The Sign of the Seven Sins

could sit and read in silence the cipher notice or warning placed there without the risk of direct communication with his companions. Had this man whom I had fondly loved actually allied himself with some criminal band so that he knew their means of communication and was in possession of their cipher? It certainly seemed as though he had. But that was one of the points I intended to clear up before denouncing him to the police. Next morning I rose early, eager for activity, but there seemed no movement in the room adjoining mine. All three took their coffee in their bedrooms, and it was not until nearly eleven o’clock that I heard Keppel in conversation with the mysterious woman who had been my travelling-companion. “Ernest is running a great risk,” he was saying. “It’s quite unnecessary, to my mind. The police are everywhere on the alert, for word has of course come from Nice. If he does, unfortunately, fall into their hands, he’ll only have himself to blame.” “But surely you don’t anticipate such a thing?” she asked in genuine alarm. “Well, he goes about quite openly, well knowing that his description has been circulated through every town and village in France.” “And if he were arrested, where should we be?” inquired the woman in dismay. “In a very awkward predicament, I fear,” he responded. “That’s the very reason why I’m trying to persuade Cameron to act with greater discretion. He’s well known, you see, and may be recognized at any moment in the street. If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might be different.” “It’s absurd, certainly, for him to run his head into a noose. I must speak to him at once.” “He’s out. He went out before six this morning, the chambermaid tells me.” “That’s odd! Where’s he gone?” “I don’t exactly know. Somewhere in the country, I should think.” “What if he is already arrested?” “No, don’t let’s anticipate such a contretemps. Matters are, however, beginning to look serious enough, in all conscience,” he answered. “Do you think we shall succeed?” she inquired eagerly. “We have been successful before,” he responded confidently, “why not now? We have only to exercise just a little more care and cunning than that exercised by the police. Then, once above suspicion, all the rest is perfectly plain sailing.” “Which means that we must make a perfect coup.” “Exactly. The whole scene must be carried out firmly and without a hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very evil case.” “Knowing this should make us desperate,” she observed. “I’m desperate already,” he replied in a quiet voice. “It will not go well with any one who tries to thwart us now. It’s a matter of life or death.” What new plot had been hatched I could not guess. What was this fresh conspiracy that was intended? His carefully guarded words aroused within me an intense curiosity. I had already overheard many things, and still resolved to possess myself in patience and continue my ever-watchful vigil. There was, according to the old man’s own words, a desperate plot in progress, which it was intended to be carried out at all hazards--even to the taking of another human life. I wrote down on a piece of paper the cipher which I had found scrawled upon the table and tried by several means to reduce it to some intelligible message, but without success. It was evidently in one of those secret codes used by criminals, therefore how could I hope to discover a key to what so often had puzzled the cleverest detectives of the sureté? The day passed without further incident. I remained in my room awaiting the return of the man whose strange action had so puzzled me on the previous night and who was now running such risk of arrest. If he returned I hoped to overhear his conversation with his companions, but, unfortunately, he did not come back. All was quiet in the adjoining chamber, for Keppel and the woman with the strange marks had evidently gone out in company. About seven o’clock I myself dressed and went forth, wandering idly down until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, before the Opera. There are always many idlers there, mostly sharks on the look-out for the unsuspecting foreigner. The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from the corner these polyglot swindlers easily fix upon likely victims and track them down. Suddenly it occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table before the Grand Café. This I did, but found only the remains of some cipher which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day, for the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint pencil-marks remained. As I sat there I chanced to glance across the road, and to my surprise saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the curb. He was evidently keeping observation upon that table. In pretence of not seeing him, I drank down my coffee, paid, and rising walked away. But he at once followed me, therefore I returned to the hotel. It is not pleasant to a woman to be followed by a strange man, especially if one is bent upon making secret inquiries or watching another person, so when I had again returned to my room I presently bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel--the one which leads straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare. By this door I managed to escape the little man’s vigilance, and entering a cab drove down to the Pont des Arts. I had nothing particular to do, therefore it occurred to me that if I could find that little coiffeur’s where I had seen the man with whom I had danced on the night of the Carnival ball, I might watch and perhaps learn something. That this man was on friendly terms with both Keppel and Cameron had been proved by that scrap of confidential conversation I had already overheard. The difficulty I experienced in recognizing the narrow, crooked street was considerable, but after nearly an hour’s search through the smaller thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel my patience was rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the opposite side. The place was in darkness, apparently closed. Scarcely had I passed, however, when some one emerged from the place, and turning I saw it was the man who had worn the owl’s dress. He was attired smartly, and seemed to possess quite an air of distinction. Indeed, none meeting him in the street would believe him to be a barber. Almost involuntarily I followed him. He lit a cigarette and then walked forward at a rapid pace down the boulevard across the Pont Neuf, and turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering maze to me, suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large house, and made some inquiry of the concierge. “Madame Fournereau?” I heard the old man answer gruffly. “Yes. Second floor, on the left.” And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes went forward and up the stairs. Madame Fournereau? I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that name before. I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there until the man emerged again, when lifting my eyes I saw the nameplate at the street-corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, “Tabac,” occurred to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last discovered her name and her abode. I think that at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during that past month or so that I believe my actions were characterized by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think that I was in my right senses that night, or I should never have dared to act alone and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad’s death and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs was strong upon me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments. Amor dà per mercede, geliosa è rotta fede. Had I reminded to reason with myself I should never have entered that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth and meet that woman face to face, I entered boldly, and without a word to the concierge passed up to the second floor. The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, of a character superior to what its exterior denoted. The stairs leading to the flats were thickly carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, whereas from the street I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat bonne in a muslin cap answered my summons. “Madame Fournereau?” I inquired. “Oui, madame,” answered the woman, and admitting me to the small but well-furnished entrance-hall, waved her hand forward, saying: “Madame is expecting you, I believe. Will you please enter?” My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men’s hats and women’s capes, and from the room beyond came quite a babble of voices. I walked forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was a private gambling-house. Madame’s guests, a strange and motley crowd, came there to play games of hazard. In the room I entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at Monte Carlo, but around it were some twenty men and women, all intent upon the game. Notes and gold were lying everywhere upon the numbers and the simple chances, and the fact that no silver was there was sufficient testimony that high stakes were usual. The air was close and oppressive, for the windows were closed and heavily curtained, and above the sound of excited voices rose that well-known cry of the unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier in crumpled shirt-front and greasy black,-- “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!” Advancing to the table, I stood there unnoticed in the crowd. Those who saw me enter undoubtedly believed me to be a gambler like themselves, for it appeared as though Madame’s guests were drawn from various classes of society. The atmosphere was stifling, but excited as I was I managed to remain cool and affect an interest in the game by tossing a louis upon the red. I won. Strange how carelessness at roulette invariably brings good fortune. I glanced about me, eager to discover Madame herself, but saw neither her nor the barber whom I had followed there. At the end of the room there were, however, a pair of long, sage-green curtains, and as one of the players rose from the table and passed between them I saw that another gaming-room lay beyond, and that in there they were playing baccarat, the bank being held by a superior-looking old gentleman with the crimson ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur in the lapel of his dining-jacket. Boldly I went forward into that room, and in an instant saw that I was not mistaken, for there, chatting to a circle of men and women at the opposite end of the salon, was the small, fair-haired woman whom I had seen in Ernest’s company at Monte Carlo. The man who had given me the stolen notes was standing in the crowd about her, and to them she was recounting the story of a pleasure trip from which she had apparently only just returned. A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, and walking straight to her shook her hand, expressing delight that she had returned to Paris to resume her entertainments. “I too am glad to return to all my friends, messieurs,” she laughed. “I really found Monte Carlo very dull after all.” “You were not fortunate? That is to be regretted.” “Ah!” she said, exhibiting her palms. “With such a maximum how can one