IS MORE ASTONISHING
So still, so pale, so bloodless were my mysterious companion’s lips,
that at the first moment I feared she might be dead. Her appearance
was that of a corpse, but after careful watching I saw that she was
breathing, lightly but regularly, and thus I became satisfied.
The curious marks, as though a man’s hands had endeavored to strangle
her, were of a pale yellowish brown, like disappearing bruises, the one
narrow and small where the finger had pressed, the other wide and long,
the mark of the thumb.
Again I returned to my berth, and as the express again thundered on its
way northward towards Turin, I tried to form some theory to account for
my discovery of those curious marks upon her.
The hours of early morning crept slowly by. The sun rose over the
beautiful vine-lands of Asti as we whirled forward towards the great
Alpine barrier which happily divides Italy from France; its rays
penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman stirred
not. She seemed as one in a trance.
Close beside me lay her dress-skirt. My eyes had been fixed upon it
a hundred times during the night, and it now occurred to me that by
searching its pocket I might discover something that would give a clue
to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she was still
unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the skirt, and
placing my hand in the pocket drew out the contents.
The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile
leather, hoping to discover her visiting-card therein. But in this
I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few francs in French
money, a couple of receipts from shops in Paris, and a tiny scrap of
card an inch square with several numerals scribbled upon it.
The numbers were unintelligible, but when I chanced to turn the piece
of thin pasteboard over its reverse gave me an instant clue. It was a
piece of one of those red-and-black ruled cards used by gamblers at
Monte Carlo to register the numbers at roulette. This woman, whoever
she was, had evidently been to Monte Carlo, and the numbers scribbled
there were those which she believed would bring her fortune. Every
woman gambler has her strong-rooted fancies, just as she has her
amusing superstitions, and her belief in unlucky days and unlucky
croupiers.
Two facts were plain. First, that she bore marks upon her which were
the exact counterpart of those found on poor Reggie; secondly, that she
herself had been to Monte Carlo.
Her handkerchief was of fine lawn, but bore no mark, while the crumpled
piece of paper--without which no woman’s pocket is complete--proved on
examination to contain only an address of some person in Brussels.
I therefore carefully replaced them all, having failed to ascertain her
name, and then dozed again.
She was already up and dressed when I awoke.
“Ah!” she laughed, “I see you’ve been sleeping well. I’ve had a famous
night; I always sleep well when I travel. But I have a secret. A doctor
friend of mine gave me some little tabloids of some narcotic,--I don’t
know its name,--and if I take one I sleep quite well for six or seven
hours at a stretch.”
“I awoke once, and you were quite sound asleep.”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “But I wonder where we are?”
I looked forth and recognized the name of some small station through
which we dashed.
“We’re nearing Turin,” I responded. Then suddenly recollecting that in
an hour or so I should be compelled to face old Keppel in the corridor,
I resolved on a plan upon which I immediately proceeded to act. “I
don’t feel at all well this morning,” I added. “I think I shall go to
sleep again.”
“I’ve some smelling-salts here,” she said, looking at me with an
expression of sympathy. And she took out a small silver-mounted bottle
from her little reticule.
I took it and sniffed it gladly with a word of thanks. If I did not
wish to meet Keppel, I should be obliged to remain in that stuffy
little den for another twenty hours or so--that is, if they intended to
go on to Paris. The prospect was certainly not inviting, for a single
night in a Continental sleeping-car over a badly laid line gets on
one’s nerves terribly. Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned
in again at Turin, and while my companion went forth and rejoined the
man who had been my host the conductor brought me the usual glass of
hot coffee and a roll.
“I am not well,” I explained to the man when he handed it to me. “Are
you going through to Paris?”
“Sisignorina.”
“Then will you see that I’m not disturbed, either at the frontier or
anywhere else?”
“Certainly--if the Signorina has the keys of her baggage.”
“I have no baggage,” I responded. “Only see that I get something to
eat, and buy me a novel--Italian--French--anything will do, and also
some newspapers.”
“Sisignorina.” And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the man
returned with a couple of novels and half-a-dozen of those four-paged
badly printed Italian newspapers, and with them I managed to while
away the long, tedious hours as we sped through Susa and the beautiful
Alpine valleys.
From time to time my companion looked in to see how I was, offering to
do anything for me that she could; then she returned to old Keppel, who
was sitting on one of the little flap-seats in the corridor smoking.
“The woman in with me is rather young and quite charming,” I heard her
say to him. “She’s been taken queer this morning. I expect the heat has
upset her, poor thing! The berths here are very hot and close.”
“Horribly! I was nearly asphyxiated,” he answered.
Then, about half-an-hour later, I recognized his voice again. He
was evidently standing with his companion close to the door of my
compartment.
“We shall be in Paris about half-past eight to-morrow morning, it
seems,” he said.
“And the Vispera will be awaiting you at Naples?” she laughed.
“Davis is quite used to my erratic movements,” he answered. “A
reputation for eccentricity is very useful sometimes.”
“But shall you rejoin her?”
He hesitated.
“I think it is most unlikely,” he responded. “I’ve had enough of
cruising. You too must be very tired of it.”
“Tired!” she cried. “Imprisoned in that cabin all day long, with the
windows closed and curtained, I felt that if it lasted much longer
I must go mad. Besides, it was only by a miracle that I was not
discovered a dozen times.”
“But, very fortunately, you were not,” he said.
“And all to no purpose,” she observed in a tone of weariness and
discontent.
“Ah! that’s quite another matter--quite another matter.”
“I do wish that you would satisfy my curiosity and tell me what
occurred on the night before we landed,” she said. “You know what I
mean.”
She evidently referred to the attempt upon her life.
“Well,” he responded in hesitation, “I myself am not quite clear as to
what took place. I entered the cabin, you know, and found you lying
unconscious.”
“Yes, I know. I was thrown violently down by a sudden lurching of the
ship, and must have struck my head against something,” she replied.
“But afterwards I remember experiencing a most curious sensation in my
throat, just as though some one with strong, sinewy fingers were trying
to strangle me. I have the marks there now.”
“Absurd!” he laughed. “It was only your imagination. The close
confinement in that place together with the rolling of the ship had
caused you a little light-headedness, without a doubt.”
“But it was more than imagination, of that I feel certain. There was
blood upon my lips, you remember.”
“Because in falling you had cut your lower lip. I can see the place
now.”
“I believe that some one tried to take my life.”
“Rubbish! Why, whom could you suspect? I was the only soul on board who
knew of your presence there. Surely you don’t suspect me of attempted
murder?”
“Of course not,” she answered decisively.
“Then don’t give way to any wild imaginings of that sort. Keep a cool
head in this affair.”
The remainder of the conversation was lost to me, although I strained
my ears to catch every sound. His words made it plain that she was in
ignorance of the knowledge possessed by the unseen man whose voice I
had overheard, and further that both were acting in accord in order to
obtain some object the nature of which was to me a complete mystery.
She came a short time afterwards and inquired kindly how I felt. They
were going to change into the dining-car, and she hoped I would not
starve altogether. As I talked to her I recollected the strange marks
I had seen upon her throat--those distinct impressions of finger and
thumb. I looked again for them, but they were concealed by the lace
of her high-necked bodice. There seemed a strange, half-tragic beauty
about her face. She was certainly fifty, if not more, yet in the broad
daylight I could detect no thread of silver in her hair. She was
extremely well-preserved.
The conductor brought me a cutlet and a bottle of Beaujolais after we
had passed through the Mont Cenis, and for some hours afterwards I lay,
reading and thinking. We were on our way to Paris, but with what motive
I had no idea.
I wondered what they would think on board the Vispera when they found
me missing, and laughed aloud when I reflected that the natural
conclusion would be that I had eloped with old Mr. Keppel. I rather
regretted that I had told Ulrica nothing, but of course a telegram to
her would explain everything on the morrow. The yacht would be lying
safely in Genoa harbor awaiting her owner, who never intended to return.
And where was the unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I could
not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to whom he
might really be.
The day passed slowly and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The
woman with the mysterious marks upon her returned with her escort
from the dining-car and sat chatting with him in the corridor.
Their voices reached me, but I could distinguish little of their
conversation. Suddenly, however, I thought I could hear a third voice
in conversation, the voice of a man.
It sounded familiar; I listened again. Yes, it seemed as though I had
heard that voice somewhere before. Indeed, I knew its tone perfectly
well.
For some minutes I lay listening, trying to catch the words. But
the train was roaring through a deep cutting, and I could only hear
disjointed words or parts of sentences.
In determination to see who it was I carefully opened the door of the
compartment so that I could peer through the chink.
I bent forward until my eyes rested upon the speaker, who, lounging
near, was engaged in serious confidential conversation with Keppel and
my travelling-companion, as though they were old friends.
In an instant I drew back and held my breath. Was this the man who had
suggested the blowing up of the Vispera? Surely not. Perhaps, however,
he had actually travelled with us from Pisa in another carriage, or
perhaps he had joined the train at some intermediate station. But by
whatever means he had come there, the fact of his identity remained the
same.
It was Ernest Cameron, the man I loved.