry she at once commenced a conversation with this rejuvenated hag, who, as we learned later, was an exportation from one of the London suburbs.
The conversation, started by Ulrica and continued by myself, proved most amusing to us both. The old woman whose name was Blackett, had just enough to live upon, we afterwards discovered, but came each year to thepensionin order to cut a dash as agrande dame. Her fingers were covered with paste jewels, and her finery was all of that cheap and tawdry kind which affects the nerves as well as the eyes.
"Oh, yes!" she said, in a carefully cultivated voice, intended to show good breeding, "if this is your first visit to the Riviera, you'll be quite charmed—everyone is charmed with it. As for myself—" and she sighed,—"I have been here each year for I don't know how long."
"And there is lots to see?"
"Lots. Only you must drive, you know. I myself drive at all hours of the day, and when the moon is up I go for moonlight drives into the mountains."
How romantic, I thought.
"I have my own coachman, you know," she added. "I keep him all the year round."
She had led up to the conversation merely in order to inform us of her generosity.
So throughout the meal, which occupied nearly two hours, by reason of inadequate waiting, we continued to draw her out, humour her egotism, and cause her to make a most ridiculous display of herself, until at last, my sentiment changing, I felt genuinely sorry for her.
"Certainly," I remarked to Ulrica as we left the table, "this is the most extraordinary collection of tabbies I've ever met."
"My dear," she said, "what has been puzzling me all the evening is their place of origin. Some, I regret to say, are actually our own compatriots. But where do they come from?"
"It's a special breed peculiar topensionson the Riviera," I remarked; and together we ascended to the frowsy drawing-room, where the red plush-covered furniture exuded an odour of mustiness, and the carpet was sadly moth-eaten and thread-bare.
Around the central table a dozen angular women of uncertain age grouped themselves and formed a sewing-party; a retired colonel, who seemed a good fellow, buried himself in theContemporary; a decrepit old gentleman wearing a skull-cap and a shawl about his shoulders, heaped logs upon the fire and sat with his feet on the fender, although the atmosphere was stifling, while somebody else induced a young lady with a voice like a file to sing a plaintive love-song, accompanied by the untuned piano.
During my previous winters in the South I had stayed at hotels. In my ignorance of the ways of cheap visitors to the Riviera, I believed this congregation to be unique, but Ulrica assured me that it was typical of all Englishpensionsalong the Côte d'Azur, from Cannes to Bordighera, and I can now fully endorse her statement.
To describe in detail the many comic scenes enacted is unnecessary. The people were too ludicrous for words. One family in especial endeavoured to entice us to friendliness. Its head was a very tall, muscular, black-haired French-woman, who had married an Englishman. The latter had died fifteen years ago, leaving her with a son and daughter, the former a school boy of sixteen, and the latter a fair-haired and very freckled girl of perhaps twenty. The woman's name was Egerton, and she was of that dashing type who can wear scarlet dresses at dinner, and whose cheeks dazzle one's eyes on account of the rouge upon them. She was loud, coarse, and vulgar. For the benefit of all the others, she spoke daily of the delicacies prepared by her ownchef, sneered at the food of thepension, and ordered special messes for her own consumption. Before we had known her an hour she had given us a description of the wonderful interior of her house in Rome, enumerated her servants, and gave us to understand that she was exceedingly well-off, and quite a superior person. The people one meets on the Riviera are really very entertaining.
Ulrica was grimly sarcastic. As we had neither intention nor inclination to associate with this superior relict, we politely snubbed her, taking care that it should not be done in secret.
"I don't think our effort at economy has met with very much success," I remarked to Ulrica, when about a week later I sat over the cup of half-cold coffee, the stale egg, the hunk of bread and the pat of rancid butter, which together formed my breakfast.
"No, a week of it is quite sufficient," she laughed. "We'll leave to-morrow."
"Then you've given notice?"
"Of course. I only came here for a week's amusement. We'll go on to the 'Grand.'"
So on the following day our trunks were called for by the hotel omnibus, and we took up our quarters in that well-known hotel on the Quai St. Jean Baptiste. Ulrica had known the Riviera ever since her girlhood. With her parents she had gone abroad each autumn, had seen most of the sights, and had thus received her education as a smart woman.
We were in thesalonof the "Grand" on the night of our arrival, when suddenly someone uttered my name. We both turned quickly, and to our surprise saw two men we knew quite well in London standing before us. One was Reginald Thorne, a dark-haired and more than usually good-looking youth of about twenty-two or so, while the other was Gerald Keppel, a thin, fair-moustached young man, some seven years his senior, son of old Benjamin Keppel, the well-known South African millionaire. Gerald was an old friend, but the former I knew but slightly, having met him once or twice at dances, for in Kensington he was among the chief of the eligibles.
"Why, my dear Miss Rosselli!" he cried enthusiastically as we shook hands. "I'm so awfully glad to meet you! I had no idea you were here. Gerald was here dining with me, and we caught sight of you through the glass doors."
"Then you're staying here?" I asked.
"Yes. Gerald's staying with his guv'nor. He has a villa out at Fabron. Have you been here long?"
"We've been in Nice a week," interposed Ulrica, "and we haven't found a single soul we know until now. I feel sure you'll take pity upon our loneliness, Mr. Thorne, won't you?"
"Of course!" he laughed. "I suppose you go to Monte Carlo?"
"You men think of nothing but roulette and dinners at the 'Paris,'" she responded reproachfully, adding: "But after all, should we be women if we had no soul for gambling? Have you had any luck this season?"
"Can't complain," he smiled. "I've been staying over there for ten days or so. Gerald has had quite a run of good fortune. The other night he won the maximum on thezero-troisthree times."
"Congratulations, my dear Gerald!" exclaimed Ulrica approvingly. "You shall both take us over one day and let us try our fortune—if Mr. Thorne is agreeable."
"Delighted, I'm sure," answered the latter, glancing at me; and by the look he gave me I felt convinced that my suspicions, aroused in London about a year before, were not quite groundless. His glance was a convincing proof that he admired me.
The fault of us women is that we so often over-esteem the value of our good looks. To my mind the possession of handsome toilettes is quite as essential to a woman's well-being and man's contentment as are personal attractions. A woman, however beautiful she may be, loses half her charm to men's eyes if she dresses dowdily, or without taste. Nobody ever saw a really beautiful Parisienne. For the most part, the ladies of the French capital are thin-nosed, thin-lipped, scraggy-necked, yellow-faced and absolutely ugly; yet are they not, merely by reason of theirchicin dress, the most attractive women in the world? I know that many will dissent from this estimate; but as my mirror tells me that I have a face more than commonly handsome, and as dozens of men have further endorsed the mute evidence of my toilet-glass, I can only confess that all my triumphs and all my harmless flirtations have had their beginnings in the attraction exercised by the dainty creations of mycouturière. We hear much complaining among women to the effect that there are not a sufficient number of nice men to go round; but after all, the woman who knows how to dress need have no lack of offers of marriage. American women on the Continent can always be distinguished from the English, and it is certain that to their quietchicin frills and furbelows their success in the marriage market is due.
Yes, there was no doubt that Reggie Thorne admired me. I had suspected it on the night when we had waltzed together at the Pendyman's, and afterwards gossiped together over ices; but with a woman flirtations of the ball-room are soon forgotten, and, truth to tell, I had forgotten him until our sudden and unexpected meeting.
"What awfully good luck we've met Gerald and Reggie," Ulrica said, when, half-an-hour later, we were seated together in the privacy of our sitting-room. "Gerald, poor boy, was always a bit gone on me in London; and as for Reggie—well, he'll make an excellent cavalier for you. Even if Mother Grundy is dead and buried, it isn't very respectable to be constantly trotting over to Monte Carlo without male escort."
"You mean that they'll be a couple of useful males?"
"Certainly. Their coming is quite providential. Some of Gerald's luck at the tables may be reflected upon us. I should dearly like to make my expenses at roulette."
"So should I."
"There's no reason why we shouldn't," she went on. "I know quite a lot of people who've won enough to pay for the whole winter on the Riviera."
"Reggie has money, hasn't he?"
"Of course. The old man was on the Stock Exchange and died very comfortably off. All of it went to Reggie, except an annuity settled on his mother. Of course, he's spent a good deal since. A man doesn't live in the Albany as he does, drive tandem, and all that sort of thing, on nothing a year."
"They used to say that Gerald Keppel hadn't a shilling beyond what the old man allowed him monthly—a most niggardly allowance, I've heard."
"That's quite possible, my dear Carmela," she answered. "But one's position might be a good deal worse than the only son of a millionaire. Old Benjamin is eccentric. I've met the old buffer several times. He's addicted to my pet abomination in a man—paper collars."
"Then you'll take Gerald as your cavalier, and allot Reggie to me?" I laughed.
"Yes. I'm self-sacrificing, am I not?"
She was in high spirits, for she had long ago fascinated Gerald Keppel, and now intended to make use of him as her escort to that Palace of Delight which somebody has suggested might well be known as the Sign of the Seven Sins.
Ulrica was a typical woman of the up-to-date type—pretty, with soft, wavy, chestnut hair and a pair of brown eyes that had attracted a host of men who had bowed down and worshipped at her shrine; yet beneath her corsets, as I alone knew, there beat a heart from which, alas! all love and sympathy had long ago died out. To her, excitement, change and flirtation were as food and drink; she could not live without them. Neither, indeed, could I, for by living with her ever since my convent-days I had copied her smart ideas and notions, stimulated by attacks of nerves.
A few days later, having lunched with Reggie and Gerald at the hotel, we went over with the usual crowd to Monte Carlo by the two o'clock "yellow" express.
Reader, you probably know the panorama of the Riviera—that stretch of azure sky, azure sea, rugged coast; purple hills clad with olives and pines; rose, heliotrope, and geranium running riot in the gardens of the white villas, with their marble terraces.
When I entered for the first time that wild, turbulent, close-smellingsalle de jeuat Monte Carlo, where the croupiers were crying in strident tones, "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!" and uttering in warning voice, "Rien ne va plus!" I gazed around me bewildered. Who were those grabbing crowds of smartly-dressed people grouped around the tables? Were they actually civilised human beings—beings who had loved, suffered and lived, as I had loved, suffered and lived?
How beautiful it was outside in that gay little place, with the Red Hungarian Band playing on the terrace of the Café de Paris, and half thegrand mondeof Europe lounging about and chattering! How enchanting was the grim Dog's Head as a fitting background in dark purple against the winter sunset, the brown Grimaldi rock rising sheer from the sea to the castellated walls of the Palace; to the right, Villefranche and San Juan dark upon the horizon,—the serrated Esterels dark and mysterious afar; while to the left, Bordighera was sparkling white in the sunshine. And beyond there was Italy—my own fair Italy! Out in that flower-scented, limpid air earth was a paradise; within those stifling gilt saloons, where the light of day was tempered by the thick curtains, and the clink of gold mingled with the dull hum of the avaricious crowd, it was a veritable hell.
Some years ago—ah! now I am looking back; Ulrica is not at fault this time. No, I must not think. I have promised myself not to think during my work upon this narrative, but to try to forget all past unhappiness. To try! Ah! I would that I could calm my soul—steep it in a draught of such thoughtlessness that oblivion would come! But I fear that can never, never be!
It is terrible to think how a woman can suffer, and yet live. What a blessing it is that the world cannot read a woman's heart! Men may look upon our faces, but they cannot read the truth. Even though our hearts may be breaking, we may wear a smile; we can conceal our sorrows so cleverly that none can suspect, for smiles make a part of our physical being; we can hide our grief so completely that none can know the burden upon us. Endurance, resistance, patience, suffering, all these belong to woman's heritage. Even in the few years I have lived, I have had my share of them all.
I stood bewildered, watching the revolving red and black roulette-wheel, and the eager crowd of faces around it.
"Vingt! Rouge, pair et passe!" the croupier cried, and a couple of louis which Ulrica had placed on the last dozen were swept away with the silver, notes and gold, to swell the bank.
I thought of my secret grief. I thought of Ernest Cameron, and pursed my lips. The old Tuscan proverb which the nuns in Firenze had taught me so long ago was very true: "Amore non é senza amaro."
The millionaire's son at my elbow was explaining to me how the game was played, but I was paying no attention. I only remembered the man I had once loved—the man whose slave I was—the man whom I had forgiven, even though he had left me so cruelly. Only three things could make life to me worth living—the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips.
But such fine fortune could never be. We were parted for ever—for ever!
"Now, play this time!" I heard Reggie exclaim.
"Where?" I inquired mechanically, his voice awakening me to a sense of my surroundings.
"On the line, there—between the numbers 9 and 12."
I took a louis from my purse, and with the rake carelessly pushed it upon the line he had indicated. Then I turned to talk with Gerald.
"Rien ne va plus!" cried the croupier.
A hundred necks were craned to watch the result.
The ball fell with a final click into one of the little spaces upon the wheel.
"Neuf! Rouge, impair et manque!"
"You've won, my dear!" cried Ulrica excitedly, and in a few moments Reggie, who raked up my winnings, gave me quite a handful of gold.
"There now!" he said, "you've made your firstcoup. Try again."
I crammed the gold into my purse, but it would not hold it all. The three louis upon which the purse would not close I held doubtfully in my hand.
"Play on thetreize-dix-huitthis time!" urged Reggie, and I obeyed him blindly.
As the number 18 came up, I again received another little handful of gold. I knew that many envious eyes were cast in my direction, and the excitement of winning was an entirely new sensation.
Ulrica fancied the last dozen, and I placed five louis upon it, winning a third time. Having won eight hundred francs in three turns of the wheel, I began to think roulette was not such wearying fun as I had once believed it to be.
I wanted to continue playing, but the others prevented me. They knew too well that the bank at Monte Carlo only lends its money to the players. With Reggie at my side I went out, strolled through those beautiful gardens beside the sea, watched the pigeon-shooting, and afterwards sat on the terrace of the Café de Paris, where to the full I enjoyed a sunset of extraordinary radiance.
I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald into the orchestral concert.
"What awfully good luck you had!" he observed, after we had been chatting some time. "If you'd had the maximum on each time, you'd have won over seven hundred pounds."
"There are a good many 'ifs' in gambling," I remarked. "I've never had any luck before in gambles at bazaars and such-like places."
"When you do have luck, follow it, is my motto," he laughed. "I should have advised you to continue playing to-day, only I thought it might annoy Ulrica," and he raised his whisky and seltzer to his lips.
"But I might have lost all I won," I remarked. "No, I prefer to keep it. I'd like to be unique among other people and go away with some of the bank's money, I intend to keep what I have, and not to play again."
"Never?"
"Never!"
"My dear Miss Rosselli, that's what everyone says here," he laughed. "But before you've been on the Riviera long you'll soon discover that this is no place for good resolutions. Gambling is one of the sweetest and most insidious of vices, and has the additional attraction of being thoughtchic. Look at the crowd of women here! Why, every one of them plays. If she didn't, others would believe her to be hard-up—and poverty, you know, is distinctly bad form here. Even if a woman hasn't sufficient to pay her hotel bill, she must wear the regulation gold chatelaine and the gold chain-purse, if it only contains a couple of pieces of a hundred sous. And she must play. Fortunes have been won with only five francs."
"Such stories, I fear, are only fairy tales," I said incredulously.
"No. At least, one of them is not," he answered, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips and looking at me amusedly. "I was playing here one night last March when a young French girl won three hundred thousand francs after having first lost all she had. She borrowed a five-franc piece from a friend, and with it broke the bank. I was present at the table where it occurred. Fortune is very fickle here."
"So it seems," I said. "That is why I intend to keep what I've won."
"You might have a necklace made of the louis," he said. "Many women wear coins won at Monte attached to their bangles, along with golden pigs and enamelled discs bearing the fatal number thirteen."
"A happy thought!" I exclaimed. "I'll have one put on my bangle to-morrow as a souvenir."
"Are you staying on the Riviera long?" he inquired presently.
"I really don't know. When Ulrica is tired of it we shall move down to Rome, I suppose."
"When she's lost sufficient, you mean," he smiled. "She's quite reckless when she commences. I remember her here several seasons ago. She lost very heavily. Luck was entirely against her."
I, too, remember her visit. She left me in London and went to the Riviera for a couple of months, and on her return was constantly bewailing her penury. This, then, was the secret of it. She had never revealed to me the truth.
"And you think that I shall be stricken with the prevalent epidemic?" I inquired.
"I hope not," he answered quickly. "But, after all, the temptation is utterly irresistible. It is sad, indeed, that here, in this corner of God's earth, which He has marked as the nearest approach to Paradise created, should be allowed to flaunt all the vices which render the world horrible. Monte Carlo is the one blot upon the Riviera. I'm a gambler—I make no secret of it, because I find resistance impossible while I have money in my pocket—nevertheless, much as I like a fling here each winter, I would gladly welcome the closing of the Casino. It has been well said that those red-carpeted steps and the wide doors opposite form the entrance-gate to hell."
I sighed, glancing over to the flight of steps opposite, where all sorts of women, wintering among temptations in summer toilettes, were passing up and down. He was possessed of common sense, and spoke the truth. Inside those Rooms the perspiring and perfumed crowds were fluttering round the tables as moths round a candle, going headlong to ruin, both moral and financial.
"Yes," I observed reflectively, "I suppose you're right. Thousands have been ruined within that place."
"And thousands have ended by committing suicide," he added. "The average number of suicides within this tiny Principality of Monaco is more than two a day!"
"More than two a day!" I exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes. Of course, the authorities bribe the Press to hush it all up, but the authentic figures were published not long ago. The Administrator of the Casino finds it cheaper to bury a corpse than to pay a ruined gambler's fare to St. Petersburg, London, or New York. That's why the poor devils who are cleaned out find the much-talked-ofviatiqueso difficult to obtain. Human life is held very cheap here, I can tell you."
"Oh, don't talk like that!" I protested. "You make one feel quite nervous. Do you mean that murder is often committed?"
"Well—not exactly that. But one must always remember that here, mixing with the best people of Europe, are the very scum of the world, both male and female. Although they dress elegantly, live well, play boldly, and give themselves airs and false titles of nobility, and wear decorations to which they are not entitled, they are a very queer and unscrupulous crowd, I can assure you."
"Do you know any of them by sight?" I inquired, much interested.
"Oh, one or two," he answered, laughing. "Some of them are, of course, eccentric and quite harmless characters." Then a moment later he added: "Do you see that tall, thin old man just ascending the steps—the one with the soft white felt hat? Well, his is a curious story. Twenty years ago he came here as a millionaire, and within a month lost everything he possessed attrente et quarante. So huge were the profits made by the bank that, instead of giving him hisviatiqueto London, they allotted him a pension of a louis a day for life, on the understanding that he should never again enter the Rooms. For nearly twenty years he lived in Nice, haunting the Promenade des Anglais, and brooding over his past foolishness. Last year, however, somebody died unexpectedly, and left him quite comfortably off, whereupon he paid back to Monte Carlo all that he had received and returned again to gamble. His luck, however, has proved just as bad as before. Yet each month, as soon as he draws his income, he comes over, and in a single day flings it all away upon the red, his favourite colour. His history is only one of many."
With interest I looked at the tall, thin-faced old gambler as he painfully ascended the steps; and even as I watched he passed in, eager to fling away all that stood between himself and starvation.
Truly, the world of Monte Carlo is a very queer place.
Ulrica and Gerald came laughing across the leafy Place and joined us at our table. It was very pleasant there, with the band playing the latest waltzes, the gay promenaders strolling beneath the palms, the bright flowers and the pigeons strutting in the roadway. Indeed, as one sat there it seemed hard to believe that this was actually the much-talked-of Monte Carlo—the plague-spot of Europe.
I don't think that I ever saw Ulrica look so well as on that afternoon in the white serge which she had had made in Paris; for white serge is, as you know, alwaysde rigueurat Monte in winter, with white hat and white shoes. I was also in white, but it never suited me as it did her, yet one had to be smart, even at the expense of one's complexion. At Monte Carlo one must at least be respectable, even in one's vices.
"Come, let's go back to the Rooms," suggested Ulrica, when she had finished her tea, flavoured with orange-flower water in accordance with the mode at the Café de Paris.
"Miss Rosselli won't play any more," said Reggie.
"My dear Carmela!" cried Ulrica. "Why, surely, you've the pluck to follow your good fortune!"
But I was obdurate, and although I accompanied the others I did not risk a single sou.
The place was crowded, and the atmosphere absolutely unbearable, as it always becomes about five o'clock. The Administration appear afraid of letting in a little air to cool the heads of the players, hence the Rooms are, as it were, hermetically sealed.
As I wandered about with Reggie, he pointed out to me other well-known characters in the Rooms—the queer old fellow who carries a bag-purse made of coloured beads; the old hag with a moustache who always brings her own rake; the bright-eyed, dashing woman known to the croupiers as "The Golden Hand"; the thin, wizen-faced little hunch-back, who one night a few months before had broken the bank at the first roulette table on the left; men working so-called "systems," and women trying to snatch up other people's winnings. Now and then my companion placed a louis upon atransversaleorcolonne, and once or twice he won; but declaring that he had no luck that day, he soon grew as tired of it as myself.
Ulrica came up to us flushed with excitement. She had won three hundred francs at the table where she always played. Her favourite croupier was turning the wheel, and he always brought her luck. We had both won, and she declared it to be a happy augury for the future.
While we were standing there the croupier's voice sounded loud and clear "Zero!" with that long roll of the "r" whichhabituésof the Rooms know so well.
"Zero!" cried Reggie. "By Jove! I must put something on," and hurrying toward the table he handed the croupier a hundred-franc note, with a request to put it on the number 29.
The game was made and the ball fell.
"Vingt-neuf! Rouge, impair et passe!"
"By Jove!" cried Gerald. "He's won! Lucky devil! How extraordinary that after zero the number 29 so frequently follows!"
The croupier handed Reggie three thousand-franc notes and quite a handful of gold. Then the lucky player moved his original stake on to the little square marked 36.
Again he won, and again and again. The three thousand-franc notes he had just received he placed upon the middle dozen. The number 18 turned up, and the croupier handed him six thousand francs—the maximum paid by the bank on a singlecoup. Every eye around that table watched him narrowly. People began to follow his play, placing their money beside his, and time after time he won, making only a few unimportant losses.
We stood watching him in silent wonder. The luck of the man with whom I had been flirting was simply marvellous. Sometimes he distributed his stakes on the colour, the dozens and the "pair," and thus often won in several places at the same time. The eager, grabbing crowd surged round the table and the excitement quickly rose to fever heat. The assault Reggie was making upon the bank was certainly a formidable one. His inner pockets bulged with the mass of notes he had crammed there, and the outer pockets of his jacket were heavy with golden louis.
Ulrica stood behind him, but uttered no word. To speak to a person while playing is believed by the gambler at Monte Carlo to bring evil fortune.
When he could cram no more notes into his pockets, he passed them to Ulrica, who held them in an overflow bundle in her hand.
He tossed a thousand francs on the red, but lost, together with the dozens of others who had followed his play.
He played again, with no better result.
A third time he played on the red, which had not been up for nine times in succession, a most unusual run.
Black won.
"I've finished," he said, turning to us with a laugh. "Let's get out of this—my luck has changed."
"Marvellous!" cried Ulrica. "Why, you must have won quite a fortune!"
"We'll go across to the Café and count it," he said, and we all walked out together; and while sitting at one of the tables we helped him to count the piles of gold and notes.
He had, we found, won over sixty thousand francs.
At his invitation we went along to Gast's, the jeweller's, in the Galerie, and he there purchased for each of us a ring as a little souvenir of the day. Then we entered Giro's and dined.
Yes, life at Monte Carlo is absolutely intoxicating. Now, however, that I sit here calmly reflecting on the events of that day when I first entered the Sign of the Seven Sins, I find that even though the display of such wealth as one sees upon the tables is dazzling, yet my first impression of it has never been altered.
I hated Monte Carlo from the first. I hate it now.
The talk at dinner was, of course, the argot of the Rooms. At Monte Carlo the conversation is always of play. If you meet an acquaintance, you do not ask after her health, but of her luck and her latest successes.
The two bejewelled worlds, themondeand thedemi-monde, ate, drank, and chattered in that restaurant of wide renown. The company was cosmopolitan, the conversation polyglot, the dishes marvellous. At the table next us there sat the Grand-Duke Michael of Russia, with the Countess Torby, and beyond a British earl with a couple of smart military men. The United States Ambassador to Germany was at another table with a small party of friends; while La Juniori, Derval, and several other well-known Parisian beauties were scattered here and there.
I was laughing at a joke of Reggie's, when suddenly I raised my eyes and saw a pair of new-comers. The man was tall, dark, handsome, with face a trifle bronzed—a face I knew only too well!
I started, and must have turned pale, for I knew from Ulrica's expression that she noticed it.
The man who entered there, as though to taunt me with his presence, was Ernest Cameron, the man whom I had loved—nay, whom I still loved—the man who had a year ago cast me aside for another and left me to wear out my young heart in sorrow and suffering.
That woman was with him—the tow-haired woman whom they told me he had promised to make his wife. I had never seen her before. She was ratherpetite, with a fair, fluffy coiffure, blue-grey eyes and pink-and-white cheeks. She had earned, I afterwards discovered, a rather unenviable notoriety in Paris on account of some scandal or other, but the real truth about it I could never ascertain.
Our eyes met as she entered, but she was unaware that she gazed upon the woman who was her rival, and who hated her. She had stolen Ernest from me, and I felt that I could rise there, in that public place, and crush the life from that fragile body.
Ernest himself brushed past my chair, but without recognising me, and went down the room gaily with his companion.
"Do you notice who has just entered?" asked Ulrica.
I nodded. I could not speak.
"Who?" inquired Reggie quickly.
"Some friends of ours," she answered carelessly.
"Oh! everyone meets friends here," he remarked, as he raised his champagne unsuspectingly to his lips.
Reader, if you are a woman, you will fully understand how the sight of that man who held me by a fatal fascination, caused in my breast a whirl of passions. I hated and loved at the same instant. Even though we were parted, I had never ceased to think of him. For me the world had no longer any charm, since the light of my life had now gone out, and I was suffering in silence, just as so many women who have become the sport of Fate are bound to do.
Yes. Ulrica's notion was, after all, very true. No man whom I had ever met was really worth consideration. All were egoists. The rich believed that woman was a mere toy, while the poor were always ineligible.
Reggie spoke to me, but I scarcely heeded him. Now that the man I loved was near me, I felt an increasing desire to get rid of this male encumbrance. True, he was rich, and I knew, by my own feminine intuition, that he admired me, but for him I entertained no spark of affection. Alas! that we always sigh for the unattainable.
For myself, the remainder of the meal was utterly without interest. I longed to get another glimpse of that man's bronzed face, and of the tow-haired woman whom he had preferred to me, but they were evidently sitting at a table in the corner out of sight.
Ulrica knew the truth, and took compassion upon me by hastening the dinner to its end. Then we went forth again into the cool, balmy night. The moon shone brightly, and its reflection glittered in a long stream of silver brilliance upon the sea; the Place was gaily lit and the white façade of the Casino, with its great illuminated clock, shone with lights of every hue.
Across to the Hermitage we strolled, and there drank our coffee.
I laughed at Reggie's pockets bulging with notes, for, the banks being closed, he was compelled to carry his winnings about with him. While we sat there, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him.
"Nearly all these notes are small," he said suddenly. "I'll go into the Rooms and exchange the gold and small notes for large ones. They'll be so much easier to carry."
"Ah!" cried Ulrica, "I never thought of that. Why, of course!"
"Very well," he answered, rising. "I shan't be ten minutes."
"Don't be tempted to play again, old fellow," urged Gerald.
"No fear of that!" he laughed, and, with a cigarette in his mouth, strode away in the direction of the Casino.
We remained there gossiping for fully half an hour, yet he did not return. As it was only a walk of a couple of minutes from the Hermitage to the Casino, we concluded that he had met some friend and been detained, for, like Gerald, he came there each winter and knew quite a host of people. One makes a large circle of acquaintances on the Riviera, many interesting, but the majority undesirable.
"I wonder where he's got to?" Gerald observed presently. "Surely he isn't such an idiot as to resume play!"
"No. He's well enough aware that there's no luck after dinner," remarked Ulrica. "We might, however, I think, take a last turn through the Rooms and see whether he's there."
This suggestion was carried out, but although we searched every table we failed to discover him. Until ten o'clock we lounged about, then returned by the express to Nice.
That he should have left us in that abrupt manner was certainly curious; but as Gerald declared he was always erratic in his movements, and that his explanation in the morning would undoubtedly be found entirely satisfactory, we returned together to the hotel, where we wished our companion good-night, and ascended in the elevator to our own sitting-room on the second floor.
My good fortune pleased me, but my heart was nevertheless overburdened with sorrow. The sight of Ernest had reopened the gaping wound which I had so strenuously striven to heal by the aid of lighter woes. I now thought only of him.
Ulrica, who was in front of me, pushed open the door of our sitting-room and switched on the light, but ere she crossed the threshold she drew back quickly with a loud cry of horror and surprise.
In an instant I was at her side.
"Look!" she gasped, terrified, pointing to the opposite side of the room. "Look!"
The body of a man was lying, face downwards, upon the carpet, half hidden by the round table in the centre of the room.
Together we dashed forward to his assistance and tried to raise him, but were unable. We succeeded, however, in turning him upon his side, and then his white, hard-set features became suddenly revealed.
"My God!" I cried, awe-stricken. "What has occurred? Why—it's Reggie!"
"Reggie!" shrieked Ulrica, kneeling quickly and placing her gloved hand eagerly upon his heart. "Reggie!—and he's dead!".
"Impossible!" I gasped, almost petrified by the hideous discovery.
"It is true," she went on, her face white as that of the dead man before us. "Look, there's blood upon his lips. See—the chair over there is thrown down and broken. There has apparently been a fierce struggle."
Next instant a thought occurred to me, and bending, I quickly searched his inner pockets. The bank-notes were not there.
Then the ghastly truth became entirely plain.
Reginald Thorne had been robbed and murdered.
The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.
The favourite of Fortune, who only a couple of hours before had been so full of life and buoyant spirits, and who had left us with a promise to return within ten minutes, was now lying still and dead in the privacy of our own room. The ghastly truth was so strange and unexpected as to utterly stagger belief. A mysterious and dastardly crime had evidently been committed there.
I scarce know what occurred during the quarter of an hour that immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is that Ulrica, with face blanched to the lips, ran out into the corridor and raised the alarm. Then there arrived a crowd of waiters, chambermaids, and visitors, everyone excitedly asking strings of questions, until the hotel manager came and closed the door upon them all. The discovery caused the most profound sensation, especially when the police and doctors arrived quickly, followed shortly afterwards by two detectives.
The doctor, a short, stout Frenchman, at once pronounced that poor Reggie had been dead more than half an hour, but the cursory examination he was enabled to make was insufficient to establish the cause of death.
"Do you incline to a theory of death through violence?" one of the detectives inquired.
"Ah! at present I cannot tell," the other answered dubiously. "It is not at all plain that monsieur has been murdered."
Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly, the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both cross-questioned separately as to Reggie's identity, what we knew of him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made no secrets of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able to trace the culprit—if, indeed, Reggie had been actually murdered. The fact of his having won so much money, and of his having left us in order to change the notes into larger ones, seemed to puzzle the police. If robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they argued, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train, or in the street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at all?
That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the circumstances formed a complete and puzzling enigma, but his visit to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all.
The thief, whoever he was—for I inclined towards the theory of theft and murder—had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly, and leave the hotel without discovery; while another curious fact was that neither theconciergenor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man's return. Both agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why?
Having concluded their examination of Ulrica, myself and Felicita, my Italian maid, who had returned from her evening out, and knew nothing at all of the matter, the police made a most vigorous search in our rooms. We were present, and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search they at least do it thoroughly.
"Ah! what is this?" exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed out carefully.
In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet of my own note-paper, and upon it, in a man's handwriting, was the commencement of a letter:
"My dear Miss Rosselli,—I have——"
That was all. It broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought, had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie's handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found in his pocket, the police pronounced it to be his.
What did he wish to tell me?
About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald, who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger.
When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to the spot.
"Reggie dead!" he gasped. "Murdered?"
"Undoubtedly," answered Ulrica. "The mystery is inexplicable, but with your aid we must solve it."
"With my aid?" he cried. "I fear I cannot help you. I know nothing whatever about it."
"Of course not," I said. "But now tell us, what is your theory? You were his best friend and would therefore probably know if he had any enemy who desired to wreak revenge upon him."
"He hadn't a single enemy in the world, to my knowledge," Gerald answered. "The motive of the crime was robbery, without a doubt. Most probably he was followed from Monte Carlo by someone who watched his success at the tables. There are always some desperate characters among the crowd there."
"Do you think, then, that the murderer was actually watching us ever since the afternoon?" I inquired in alarm.
"I think it most probable," he responded. "At Monte Carlo there is a crowd of all sorts and conditions of outsiders. Many of them wouldn't hesitate to commit murder for the sum which poor Reggie had in his pockets."
"It's terrible!" ejaculated Ulrica.
"Yes," he sighed, as his face grew heavy and thoughtful; "this awful news has upset me quite as much as it has you. I have lost my best friend."
"I hope you will spare no effort to clear up the mystery," I said, for I had rather liked the poor boy ever since chance had first thrown us together in London, and on the renewal of our acquaintance a few days previously my estimate of his character and true worth had considerably improved. It was appalling that he should be thus struck down so swiftly, and in a manner so strange.
"Of course, I shall at once do all I can," he declared. "I'll see the police, and state all I know. If this had occurred in England, or in America, there might be a chance of tracing the culprit by the numbers of the bank-notes. In France, however, the numbers are never taken, and stolen notes cannot be recovered. However, rest assured, both of you, that I'll do my very best."
There was a tap at the door at that moment, and opening it, I was confronted by a tall, dark-bearded Frenchman, who explained that he was an agent of police.
To him Gerald related all he knew regarding poor Reggie's acquaintances and movements while on the Riviera, and afterwards, in company with the detective, he went to the rooms we had abandoned, where he gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.
This tragic event had naturally cast a gloom over both Ulrica and myself. We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the mysterious reason which caused Reggie to enter out sitting-room in our absence. Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not have gone straight there and commenced that mysterious letter of explanation.
As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon had not intoxicated him, for, although young, he was a practised, unemotional player, to whom gains and losses were alike—at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction other than a broad smile when his winning number was announced by the croupier. No. Of the many theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely, that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent.
ThePetit Niçois, theEclaireurand thePhare du Littoralwere next day full of "The Mystery of the 'Grand Hotel.'" In the article we were referred to as Mademoiselle Y—— and Mademoiselle R——, as is usual in French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry sarcasm. ThePetit Niçois, a journal which has on so many recent occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone, declared its "disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large sum stated," and concluded by urging the police to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to discover the murderer, who, it added, would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal believed that one of us had conspired to murder him.
Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against the cruel calumnies of suchtorchons.
The official inquiry, held next day, after thepost-mortemexamination had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth, so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was no abrasion of the skin—no wound of any kind. On the neck, however, were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to establish that as a fact. He died from some cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, the doctors admitted, have been almost described as a natural death, but for the fact that the notes were missing, which pointed so very markedly to murder.
That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels, we followed the dead man's remains to their resting-place in the English cemetery, high up in the olive groves of Caucade—perhaps one of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in the world. Winter and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the most charming in all the Riviera.
The English chaplain of the Rue de France performed the last rites, and then, turning sorrowfully away, we drove back, full of gloomy thoughts, to Nice.
The puzzling incident had crushed all gaiety from our hearts. I suggested that we should immediately go on to Mentone, but Ulrica declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve what seemed an inscrutable mystery. Thus the days which followed were days of sadness and melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious, for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out of the hotel we overheard many whisperings.
As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of deep thought and sadness, I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who might, perhaps, have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion, clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament. When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favour of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all hazards see him again.
I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said:
"Curious that we've seen nothing more of Ernest. I suppose, however, you've forgotten him."
"Forgotten him!" I cried, starting up. "I shall never forget him—never!"
In that instant I seemed to see his dark, handsome face before me, as of old. It was in the golden blaze of a summer sunset. I heard his rich voice in my ears. I saw him pluck a sprig of jasmine, emblem of purity, and give it to me, at the same time whispering words of love and devotion. Ah, yes, he loved me then—he loved me!
I put up my hand to shut out the vision. I rose, and staggered. Then I felt Ulrica's soft hand upon my waist.
"Carmela! Carmela!" she cried, "what's the matter? Tell me, dear!"
"You know," I answered hoarsely. "You know, Ulrica, that I love him!" My voice was choked within me, so deep was my distress. "And he is to marry—to marry that woman!"