The Sign of the Seven Sins

Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against the cruel calumnies of such torchons. The official inquiry, held next day after the post-mortem examination had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth, so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was no abrasion of the skin--no wound of any kind. On the neck, however, were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to establish that as a fact. He died, it was declared, from some cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, have been a natural death the doctors admitted, but the fact that the notes were missing pointed very clearly and conclusively to murder. That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels, we followed the dead man’s remains to their resting-place in the English Cemetery up in the olive-groves of Caucade, perhaps one of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in all the world. Winter and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the most charming in all the Riviera. The American chaplain performed the last rites, and then we turned sorrowfully away and drove back to Nice silently, full of gloomy thoughts. The puzzling incident had crushed all gayety from our hearts. I suggested that we should leave and go on to Mentone, but Ulrica declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve the inscrutable mystery. Thus, the days which followed were days of sadness and melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious, for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out of the hotel we overheard many whisperings. As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of deep thought and sadness I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who might perhaps have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion, clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament. When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favor of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all hazards see him again. I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said: “Curious that we’ve seen nothing further of Ernest. I suppose, however, you’ve forgotten him.” “Forgotten him!” I cried, starting up. “I shall never forget him--never!” In that instant I seemed to see his dark, handsome face before me, as of old. It was in the golden blaze of a summer sunset. I heard his rich voice in my ears. I saw him pluck a sprig of jasmine, emblem of purity, and give it to me, at the same time whispering words of love and devotion. Ah, yes, he loved me then--he loved me. I put up my hand to shut out the vision. I rose and staggered. Then I felt Ulrica’s soft hand upon my waist. “Carmela! Carmela!” she cried. “What’s the matter? Tell me, dear!” “You know,” I answered hoarsely, “you know, Ulrica, that I love him!” My voice was choked within me, so deep was my distress. “And he is to marry--to marry that woman!” “My dear, take my advice and forget him,” she said lightly. “There are lots of other men whom you could love quite as well. Poor Reggie, for instance, might have filled his place in your heart. He was charming, poor fellow. Your Ernest treated you as he has done all women. Why make yourself miserable and wear out your heart regarding a past which it is quite unnecessary to recall? Live as I do, for the future, without mourning over what must ever be by-gones.” “Ah! that’s all very well,” I said sadly. “But I can’t help it. That woman loves him--every woman loves him. You yourself admired him long ago.” “Certainly. I admire lots of men, but I have never committed the folly of loving a single one.” “Folly!” I cried angrily. “You call love folly?” “Why, of course,” she laughed. “Do dry your eyes, or you’ll look an awful sight when Gerald comes. He said he would go for a walk with us on the Promenade at four, and it’s already half-past three. Come, it’s time we dressed.” I sighed heavily. Yes, it was true that Ulrica was utterly heartless towards those who admired her. I had with regret noticed her careless attitude times without number. She was a smart woman who thought only of her own good looks, her own toilettes, and her own amusements. Men amused her by their flattery, and she therefore tolerated them. She had told me so long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her example. “Ulrica,” I said at last, “forgive me--forgive me; but I am so unhappy. Don’t let us speak of him again. I will try to forget, indeed I will--I will try and regard him as dead. I forgot myself--forgive me, dear.” “Yes, forget him, there’s a dear,” she said, kissing me. “And now call Felicita and let us dress. Gerald hates to be kept waiting, you know.” CHAPTER V DEALS WITH A MILLIONAIRE One evening, about ten days later, we dined at old Benjamin Keppel’s invitation at the Villa Fabron. Visitors to Nice know the great white mansion. High up above the sea, beyond the Magnam bridge, it stands in the midst of extensive grounds shaded by date-palms, olives, and oranges, approached by a fine eucalyptus avenue, and rendered bright with flowers, its dazzlingly white walls relieved by the green persiennes, a residence magnificent even for Nice, the town of princes. Along the whole front of the great place there runs a broad marble terrace, from which are obtained marvellous views of Nice on the left, the gilt-domed Jetée Promenade jutting out into the azure bay, the old château, Mont Boron, and the snow-capped Alps, while on the right lies the valley of the Var and that romantic chain of dark-purple mountains which lie far away beyond Cannes, a panorama almost as magnificent as that from the higher Corniche. The interior was, we found, the acme of luxury and comfort. Everywhere was displayed the fact that its owner was wealthy, yet none on entering there would believe him to be so simple in tastes and curiously eccentric in manner. Each winter he came to Nice in his splendid steam-yacht, the Vispera, which was now anchored as usual in Villefranche harbor, and with his sister, a small, wizen-faced old lady, and Mr. Barnes, his secretary, he lived there from December until the end of April. Ulrica had met him several times in New York, and he greeted us both very affably. He was, I found, a queer old fellow. Report had certainly not lied about him, and I could hardly believe that this absent-minded, rather ordinary-looking old gentleman with disordered gray hair and beard and dark, deep-set eyes was Gerald’s father, the great Benjamin Keppel, of Pittsburg. Dinner, even though a stately affair, was quite a pleasant function, for the old millionaire was most unassuming and affable. One of his eccentricities displayed itself in his dress. His dining-jacket was old and quite glossy about the back and elbows, he wore a paper collar, his white tie showed unmistakable signs of having done duty on at least a dozen previous occasions, and across his vest was suspended an albert, not of gold but of rusty steel. There had never been any pretence about Ben Keppel in his earlier days, as all the world knew, and there was certainly none in these days of his affluence. He had amassed his fabulous fortune by shrewdness and sheer hard work, and he despised the whole of that chattering little ring which calls itself Society. Ere I had been an hour in this man’s society I grew to like him for his honest plain-spokenness. He possessed none of that sarcastic arrogance which generally characterizes those whose fortunes are noteworthy, but in conversation spoke softly, with a carefully cultivated air of refinement. Not that he was refined in the least. He had gone to the States as an emigrant from a little village in Norfolk, and had succeeded by reason of several striking inventions in the manufacture of steel in amassing the third largest fortune in the United States. He sat at the head of the table in his great dining-room, while Ulrica and myself sat on either hand. As a matter of course, our conversation turned upon the mysterious death of poor Reggie, and both of us gave him the exact version of the story. “Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated. “Gerald has already explained the painful facts to me. There seems no doubt whatever that the poor fellow was murdered for the money. Yet to me the strangest part of the whole affair is why he should have left you so suddenly at the Hermitage. If he changed the money for large notes, as we may suppose he did, why didn’t he return to you?” “Because he must in the meantime have met someone,” I suggested. “That’s just it,” he said. “If the police could but discover the identity of the friend, then I feel convinced that all the remainder would be plain sailing.” “But, my dear guv’nor, the police hold the theory that he did not meet anyone until he arrived in Nice,” Gerald observed. “The police here are a confounded set of idiots,” cried the old millionaire. “If it had occurred in New York or Chicago, or even in Pittsburg, they would have arrested the murderer long before this. Here, in France, there’s too much confounded controle.” “I expect if the truth were known,” observed Miss Keppel in her thin, squeaky voice, “the authorities of Monaco don’t relish the idea that a man should be followed and murdered after successful play, and they won’t help the Nice police at all.” “Most likely,” her brother said. “The police of the Prince of Monaco are elegant blue-and-silver persons who look as though they would hesitate to capture a prisoner for fear of soiling their white kid gloves. But surely, Miss Rosselli,” he added, turning to me, “the Nice police haven’t let the affair drop, have they?” “I cannot say,” I responded; “the last I saw of any of the detectives was a week ago. The man who called upon me then admitted that no clue had so far been obtained.” “Then all I have to say is that it’s a public scandal!” Benjamin Keppel cried angrily. “The authorities here entertain absolutely no regard for the personal safety of their visitors. It appears to me that in Nice year by year prices have increased until hotel charges have become unbearable, and people are being driven over the frontier to Bordighera and San Remo. During these past two years absolutely no regard has been paid by the Nice authorities to the comfort of the visitors who bring them their wherewithal to live!” “The guv’nor’s disgusted,” laughed Gerald across to me. “He’s taken like this sometimes.” “Yes, my boy, I am disgusted. All I want in winter is quiet, sunshine, and good air. That’s what I come here for. And I can get all that at San Remo, for the air is better even than here.” “But it isn’t so fashionable,” I observed. “To an old man like me it does not matter whether a place is fashionable or not, my dear Miss Rosselli,” he said with a serious look. “I leave all that sort of thing to Gerald. He has his clubs, his