PIECES TOGETHER THE PUZZLE....
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 seen there before. Perhaps he was jealous of the attentions shown
by the dozen or so of men who were chatting and laughing with her.
Her appearance was scarcely that of the keeper of an illicit
gambling-house. One would have expected to find some fine, dashing,
handsome woman in a striking gown and profuse display of jewelry.
On the contrary, she was quietly dressed in a pretty, graceful gown
of dove-gray cashmere, the bodice cut low and trimmed with silver
passementerie, a frock which certainly well became her rather tame
style of beauty. Her only ornament was a small half-moon of diamonds in
her hair.
Ernest, on entering, appeared to recognize the situation at a glance,
and with his back turned to her stood watching the baccarat just as
I had feigned to watch. 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 still worn when we
met at Monte Carlo,--there was only a common, plain pearl stud, costing
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.
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 she brushed past me on her way
out into the corridor, from which led off several other rooms, and
suddenly I heard his well-known voice utter her name in a hoarse
whisper,--
“Julie!”
She stopped, and recognizing 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. “And what is it you have to
say to me? I thought when we parted it was 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 here.”
“And is it so strictly confidential, then?”
“Yes,” he answered, “it is.” Then, with great reluctance and
impatience, she opened a door behind them and they passed into what
appeared to be her own petit-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, then addressing her in a firm voice
said,--
“The woman who murdered him was yourself--Julie Fournereau.”
I stood dumfounded. Was it possible that he intended to endeavor to fix
the guilt upon her, even though I knew the truth by the admission I
had overheard?
“What!” she shrieked in fierce anger, speaking in French. “You have
sought me here to charge me with the 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 the Vispera in 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
beat you like the hound you are.”
His cheeks were pale, but there was a fierce, determined expression
upon his countenance. The woman whom I had believed he loved was, it
seemed, his bitterest enemy.
“I have no wish whatever to bring upon you any greater exposure or
disgrace than that which must inevitably come,” he said coolly. “For
months I have been awaiting this opportunity, and by 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, and raising a small whistle quickly
to his lips blew it shrilly.
“So this is your revenge!” cried the miserable woman, turning upon him
with a fierce, murderous light in her eyes. Yet ere 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, barring 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 the wagon-lit.
Certainly the arrangements made by the police to raid the place had
been elaborately prepared, for at the signal given by Ernest the coup
was complete, and the players, nearly all of whom were persons known as
criminals, fell back entrapped and dismayed.
The old millionaire and his companion were as astounded at finding 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 pale, white-faced woman now 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, “and you have 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 same hotel
wherein Mr. Thorne was found dead.”
“And the witnesses?”
“They are already in Paris, awaiting to be called to give evidence.”
A dead silence fell, and we looked at one another.
The wretched woman who had so 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 to and fro, supporting herself by clutching
the edge of the small table. Her white lips trembled, but no word
escaped them. She seemed rendered speechless by the suddenness of the
overwhelming charge.
The detective’s hard voice broke the silence.
“Julie Fournereau,” he said, 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 innocent!”
“Listen,” said Ernest in a firm tone, although there was a slight catch
in his voice which told how excited he was. “The reasons which have led
me to this step are briefly these. Last December I crossed from New
York to Havre, and went south to spend the winter at Monte Carlo. I
stayed at the Métropole, and amid the cosmopolitan crowd staying 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 New York, but
who had lived here 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 me a story which at the moment I regarded
as somewhat exaggerated, namely, how 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 this woman and a male
accomplice. 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,
indeed, merciless.
“Had she seen him in the Rooms?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he answered. “We had come face to face. He told me that,
having 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 here, in her house, and lose large sums to the men who
were her accomplices. Personally, I was not very 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 endeavoring to bring justice upon
such a person, arguing that, having lost the money in a private
gaming establishment, he had no remedy at 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 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, addressing me with a calm, 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 once been engaged to become my wife. When, the
day after meeting her at the hotel, he told me of his infatuation and
I explained the 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 with 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 grave, serious
expression, “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, regardless of
my feelings, or even of 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
gayety. 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 Rumpelmeyer’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 her
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 young man’s
death was encompassed is shown by every detail of the case. Not a
single point, apparently, was overlooked. Even the means by which he
was assassinated has 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 Ciro’s, had wished me good-by,
and having previously watched his success at the tables, 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 one thousand francs. It seems, however, that she
quickly feared that suspicion might rest upon her, for the police had
commenced active inquiries, and therefore resolved to get rid of the
stolen notes. This she did with the aid of an accomplice, a man named
Laumont, well known at Monte Carlo each season. This man, one of the
habitués of 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 this
interesting gang of sharpers who make this place their head-quarters
and who go south in winter in search of pigeons to pluck, knowing
Laumont’s intention, posed as detectives, however, and to them Miss
Rosselli innocently handed over the notes she had received.”
He paused for a moment, then 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 arisen 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 at the
Café de Paris on the day previous to his death. She gave information to
the police, and then left the Riviera suddenly. Next day I found myself
under observation, and in order to escape arrest induced Mr. Keppel,
who has taken a great interest in the affair from the first, and who is
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 apartments here upon a date she
had arranged with her accomplice, Laumont, therefore I have remained
in hiding from the police until to-day. This is her first reception,
notice of which was circulated among her friends by means of cipher
upon certain tables in the cafés on the grand boulevards.”
“But this lady?” I inquired, indicating the handsome woman who had been
my travelling-companion in the wagon-lit.
“I am the mother of Reginald Thorne,” she herself responded.
“You Reggie’s mother!” I cried, scarce able to believe her words.
“Yes,” she answered. “Hearing of my poor son’s death, I crossed from
New York to Havre and arrived in Nice only to find that the Vispera had
sailed. A letter was awaiting me with full explanation, asking me to
travel to Marseilles and cross by the mail-steamer to Tunis 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 went forth. 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 some
one 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
in addition to Cameron was the only person on board who knew of your
presence,--entering 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 an hour later we
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 three
thousand pounds in cash, notes, and securities from a despatch-box in
Lord Stoneborough’s cabin, and wished to destroy the ship so that his
crime might remain concealed. The man, I have discovered, has a very
bad record, and he has now disappeared.”
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 to Genoa, and how
carefully I had watched the movements of all three during those two
never-to-be-forgotten days in Paris. All seemed amazed at my story,
Ernest most of all.
“During that night in the wagon-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 she
also explained how, having recognized me as a fellow-guest on board
the Vispera, she had purposely endeavored to mislead me by her
conversation, as she feared that my suspicion of Ernest might upset
their plans.
“And the woman who murdered poor Reggie, and who so ingeniously
attempted first to fasten the guilt upon Miss Rosselli, and afterwards
upon myself, is there!” cried Ernest, pointing at the trembling,
white-faced figure before us. “She killed him because she feared the
revelations he could make to the police regarding this place in which
we are standing.”
Outside sounded loud scuffling and altercation, for, as it afterwards
proved, the strong body of police who had raided the place, finding
many persons “wanted,” were making wholesale arrests.
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 addressed her, saying:
“Then if not yourself, you are aware of the identity of the murderer.
So 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 American gentleman,” she said. “That is perfectly the truth.
Indeed, all that has been said is the truth--save one thing. I did not
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 a smile 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 a quite wrong conclusion. You may therefore 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 that Ernest’s theory of the committal of
the crime had fallen to the ground.
The detective seemed, however, well aware of the character of the
woman, 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 cried indignantly.
“Your accomplice,” cried Ernest quickly. “The man Laumont--the man to
whom you gave the stolen notes to transfer to Miss Rosselli.”
“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 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 further 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 of this elaborate piece of fiction, did he?
It is amusing--very amusing!”
At word from the chief detective one of the officers went forth. We
heard Laumont’s name shouted loudly outside the room, and a few moments
later he was ushered in by two officers.
He drew back in quick surprise on seeing us, 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 American at Nice--you have declared that it was I who
gave you the notes--I who killed him! You miserable cur!”
His countenance fell. Indignation had in an instant given place to fear.
“And did you not give me the notes?” he inquired. “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 responded. “I deny that I killed him.”
“Then who did?”
“Who did?” she shrieked. “Who did? Why, you, yourself!”
“You lie!” he cried fiercely, his face 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 endeavored 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 guests, and to hurry me away to prison for a crime
that I did not commit. But listen! You deny the murder of the young
American. Well, shall I relate all that occurred?”
“Tell them what untruths you like,” he growled. “You cannot harm me.”
“Yes, madame,” cried 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. M’sieur Thorne, when
they last met here, accused him of cheating at baccarat, high words
ensued, and the young man drew a revolver and fired, striking Laumont
in the shoulder. Whereupon the last-named swore to be avenged. I knew
well that a vow of vengeance taken by such a desperate man 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 he transferred his quarters there. Now
Thorne had an intimate friend in 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
how 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 terrible dénouement was 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 afternoon of the tragedy I was in the
Rooms at Monte Carlo and there saw him playing and winning, while just
as he was leaving with Miss Rosselli, another lady, and young Mr.
Keppel, his pockets bulging with his gains, I saw Laumont watching him.
I knew by the evil look he cast in his direction that the spirit of
murder was in his heart. That evening I dined at Ciro’s with M’sieur
Cameron, and afterwards left him in order to watch the movements of
Laumont and the young American. The latter, after a short conversation
with M’sieur Cameron in the atrium of the Casino, descended the lift to
the station and took train to Nice. I travelled by the same train, but
in the crowd at Nice station on alighting lost sight of him. He must
have taken a cab immediately to the hotel, and, furthermore, Laumont
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, emerged 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 lady’s sitting-room. Therefore without
hesitation I pushed open the door and looked inside. Judge my
surprise when I found the unfortunate young man writhing in agony on
the ground. I knelt by him, but recognizing 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 voluble Frenchwoman 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 feared, killed him.”
“Killed him? How can you prove it?” demanded the cunning card-sharper,
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. “How can you prove it?”