CHAPTER VIII NARRATES A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT

"You are a perfect stranger, sir," I said, with considerable hauteur. "Until you care to give me your name, and make known who you are, I have no wish to hear this important statement of yours."

"No," he answered, "I regret very much that for certain reasons I am unfortunately unable to furnish my name. I am The Owl—that is sufficient."

"No, not for me. As I am not in the habit of thus chattering with strangers at a public ball, I must wish you good evening," I said, and turned abruptly away.

In an instant he was again at my side.

"Listen, Miss Rosselli," he said, in a deeply earnest tone. "You must listen to me. I have something to tell you which closely concerns yourself—your future welfare."

"Well?" I inquired.

"I cannot speak now, as someone may overhear. I had to exercise the greatest precaution in approaching you for there are spies everywhere, and a single blunder would be fatal."

"What do you mean?" I inquired, at once interested.

The manner of this hideously disguised man who spoke such excellent English was certainly mysterious, and I could not doubt that he was in real earnest.

"Let us walk over there, and sit in that corner," he said, indicating a seat half hidden in the bamboos. "If there is no one near, I will explain. If we are watched, then we must contrive to find some other place."

"In our box," I suggested. "We can sit at the back in the alcove, where no one can see us."

"Excellent!" he answered. "I never thought of that. But if any of your party return there?"

"I can merely say that you invited me to dance, and I, in return, invited you there for a few moments' rest.

"Then let's go," he said, and a few minutes later we were sitting far back in the shadow of the box on the second tier, high above the music and gay revelry.

"Well," I inquired eagerly, when we were seated, "and why did you wish to see me to-night?"

"First, I have knowledge—which you will not, I think deny—that you loved a man in London—one Ernest Cameron."

"Well?"

"And at this moment there is a second man who, although not your lover, is often in your thoughts. The man's name is Benjamin Keppel. Am I correct?"

"I really don't see by what right you submit me to this cross-examination upon affairs which only concern myself," I responded in a hard voice, although I was eager to determine the identity of this masked man.

"Marriage with a millionaire is a temptation which few women can resist," he said philosophically, in a voice undisturbed by my harsh retort. "Temptations are the crises which test the strength of one's character. Whether a woman stands or falls at these crises depends very largely on what she is before the testing comes."

"And pray what concern have you in my intentions or actions?" I demanded.

"You will discover that in due time," he answered. "I know that to the world you, like your companion, Ulrica Yorke, pretend to be a woman who prefers her freedom and has no thought of love. Yet you are only acting the part of the free woman. At heart you love as intensely and hate as fiercely as all the others. Is not that so?"

"You speak remarkably plainly, as though you were well acquainted with my private affairs," I remarked resentfully.

"I only say what I know to be the truth," he replied. "You, Carmela Rosselli, are not heartless like that emotionless woman who is your friend. The truth is that you love—you still love Ernest Cameron."

I rose in quick indignation.

"I refuse to hear you further, monsieur!" I cried. "Kindly let me pass."

His hand was on the door of the box, and he kept it there, notwithstanding my words.

"No," he said, quite coolly. "You must hear me—indeed, you shall hear me!"

"I have heard you," I answered. "You have said sufficient."

"I have not finished," he replied. "When I have done so, you will, I think, only be anxious to learn more." He added quite calmly: "If you will kindly be seated, so as not to attract attention, I will go on."

I sank back into my seat without further effort to arrest his words. The adventure was most extraordinary, and certainly his grotesque appearance held me puzzled.

"Here, in Nice, not long ago," he continued, "you met a man who believed himself in love with you, yet a few nights later he was foully murdered in your sitting-room at the hotel."

"Reginald Thorne," I said quickly, in a strained voice, for the memory of that distressing event was very painful.

"Yes, Reginald Thorne," he repeated, in a low, hoarse voice.

"You knew him?" I asked.

"Yes, I knew him," was his response, in a deep, strange tone. "It is to speak of him that I have sought you to-night."

"If you are so well aware who I am, and of all my movements, you might surely have called upon me," I remarked dubiously.

"Ah, no! That would have been impossible. None must know that we have met!"

"Why?"

"Because there are reasons—very strong reasons—why our meeting should be kept secret," the voice responded, the pair of sharp black eyes peering forth mysteriously from the two holes in the owl's face. "We are surrounded by spies. Here, in France, they have reduced espionage to a fine art."

"And yet the police have failed to discover the murderer of poor Mr. Thorne," I observed.

"They will never do that."

"Why not?"

"They will never solve the mystery without aid."

"Whose aid?"

"Mine."

"What?" I cried, starting quickly. "Are you actually in possession of some fact that will lead to the arrest of the culprit? Tell me quickly. Is it really certain that he was murdered, and did not die a natural death?"

"Ah!" he laughed. "I told you a few minutes ago that you would be anxious to hear my statement. Was I not correct?"

"Of course! I had no idea that you were in possession of any facts or evidence regarding the crime. What do you know about it?

"At present I am not at liberty to say—except that the person who committed the deed was no ordinary criminal."

"Then he was murdered, and the motive was robbery?"

"That was the police theory, but I can at once assure you that they were entirely mistaken. Theft was not the motive."

"But the money was stolen from his pockets!" I said.

"How do you prove that? He might have secreted it somewhere before the attack was made upon him."

"I feel certain that the money was stolen," I answered.

"Well, you are, of course, welcome to your own opinion," he answered carelessly. "I can only assure you that, even though the money was not found upon him, robbery was not the motive of the crime."

"And you have come to me in order to tell me that?" I said. "Perhaps you will explain further."

"I come to you, Miss Rosselli, because a serious responsibility rests upon yourself."

"In what manner?"

"The unfortunate young man was attracted towards you; he accompanied you to Monte Carlo on the day of his death, and he was found dead in your sitting-room."

"I know," I said. "But why did he go there?"

"Because he, no doubt, wished to speak with you."

"At that late hour? I cannot conceive why he should want to speak with me. He might have come to me in the morning."

"No. The matter was pressing—very pressing."

"Then if you know its nature, as you apparently do, perhaps you will tell me."

"I can do nothing," the deep voice responded. "I only desire to warn you."

"To warn me!" I cried, surprised. "Of what?"

"Of a danger which threatens you."

"A danger? Explain it."

"Then kindly give me your undivided attention for a moment," the Owl said earnestly, at the same time peering into my eyes with that air of mystery which so puzzled me. "Perhaps it will not surprise you to know that in this matter of the death of Reginald Thorne there are several interests at stake, and the most searching and secret inquiries have been made on behalf of the young man's friends by detectives sent from London, and from New York. These inquiries have established one or two curious facts, but so far from elucidating the mystery, they have only tended to render it more inscrutable. As I have already said, the person actually responsible for the crime is no ordinary murderer, and notwithstanding the fact that some of the shrewdest and most experienced detectives have been at work, they can discover nothing. You follow me?"

"Perfectly."

"Then I will proceed further. Has it ever occurred to you that you might, if you so desired, become the wife of old Benjamin Keppel?"

"I really don't see what that has to do with the matter under discussion," I said, with quick indignation.

"Then you admit that old Mr. Keppel is among your admirers?"

"I admit nothing," I responded. "I see no reason why you, a perfect stranger, should intrude upon my private affairs in this manner."

"The intrusion is for your own safety," he answered ambiguously.

"And what need I fear, pray? You spoke of some extraordinary warning, I believe."

"True, I wish to warn you," said the man in strange disguise. "I came here to-night at considerable risk to do so."

I hesitated. Then, after a few moments of reflection, I resolved upon making a bold shot.

"Those who speak of risk are invariably in fear," I said. "Your words betray that you have some connection with the crime."

I watched him narrowly, and saw him start perceptibly. Then I congratulated myself upon my shrewdness, and was determined to fence with him further and endeavour to make him commit himself. I rather prided myself upon smart repartee, and many had told me that at times I shone as a brilliant conversationalist.

"Ah!" he said hastily, "I think you mistake me, Miss Rosselli. I am acting in your interests entirely."

"If so, then surely you may give me your name or tell me who you are."

"I prefer to remain unknown," he replied.

"Because you fear exposure."

"I fear no exposure," he protested. "I came here to speak with you secretly to-night, because had I called openly at your hotel my visit would have aroused suspicion, and most probably have had the effect of thwarting the plans of those who are endeavouring to solve the enigma."

"But you give me no proof whatever of your bona fides!" I declared.

"Simply because I am unable. I merely come to give you warning."

"Of what?"

"Of the folly of flirtation."

I sprang to my feet indignantly.

"You insult me!" I cried. "I will bear it no longer. Please let me pass!"

"I shall not allow you to leave until I have finished," he answered determinedly. "You think that I am not in earnest, but I tell you I am. Your whole future depends upon your acceptance of my suggestion."

"And what is your suggestion, pray?"

"That you should no longer regard old Mr. Keppel as your possible husband."

"I have never regarded him as such," I responded, with a contemptuous laugh. "But supposing that I did—supposing that he offered me marriage, what then?"

"Then a disaster would fall upon you. It is of that disaster that I came here to-night to warn you," he said, speaking quickly in a hoarse voice. "Recollect that you must never become his wife—never!"

"If I did, what harm could possibly befall me?" I inquired eagerly, for the stranger's prophetic words were, to say the least, exceedingly strange.

He was silent for a moment, then said slowly:

"Remember the harm that befell Reginald Thorne."

"What?" I cried in alarm. "Death?"

"Yes," he answered solemnly, "death."

I stood before him for a moment breathless.

"Then, to put it plainly," I said, in an uneven voice, "I am threatened with death should I marry Benjamin Keppel?"

"Even to become betrothed to him would be fatal," he answered.

"And by whom am I thus threatened?"

"That is a question I cannot answer. I am here merely to warn you, not to give explanations."

"But the person who takes such an extraordinary interest in my private affairs must have some motive for this threat?"

"Of course."

"What is it?"

"How can I tell? It is not myself who is threatening you. I have only given you warning."

"There is a reason, then, why I should not marry Mr. Keppel?"

"There is even a reason why you should in future refuse to accept his invitations to the Villa Fabron," my strange companion replied. "You have been invited to form one of a party on board the Vispera, but for your personal safety I would presume to advise you not to go."

"I shall certainly please myself," I replied. "These threats will certainly not deter me from acting just as I think proper. If I go upon a cruise with Mr. Keppel and his son, I shall have no fear of my personal safety."

"Reginald Thorne was young and athletic. He had no fear. But he disobeyed a warning. You know the result."

"Then you wish me to decline Mr. Keppel's invitation and remain in Nice?"

"I urge you, for several reasons, to decline his invitation, but I do not suggest that you should remain in Nice. I am the bearer of instructions to you. If you carry them out, they will be distinctly to your benefit."

"What are they?"

"To-day," he said, "is the 18th of February. Those who have your welfare at heart desire that you should, after the Riviera season is over, go to London, arriving there on the 1st of June next."

"Well?" I exclaimed.

This stranger seemed to possess a good deal of knowledge in regard to my antecedents.

"Well, on arrival in London you will go to the Hotel Cecil, and there receive a visitor on the following day, the 2nd of June. You will then be given certain instructions, which must be carried out."

"All this is very mysterious," I remarked. "But I really have no intention of returning to London until next autumn."

"I think you will," was his reply, "because, when you fully consider all the circumstances, you will keep the appointment in London, and learn the truth."

"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 voice. "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 to give 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 and looked at the curious figure before me.

"In order to avoid doing so, then, I am to hold aloof from Mr. Keppel, remain here until May, and then travel back 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 small recompense for the trouble you must be put to by waiting here in the South, and then journeying to London," and he drew from beneath his strangely grotesque dress a small box, some four or five inches square, wrapped in paper, which he handed to me.

I did not take it. There was something uncanny about it all.

"Do not hesitate, or we may be observed," he said. "Take it quickly. Do not open it until you return to your hotel."

With these words 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 by 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 2nd 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.

The next instant I was alone with the little packet the stranger had given me resting in my hand.