NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT
“You are a perfect stranger, sir,” I said with considerable hauteur.
“Until you care to give me your name, and make known who you are, I
have no wish to hear this important statement of yours.”
“No,” he answered. “I regret very much that for certain reasons I
am unfortunately unable to furnish my name. I am The Owl--that is
sufficient.”
“No, not for me. I am not in the habit of thus chattering with
strangers at a public ball, therefore I wish you good-evening,” I said,
and turned abruptly away.
In an instant he was again by my side.
“Listen, Miss Rosselli,” he said in a deeply earnest tone. “You must
listen to me. I have something to tell you which closely concerns
yourself--your future welfare.”
“Well?” I inquired.
“I can’t speak here, as someone may overhear. I had to exercise
the greatest precaution in approaching you, for there are spies
everywhere, and a single blunder will be fatal.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired, at once interested. The manner of this
hideously disguised man who spoke such excellent English was certainly
mysterious, and I could not doubt that he was in real earnest.
“Let us walk over there and sit in that corner,” he said, indicating
a seat half hidden in the bamboos. “If there is no one near, I will
explain. If we are watched, then we must contrive to find some other
place.”
“In our box,” I suggested. “We can sit at the back in the alcove where
no one can see us.”
“Excellent!” he answered. “I never thought of that. But if any of your
party should return there?”
“I can merely say that you invited me to dance, and I, in return,
invited you there for a few moments’ rest.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, and a few minutes later we were sitting far
back in the shadow of the box on the second tier, high above the music
and gay revelry.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly when we were seated, “and why did you wish
to see me to-night?”
“First, I have knowledge--which you will not, I think, deny--that you
loved a man in Washington, one Ernest Cameron.”
“Well?”
“And at this moment there is a second man who, although not your lover,
is often in your thoughts. The man’s name is Benjamin Keppel. Am I
correct?”
“I really don’t see by what right you submit me to this cross-examination
upon affairs which are only my own,” I responded in a hard voice,
although I was puzzled to determine the identity of this masked man.
“Marriage with a millionaire is a temptation which few women can
resist,” he said philosophically in a voice undisturbed by my hard
retort. “Temptations are the crises which test the strength of one’s
character. Whether a woman stands or falls at these crises depends very
largely on what she is before the testing comes.”
“And, pray, what concern have you in my intentions or actions?” I
demanded.
“You will discover that in due time,” he continued. “I know that to
the world you, like your companion, Ulrica Yorke, pretend to be a woman
who prefers her freedom and has no thought of love. Yet you are only
acting the part of the free woman. At heart you love as intensely and
hate as fiercely as all the others. Is not that so?”
“You speak remarkably plain, as though you were well acquainted with my
private affairs,” I remarked resentfully.
“I only say what I know to be the truth,” he replied. “You, Carmela
Rosselli, are not heartless, like that emotionless woman who is your
friend. The truth is that you love--you still love--Ernest Cameron.”
I rose in quick indignation.
“I refuse to hear you further, m’sieur,” I cried. “Kindly let me pass.”
His hand was on the door of the box, and he kept it there,
notwithstanding my words.
“No,” he said quite coolly. “You must hear me--indeed, you shall hear
me!”
“I have heard you,” I answered. “You have said sufficient.”
“I have not concluded,” he replied. “When I have done so you will, I
think, only be anxious for me to proceed.” And he added quite calmly:
“If you will kindly be seated so as not to attract attention I will go
on.”
I sank back into my seat without further effort to arrest his words.
The adventure was most extraordinary, and certainly his grotesque
appearance held me puzzled.
“Here in Nice, not long ago,” he continued, “you met a man who believed
himself in love with you, yet a few nights later he was foully murdered
in your sitting-room at the hotel.”
“Reginald Thorne,” I said quickly in a strained voice, for the memory
of that distressing event was very painful.
“Yes, Reginald Thorne,” he repeated in a low, hoarse voice.
“You knew him?” I asked.
“Yes, I knew him,” was his response in a deep, strange tone. “It is to
speak of him that I have sought you to-night.”
“If you are so well aware of who I am, and of all my movements, you
might surely have called upon me,” I remarked dubiously.
“Ah! no. That would have been impossible; none must know that we have
met.”
“Why?”
“Because there are reasons--very strong reasons--why our meeting should
be kept secret,” the voice responded, the pair of sharp black eyes
peering forth mysteriously from the two holes in the owl’s sphinx-like
face. “We are surrounded by spies. Here, in France, they have reduced
espionage to a fine art.”
“And yet the police have failed to discover the murderer of poor Mr.
Thorne,” I observed.
“They will never do that.”
“Why not?”
“They will never solve the mystery without aid.”
“Whose aid?”
“Mine.”
“What?” I cried, starting quickly. “Are you actually in possession of
some fact that will lead to the arrest of the culprit? Tell me quickly.
Is it really certain that he was murdered, and did not die a natural
death?”
“Ah,” he laughed. “I told you a few minutes ago that you would be
anxious to hear my statement. Was I not correct?”
“Of course. I had no idea that you were in possession of any fact or
evidence regarding the crime. What do you know about it?”
“At present I am not at liberty to say--except that the person who
committed the deed was no ordinary criminal.”
“Then he was murdered, and the motive was robbery?”
“That was the police theory, but I can at once assure you that they
were entirely mistaken. Theft was not the motive.”
“But the money was stolen from his pockets?” I said.
“How do you prove that? He might have secreted it somewhere before the
attack was made upon him.”
“I feel certain that the money was stolen,” I answered.
“Well, you are, of course, welcome to your own opinion,” he answered
carelessly. “I can only assure you that, even though the money was not
found upon him, robbery was not the motive of the crime.”
“And you have come to me in order to tell me that?” I said. “Perhaps
you will explain further?”
“I come to you, Miss Rosselli, because a serious responsibility rests
upon yourself.”
“In what manner?”
“The unfortunate young man was attracted towards you; he accompanied
you to Monte Carlo on the day of his death, and he was found dead in
your sitting-room.”
“I know,” I said. “But why did he go there?”
“Because he, no doubt, wished to speak with you.”
“At that late hour? I cannot conceive why he should want to speak with
me. He might have come to me in the morning.”
“No. The matter was pressing,--very pressing.”
“Then if you know its nature, as you apparently do, perhaps you will
tell me.”
“I can say nothing,” the deep voice responded. “I only desire to warn
you.”
“To warn me!” I cried, much surprised. “Of what?”
“Of a danger which threatens you.”
“A danger? Explain it.”
“Then kindly give me your undivided attention for a moment,” the Owl
said earnestly, at the same time peering into my eyes with that air
of mystery which so puzzled me. “Perhaps it will not surprise you to
know that in this matter of the death of Reginald Thorne there are
several interests at stake, and the most searching secret inquiries
have been made on behalf of the young man’s friends by detectives sent
from London and from New York. These inquiries have established one or
two curious facts, but so far from elucidating the mystery, they have
only tended to render it more inscrutable. As I have already said, the
person actually responsible for the crime is no ordinary murderer,
and notwithstanding the fact that some of the shrewdest and most
experienced detectives have been at work, they can discover nothing.
You follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then I will proceed further. Has it ever occurred to you that you
might, if you so desired, become the wife of old Benjamin Keppel?”
“I really don’t see what that has to do with the matter under
discussion,” I said with quick indignation.
“Then you admit that old Mr. Keppel is among your admirers?”
“I admit nothing,” I responded. “I see no reason why you, a perfect
stranger, should intrude upon my private affairs in this manner.”
“The intrusion is for your own safety,” he answered ambiguously.
“And what need I fear, pray? You spoke of some extraordinary warning, I
believe.”
“True, I wish to warn you,” said the man in strange disguise. “I came
here to-night at considerable risk to do so.”
I hesitated. Then after a few moments’ reflection I resolved upon
making a bold shot.
“Those who speak of risk are invariably in fear,” I said. “Your words
betray that you have some connection with the crime.”
I watched him narrowly, and saw him start perceptibly. Then I
congratulated myself upon my shrewdness, and determined to fence with
him further and endeavor to make him commit himself. I rather prided
myself upon smart repartee, and many had told me that at times I shone
as a brilliant conversationalist.
“Ah,” he said hastily, “I think you mistake me, Miss Rosselli. I am
acting in your interests entirely.”
“If so, then surely you may give me your name, and tell me who you are.”
“I prefer to remain unknown,” he replied.
“Because you fear exposure.”
“I fear no exposure,” he protested. “I came here to speak with you
secretly to-night because had I called openly at your hotel my visit
would have aroused suspicion, and most probably have had the effect of
thwarting the plans of those who are endeavoring to solve the enigma.”
“But you give me no proof whatever of your bona-fides,” I declared.
“Simply because I am unable. I merely come to give you warning.”
“Of what?”
“Of the folly of flirtation.”
I sprang to my feet indignantly.
“You insult me!” I cried. “I will bear it no longer. Please let me
pass!”
“I shall not allow you to leave here until I have finished,” he
answered determinedly. “You think that I am not in earnest, but I
tell you I am. Your whole future depends upon your acceptance of my
suggestion.”
“And what is your suggestion, pray?”
“That you should no longer regard old Mr. Keppel as your possible
husband.”
“I have never regarded him as such,” I responded with a contemptuous
laugh. “But supposing that I did,--supposing that he offered me
marriage,--what then?”
“Then a disaster would fall upon you. It is of that disaster that I
come here to-night to warn you,” he said, speaking quickly in a hoarse,
thick voice. “Recollect that you must never become his wife--never.”
“If I did, what harm could possibly befall me?” I inquired eagerly, for
the stranger’s prophetic words were, to say the least, curious.
He was silent for a moment, then said slowly,--
“Remember the harm that befell Reginald Thorne.”
“What?” I cried in alarm, “death?”
“Yes,” he answered solemnly, “death.”
I stood before him for a moment breathless.
“Then, to put it plainly,” I said in an uneven voice, “I am threatened
with death should I marry Benjamin Keppel.”
“Even to become betrothed to him would be fatal,” he answered.
“And by whom am I thus threatened?”
“That is a question I cannot answer. I am here merely to warn you, not
to give explanations.”
“But the person who takes such an extraordinary interest in my private
affairs must have some motive for this threat.”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“How can I tell? It is not myself who is threatening you. I have only
given you warning.”
“There is a reason, then, why I should not marry Mr. Keppel?”
“There is even a reason why you should in future refuse to accept his
invitations to the Villa Fabron,” my strange companion replied. “You
have been invited to form one of a party on board the Vispera, but for
your personal safety I would presume to advise you not to go.”
“I shall assuredly please myself,” I replied. “These threats will
certainly not deter me from acting just as I think proper. If I go
upon a cruise with Mr. Keppel and his son I shall have no fear of my
personal safety.”
“Reginald Thorne was young and athletic. He had no fear. But he
disobeyed a warning, and you know the result.”
“Then you wish me to decline Mr. Keppel’s invitation and remain in
Nice?”
“I urge you for several reasons to decline his invitation, but I do not
suggest that you should remain in Nice. I am the bearer of instructions
to you. If you carry them out they will be distinctly to your benefit.”
“What are they?”
“To-day,” he said, “is the eighteenth of February. Those who have your
welfare at heart desire that you should, after the Riviera season is
over, go to London, arriving there on the first of June next. You are
familiar with London, of course?”
“Yes,” I replied. This stranger seemed vastly well informed regarding
my antecedents.
“Well, on arrival in London you will go to the Hotel Cecil and there
receive a visitor on the following day, the second. You will then be
given certain instructions which must be carried out.”
“All this is very mysterious,” I remarked. “But I really have no
intention of going to London. By June I shall probably be in New York
again.”
“I think not,” was his cold reply. “Because when you fully consider the
whole circumstances you will keep the appointment in London and learn
the truth.”
“The truth regarding the death of Reginald Thorne?” I cried. “Cannot I
learn it here?”
“No,” he replied. “And, further, you will never learn it unless you
take heed of the plain words I have spoken to-night.”
“You tell me that any further friendship between Mr. Keppel and myself
is forbidden,” I exclaimed, laughing. “Why, the whole thing is really
too absurd! I shall, of course, just please myself, as I always do.”
“In that case disaster is inevitable,” he observed with a sigh.
“You tell me that I am threatened with death if I disobey. That is
certainly extremely comforting.”
“You appear to regard what I have said very lightly, Miss Rosselli,”
said the unknown. “It would be well if you regarded your love for
Ernest Cameron just as lightly.”
“He has nothing whatever to do with this matter,” I said quickly. “I
am mistress of my own actions, and I refuse to be influenced by any
threats uttered by a person who fears to reveal his identity.”
“As you will,” he replied with an impatient movement. “I am unknown to
you, it is true, but I think I have shown an intimate knowledge of your
private affairs.”
“If, as you assure me, you are acting in my interests, you may surely
tell me the truth regarding the mystery surrounding poor Reginald’s
death,” I suggested.
“That is unfortunately not within my power,” he responded. “I am in
possession only of certain facts, and have risked much in coming here
to-night and giving you warning.”
“But how can my affairs affect anyone?” I queried. “What you have told
me is, if true, most extraordinary.”
“It is true, and it is, as you say, very extraordinary. Your friend Mr.
Thorne died mysteriously. I only hope, Miss Rosselli, that you will not
share the same fate.”
I paused to look at the curious figure before me.
“In order to avoid doing so, then, I am to hold aloof from Mr. Keppel,
remain in Europe until May, and then travel to London, there to meet
some person unknown?”
“Exactly; but there is still one thing further. I am charged to offer
for your acceptance a small present as some little recompense for the
trouble you must be at in waiting here in the south and in journeying
to London,” and he drew from beneath his strangely grotesque dress a
small box some four or five inches square wrapped in paper. This he
held out to me.
I did not take it. There was something uncanny about it all.
“Do not hesitate, or we may be observed,” he urged. “Take it quickly.
Do not open it until you return to your hotel,” and he thrust it into
my hand.
“Remember what I have said,” he exclaimed, rising quickly. “I must be
gone, for I see that suspicion is aroused in those who are watching.
Act with prudence, and the disaster against which I have warned you
will not occur. Above all, keep the appointment in London on the second
of June.”
“But why?”
“Because for your own safety it is imperative,” he responded, and with
a low bow he opened the door of the box, and the next instant I was
alone with the little packet the stranger had given me resting in my
hand.