CHAPTER XXII 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!