[Frontispiece: "The person who murdered him was none other than
yourself." _p._ 293.]
[Illustration: Title page]
THE
GAMBLERS
By
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
Author of
"Of Royal Blood," "The Under
Secretary," "The Seven Secrets," etc.
London:
HUTCHINSON & CO.
Paternoster Row
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. Is Purely Personal
II. Tells Something about Love
III. Is a Mystery
IV. Relates some Astounding Facts
V. Deals with a Millionaire
VI. Places Me in a Predicament
VII. Mainly Concerns the Owl
VIII. Narrates a Mysterious Incident
IX. Shows the Bird's Talons
X. Makes One Point Plain
XI. Describes a Meeting and Its Sequel
XII. Carries Me on Board the "_Vispera_"
XIII. Discloses a Millionaire's Secret
XIV. In Which I make a Resolve
XV. In Which We pay a Visit Ashore
XVI. Discusses Several Matters of Moment
XVII. Describes a New Acquaintance
XVIII. Creates Another Problem
XIX. A Millionaire's Manoeuvres
XX. Wherein Captain Davis Speaks his Mind
XXI. Is Astonishing
XXII. Is More Astonishing
XXIII. Confides the Story of a Table
XXIV. In Which Matters Assume a Very Complex Aspect
XXV. Presents a Curious Phase
XXVI. Gives the Key to the Cipher
XXVII. Pieces Together the Puzzle
XXVIII. Reveals the Truth
XXIX. Contains the Conclusion
THE GAMBLERS
CHAPTER I
IS PURELY PERSONAL
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-called
_cabarets artistiques_ of 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 saw _La Bohême_ at 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 the _revue_
at 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 seldom _triste_ in 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 the
_train de luxe_ only 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 the _wagons lits_ is 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 even _pension_
at 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 those _pensions_
which flourish so amazingly well at Nice.