IS MORE ASTONISHING
So still, so pale, and 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 hand had attempted to strangle
her, were of a pale yellowish-brown, the colour of disappearing
bruises. One was 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 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 so splendidly divides Italy from France; its
rays penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman did
not stir. 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 me a
clue to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she
was still unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the
skirt, placed my hand in the pocket and drew out the contents.
The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile
leather, because in this I hoped to discover her visiting-card. But
I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few pieces of 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 immediate 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 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 the address of some
person in Brussels.
I carefully replaced all these articles, having failed to ascertain
her name; and then I 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--but 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 was just able to read the name of a small station
as we dashed through it at a glorious speed.
"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, which I immediately proceeded to put
in force. "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-topped
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 compelled to remain in that stuffy
little den for something like another twenty-four hours, if the
travellers intended to go on to Paris. The prospect was certainly
not inviting, for a single night in a Continental sleeping-car
running over a badly-laid line gets on one's nerves terribly.
Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned in again, and at
Turin, 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'm not well," I explained to the man who handed it to me. "Are you
going through to Paris?"
"Si, signorina."
"Then please don't let me be disturbed, either at the frontier or
anywhere else."
"Certainly--if the signorina has the keys of her baggage."
"I have no baggage," I replied. "Only see that I get something to
eat--and buy me a novel. Italian, French--anything will do. And
also some newspapers--_Stampa_, _Corriere_, and _Secolo_."
"Si, signorina." And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the
man returned with a couple of new novels and half a dozen four-paged,
badly-printed Italian newspapers, by means of which I managed to wile
away the tedious hours as we sped on 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 recognised 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 answered. "I've had enough of
cruising. You, too, must be very tired of it."
"Tired!" she cried. "Imprisoned in the 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 another matter--quite another matter."
"I do wish you would satisfy my curiosity by telling me exactly 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 someone with sinewy fingers
were trying to strangle me."
"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 someone tried to take my life."
"Rubbish! Why, who is there to suspect? I was the only soul on
board who knew of your presence. Surely you don't suspect me of
attempting 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 together in order
to obtain some object, the nature of which was, to me, a complete
mystery.
She came a short time afterwards and kindly inquired 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 to be 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 could explain everything on the morrow. The yacht
would be lying safely in Genoa harbour awaiting her owner, who never
intended to return.
And where was that unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I
could not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to
his share in the mystery.
The day passed slowly, and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The
woman with the mysterious marks upon her neck returned, accompanied
by 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 tones
perfectly well.
For some few 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 my 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 conversation with Keppel and my
travelling companion, as though he were an old friend.
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!