CHAPTER XXV PRESENTS A CURIOUS PHASE

This discovery increased the mystery. Yet it was plain that he was acting according to his promise, and was leaving no effort untried in order to solve the problem. But why? What possible interest could he have in discovering the truth regarding Reggie's assassination?

Certainly his appearance was greatly altered. Instead of the unkempt, shuffling Italian whom I had visited in the Via Magenta, in Leghorn, he was spruce, well-shaven, and smartly dressed, although his dwarfed and slightly deformed personality could not be disguised.

The look upon his countenance was the reverse of reassuring. Ugly even when smiling, his face was distorted by rage, and absolutely forbidding, as he walked hurriedly past within half-a-dozen feet of me, and away towards the exit from the garden. The insult he had sustained was one which angered him terribly, and if ever vengeance was written upon a man's face it was written upon his.

The queer old fellow had puzzled me greatly ever since that eventful evening at Leghorn. To me there was such an absence of motive that his actions were doubly remarkable. And yet I could never get away from the fact that he knew of old Keppel's intention to go to Ragusa before it had been announced to us; and he was also well acquainted with all the facts of poor Reggie's tragic end, and the subsequent action on the part of both the police and myself. Besides, he had told me of Ernest's whereabouts, of which I was in ignorance, and now it appeared that he had been, until a moment ago, on friendly terms with the woman who had robbed me of the one man who in all the world was dear to me.

Utterly dumbfounded by his presence there, I watched him walk down the long gravelled path beside the lake, past the landing-stage, and out towards the public road. Indeed, I think I was too astonished at that moment to rise and follow the man who had declared our interests to be identical.

I turned and glanced across at the woman. She had risen, shaken out her skirts, and hastily drawn her light cape about her shoulders, as for a moment she stood in hesitation, looking after her companion.

Her brow was knit, and I seemed to watch determination becoming more and more strongly marked upon her face. Then she hurried quickly after him.

I rose, too, but a thought flashed across my mind. He had not gathered up the fragments of the letter before leaving. They were, no doubt, still there. What could the letter contain that it should so incense her?

Without hesitation I moved across to the table so lately occupied, and there saw scattered on the ground in the vicinity several pieces of torn paper, which I gathered swiftly into my hand. They were portions of a letter written on white-edged, smoke-grey paper of a fashionable pattern. Fortunately, no waiters were in the near neighbourhood, and I was enabled to continue my search, for any stray scraps might, I reflected, be of importance. After I had picked up a piece that had been blown some distance off, I placed all the fragments carefully in my pocket, and made my way toward the brightly-lit entrance.

As there were no cabs, I was compelled to walk to the station, which occupied me quite a quarter of an hour. It appeared certain that both the man and the woman would return to Paris, and that the woman hoped to meet Branca at the railway-station.

When I arrived, however, I found that the train had just departed for the Gare du Nord, and that there was not another for nearly an hour. If they had both left by the train I had so narrowly missed, then they had successfully escaped me.

The bare salle d'attente at Enghien is not a cheerful place at night, when the single gas jet is turned low, and the doors leading out upon the platform are securely locked. Here, again, I was confronted by a difficulty, namely, that if, perchance, the pair had not caught the train, they would probably enter the waiting room. To remain there was manifestly dangerous, if I did not wish my identity to be revealed.

My chief regret was that I had missed Branca. I had no means of communicating with him, for I had no idea where he was staying, and he certainly did not know my address, or else he would have sent me word that he was in Paris. All I could hope was that the woman had caught him up and detained him, and that they would return together by the next train.

Deciding that to rest in the waiting-room was injudicious, I went out and crossed to the little café opposite, where the tables on the pavement were shaded by a row of laurels in tubs, in the usual French style. I wished to piece together the precious letter in my pocket without being observed. I entered the place and sat down. A consumptive waiter and a fat woman presiding over the bottles on the small counter were the only occupants, and after ordering a "limonade," I drew forth scrap after scrap of the torn letter and spread it out upon the table.

It was written in French, in a feminine hand, but it was some time before I could piece the fragments together so as to read the whole. At last I succeeded, and discovered it to be dated from the "Grand Hotel" at Brussels. It ran as follows:

"My dear Laumont,—See Julie the instant she returns from Moscow, and warn her. Someone has turned traitor. Tell her to be extremely careful, and to lie low for the present. If she does not, she will place us all in jeopardy. Advise her to go to London. She would be safe there. So would you. Bury yourselves.—Hastily, your friend, "SIDONIE."

Laumont! Who, I wondered, was Laumont?

Was it possible that the woman referred to as Julie was actually the person who had so fascinated Ernest? If so, the warning was a strange one; and she had disregarded it by tearing up the letter and casting it into Branca's face.

"Bury yourselves." The injunction was expressive, to say the least of it. Some person unknown had turned traitor, and had told the truth regarding some matter which had apparently been a secret. The letter was a mysterious one, from every point of view.

A dozen times I read it through, then carefully collected the scraps and replaced them in my pocket.

The person to whom the letter was addressed was, without doubt, an accomplice of the woman Julie, while their correspondent, who was named Sidonie, and who stayed at the "Grand Hotel" in Brussels, was anxious that both should escape to London. The woman Julie had been in Moscow. Was it possible that this woman who had attracted Ernest had during my absence in the Mediterranean been in Russia? Perhaps she had.

Yet I had no ground whatever for believing the woman whom I had seen at Monte Carlo, and had so recently followed from Paris, to be named Julie. My suspicions might, for aught I knew, be entirely groundless.

From where I sat I could watch all persons entering the station, but my heart sank within me when at length it was time for me to cross to take the train for Paris, for my search along the platform was a fruitless one.

Both had evidently left by the earlier train, and the absence of a fiacre at the door of the Casino had caused me to lose sight of them.

Alone in the dimly-lit railway compartment, as the train passed through the suburb of St. Denis and on to the Gare du Nord, I reflected deeply. My brain was awhirl with the events which had occurred so rapidly since landing at Leghorn. I knew not whether Captain Davis had received my telegram and had left for Genoa, or whether the message had been delayed until he had received that package which was destined to send the Vispera to the bottom.

On every side I saw plot and counterplot, the most dastardly of them all being the determination of Keppel to destroy his yacht. And Ulrica? What of her? That she was on board was almost certain; she might even then be sailing southward to her doom.

Yet I had warned her, and I hoped that she had come ashore as we had arranged. The only possibility I feared was a disinclination upon her part to offend the old millionaire. If she found the course altered to Genoa, a change which I had endeavoured to effect by my telegram, she might possibly have gone on there. All that I prayed for was that my wire had reached Davis's hand before the package supposed to contain the statuette.

Keppel at that moment no doubt believed the Vispera to have gone down, and was prepared for the receipt of the astounding news from one or other of the Mediterranean ports. Possibly he believed that he had a perfect answer to the question as to why he had left the vessel, but to me it seemed as though he would meet with considerable difficulty, if the worst had really happened.

There might, too, be a survivor, and a survivor's testimony in such a case would be awkward.

As the train, with its impériales, or seats above the third-class carriages, rushed on toward Paris, I pondered, too, upon Branca's sudden reappearance. There was something uncanny about the fellow. His knowledge was as extensive as his cunning was low and ingenious.

For what reason, I wondered, had he met that tow-haired woman who had been Ernest Cameron's good genius at Monte Carlo? Why, too, had she taken the trouble to go out to Enghien for the purpose of seeing him?

One theory alone took possession of my mind, namely, that there was a secret between them. Possibly he had been acquainted with her; they might even have been friends. But it was quite evident that they had quarrelled, and he had been gravely offended by the insult offered him.

Each night-train from Enghien to the Gare du Nord always brought home a large number of returning gamblers and pleasure-seekers, so when we came to a standstill, the quai quickly became crowded by persons whom I had noticed strolling in the Casino. In vain, however, I searched for the pair whose movements I had been watching. I was compelled to acknowledge myself baffled, and to take a fiacre back to the "Hôtel Terminus."

Fearing lest any of the trio might be lounging at the café in front of the hotel, where arriving cabs file slowly past, I dismissed the vehicle at the corner of the Rue du Havre, and approached the hotel on the opposite side of the way.

One of my chief difficulties was the entering and leaving the hotel, for I never knew whom I might meet. I had had several narrow escapes from recognition, notwithstanding every possible precaution.

At last, however, after carefully examining all who were lounging about the entrance, I managed to slip in, passing the big-moustached concierge, and ascending by the lift to my own room, utterly worn out by anxiety and fatigue.