The Sign of the Seven Sins

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. CHAPTER XVII CONFIDES THE STORY OF A TABLE The discovery of Ernest’s presence in the car was an entirely fresh development of the mystery. I had been ignorant of his acquaintance with Keppel, but that they were really close friends was evident by the rapid, rather apprehensive manner in which they were conversing. I tried, and tried again, to overhear some of the words spoken, but in vain. Therefore I was compelled to remain in wonderment until the conclusion of that long, terribly tiring journey half way across Europe. Arrived at the Gare de Lyon in Paris, I entered a fiacre and followed them across the city to the Hotel Terminus, that big caravansary outside the Gare St. Lazare, where they engaged four rooms on the first floor--a sitting-room and three bedrooms. Having taken every precaution to prevent being detected by either of them, I ascertained that the number of the sitting-room was 206, therefore I engaged 205, the room adjoining, and ordered a light déjeûner to be taken there. I was faint, nervous, and tired after being cramped up for thirty hours, and was resting on the couch, when suddenly voices sounding in the next room caused me to spring up on the alert in an instant. Keppel and Ernest were speaking together. “It’s a risk, of course,” the millionaire was saying in a low voice--“a great risk.” “But we’ve run greater in this affair,” the other responded. “You know how near to arrest I have been.” I held my breath. Arrest! What could he mean? “It was fortunate that you escaped as you did.” “Thanks to you. Had you not concealed me on the Vispera and taken me on that cruise I should now be in the hands of the police.” “But they seem to possess no clue,” Keppel observed. “Fortunately for us, they do not,” answered the man to whom I had given my heart. And he laughed lightly, as though perfectly confident in his own safety. “It was that transfer of the notes at the Carnival ball that puzzled them.” They were speaking of poor Reggie’s murder! I held my ear close to the dividing door, striving to catch every word. I was learning their secret! The two men whom I had least suspected were actually implicated in that dastardly crime. But what, I wondered, could have been their motive in taking the poor boy’s life? Certainly robbery was not the incentive, for to the old Pittsburg inventor sixty thousand francs was but a paltry sum. Again I listened, but as I did so the woman entered, and then, taking leave of her, the two men went forth and down the stairs. In an instant I resolved to follow them, and ere they had gained the entrance-hall I had put on my hat and descended. They took a cab, and first drove up the hill behind St. Lazare to the Boulevard des Batignolles, descending before a large house where, from an old concierge in slippers, Ernest received two letters. Both men stood in the door-way and read the communications through. From their faces I could see that the letters contained serious news, and for some minutes they stood in indecision. At length, however, they re-entered the cab and drove back past the Opera, through the Rue Rivoli, and across the Pont des Arts, turning into a labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets beyond the Seine, and stopping before a small, uninviting-looking hairdresser’s shop. They were inside for some ten minutes or so, while I stood watching a short distance off, my head turned away, so that they should not recognize me if they came forth suddenly. When they emerged they were laughing good-humoredly, accompanied to the door by a rather well-dressed man, evidently a hairdresser, for a comb protruded from his pocket and his hair was brushed up in that style peculiar to the Parisian coiffeur. “Good-day, messieurs,” he said in French, bowing them into the fiacre, “I understand quite clearly. There is nothing to fear, I assure you, absolutely nothing.” In that man’s dark eyes, as he stood watching the cab turning, was a strange, intense look which struck me as familiar. Yes, I had seen those eyes before, without a doubt. His face was triangular, with broad forehead and pointed chin--a rather curious personality. Again I looked at his peculiarly brilliant eyes, and a strange truth flashed suddenly upon me. Yes, I remembered that curious expression quite distinctly; it had riveted itself indelibly upon my memory. He was the man who had worn the owl’s dress in Carnival--the man who had returned to me the notes stolen from poor Reggie! He was an accomplice of these two men, of whom I had never entertained suspicion. The truth came to me as a staggering blow. Ernest was an assassin! Had he not admitted how near he had been to arrest and congratulated himself upon his escape? Had not old Keppel aided him by concealing him on board the Vispera? Once, alas! I had, in my foolish, rosy days of youth, believed in the man who had made love to me, who had flattered and caressed me, and who had declared that I should be his always. Ah! how well I remembered it! How bitterly all the past came back to me! And yet, until that very hour of my discovery that he was an assassin, I had never ceased to love him--never for a single instant. We women are indeed strange creatures. I re-entered the cab, but in the Boulevard St. Michel my driver unfortunately lost sight of them. They must, I think, have turned suddenly into one of the many side-streets and thus reached the Quai. For a few minutes I sat back in hesitation. Should I return at once to the hotel? or should I go boldly to that man whom I had so fortunately discovered and charge him with having had in his possession the stolen notes? If I adopted the latter course I saw that I should only raise an alarm, and the pair I was watching would undoubtedly get clean away. No, the old proverb that “murder will out” had once more asserted its truth. I had made a most amazing discovery, and now my love for Ernest as a man having been transformed to hatred of him as an assassin, I meant to weave a web slowly about them, and when complete I would give information to the police and thus avenge the poor boy’s death. Therefore I drove to the nearest telegraph office and wired to Genoa, urging both Ulrica and Gerald to come to Paris without delay, for I sorely needed the counsel of the woman who was my best friend and the man upon whose father rested the terribly strong suspicion. Then I returned to the Hotel Terminus, and, hearing no one in the sitting-room adjoining, lay down to rest, sleeping soundly, for with nerves unstrung, I was utterly worn out by fatigue and constant watchfulness. When I awoke it was past eight o’clock and quite dark. There was still no movement in the sitting-room adjoining, therefore I dressed and