The Sign of the Seven Sins
“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.
CHAPTER IX
SHOWS THE BIRD’S TALONS
For some little time after my mysterious companion had left I sat
forward in the box, gazing down at the wild revelry below, and hoping
that one or other of the party would recognize me.
So great a crowd was there, and so many dresses exactly similar, that
to distinguish Ulrica or Gerald, or, indeed, any of the others, proved
absolutely impossible. They might of course be in one or other of the
supper-rooms, and I saw from the first that there was but little chance
of finding them.
Leaning my elbows on the edge of the box, I gazed down upon the scene
of reckless merriment, but my thoughts were full of the strange words
uttered by the mysterious masker. The packet he had given me I had
transferred to my pocket, and with pardonable curiosity I longed to
open it and see what it contained.
The warning he had given me was extremely disconcerting and worried me.
No woman likes to think that she has unknown enemies ready to take her
life. Yet that was apparently my position.
That life could be taken swiftly and without detection I had plainly
seen in the case of poor Reggie. When I recollected his terrible fate
I shuddered. Yet this man had plainly given me to understand that the
same fate awaited me if I did not adopt the line of conduct that he had
laid down.
Whoever he might be, he certainly was acquainted with all my movements
and knew intimately my feelings. There was certainly no likelihood of
my marriage with old Benjamin Keppel. I scouted the idea. Yet he knew
quite well that the old millionaire had become attracted by me and
reposed in me a confidence that he did not extend to others. The more
I reflected, the more I became convinced that the stranger’s fear of
being recognized arose from the fact that he himself was either the
murderer or an accessory to the murder of poor Reggie.
What did the demand that I should return to London denote? It could
only mean one thing--namely, that my assistance was required.
Whoever were my enemies, they were, I argued, enemies likewise of old
Mr. Keppel. The present which the stranger had pressed upon me was
nothing less than a bribe to secure either my silence or my services.
Try how I would, I could discover absolutely no motive whatever in it
all. It was certain that this man, so cleverly disguised that I could
not distinguish his real height, much less his form or features, had
come there, watched for a favorable opportunity to speak with me, and
then had warned me to sever my friendship with the millionaire.
Leaning there, gazing blankly down upon the crowd screaming with
laughter at the Parisian quadrilles and antics of clown and columbine,
I coolly analyzed my own feelings towards the blunt, plain-spoken old
gentleman with the melancholy eyes. I found--as I had believed all
along--that I admired him for his honest good-nature, his utter lack
of anything approaching “side,” his strenuous efforts to assist in
good works, and his regard for appearances only for his son’s sake.
But I did not love him. No. I had loved one man. I could never love
another--never in all my life.
Yet perhaps he was there disguised beneath a mask and dress of
parti-colored satin! Perhaps he was down there among the dancers,
escorting that woman who had usurped my place. The thought held me in
wonder.
Suddenly I was brought back to a due sense of my surroundings by
the opening of the door of the box and the entry of one of the
theatre-attendants, who, addressing me in French, said:
“I beg m’zelle’s pardon, but the Direction would esteem it a favor if
m’zelle would step down to the bureau at once.”
“What do they want with me?” I inquired quickly with considerable
surprise.
“Of that I have no knowledge, m’zelle. I was merely told to ask you to
go there without delay.”
Therefore, in wonder, I rose and followed the man downstairs and
through the crowd of revellers to the private office of the Direction,
close to the main entrance of the Casino.
In the room I found the Director, an elderly man with short, stiff
gray hair, sitting at a table, while near him stood two men dressed as
pierrots, with their masks removed.
When the door was closed, the Director, courteously offering me a seat,
apologized for disturbing me, but explained that he had done so at the
request of his two companions.
“I may as well at once explain,” said the elder of the two in French,
“that we desire some information which you can furnish.”
“Of what nature?” I inquired with considerable surprise.
“In the theatre, an hour ago, you were escorted by a masker wearing a
dress representing an owl. You danced with him, but were afterwards
lost in the crowd. Search was made through all the rooms for you, but
you could not be found. Where have you been?”
“I have been sitting in the box in conversation with the stranger.”
“All the time?”
“Yes, he took precautions against being seen.”
“Who was he?”
“I have no idea,” I responded, still puzzled at the man’s demand.
“I had better perhaps explain at once to mademoiselle that we are
agents of police,” he said with a smile, “and that the movements of
the individual who met you and chatted with you so affably are of the
greatest interest to us.”
“Then you know who he is?” I exclaimed quickly.
“Yes. We have discovered that.”
“Who is he?”
“Unfortunately, it is not our habit to give details of any case on
which we are engaged until it is completed.”
“The case in question is the murder of Mr. Thorne at the Grand Hotel,
is it not?”
“Mademoiselle guesses correctly. She was a friend of the unfortunate
gentleman’s if I mistake not?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well,” he said in a confidential tone, while his companion, a slightly
younger man, stood by regarding me and tugging at his mustache, “we
should esteem it a favor if you would kindly relate all that has
transpired this evening. When we saw him meet you we were not certain
of his identity. His disguise was puzzling. Afterwards there could be
no doubt, but he had then disappeared.”
“I had thought that the police had relinquished their inquiries,” I
said, nevertheless gratified to know that they were still on the alert.
“It is when we relax our efforts slightly that we have the better
chance of success,” the detective replied. “Did the man give you any
name?”
“No, he refused to tell me who he was.”
“And what was his excuse for accosting you and demanding a tête-à-tête?”
“He said he wished to warn me of an impending peril. In brief, he told
me that my life was in jeopardy.”
“Ah!” the man ejaculated, and exchanged a meaning glance with his
companion. “And his pretence was to give you warning of it. Did he tell
you by whom your life was threatened?”
“No. He refused any details, but he made certain suggestions as to the
course I should pursue.”
“That sounds interesting. What did he suggest?”
I hesitated for a few moments. Then, reflecting that the stranger was
evidently under the observation of the police, and that the latter were
still trying to bring poor Reggie’s assassin to justice, I resolved to
reveal all that had passed between us.
Therefore I gave a brief outline of our conversation, just as I have
written it in the foregoing pages. Both detectives on hearing my story
seemed very puzzled.
“You will pardon my intrusion,” exclaimed the agent of police who
had first spoken, “but as you will see, this is a clue which must
be thoroughly investigated. Will mademoiselle forgive me for asking
whether there is any truth in the man’s surmise that you were about to
become engaged to marry M’sieur Keppel?”
“None whatever,” I answered frankly. “I can only suppose that some
unfounded gossip has arisen, as it so often does, and that it has
reached his ears.”
“Yet he threatens--or at least warns you of peril--if you should become
the wife of this wealthy m’sieur! Ah! there seems some very deep
motive; but what it really is we must seek to discover. When we have
found it we shall have, I feel confident, a clue to the murderer of
M’sieur Thorne.”
“But there is still another rather curious fact,” I went on, now
determined to conceal nothing. “He declared that it was necessary for
my well-being that I should return to London, and there meet some
person who would visit me on the second of next June.”
“Ah! And you intend keeping that appointment, I presume.”
“I intend to do nothing of the kind,” I replied with a laugh. “The
affair is a very ugly one, and I have no desire whatever that my name
should be linked further with it.”
“Of course. I quite understand the annoyance caused to mademoiselle.
It is sufficient to have one’s friend murdered in that unaccountable