CHAPTER IX SHOWS THE BIRD'S TALONS

For some little time after my mysterious companion had left I sat forward in the box, gazing down at the wild revelry below, and hoping that one or other of the party would recognise me.

So great a crowd was there, and so many dresses exactly similar, that to distinguish Ulrica or Gerald, or indeed any of the others, proved absolutely impossible. They might, of course, be in one or other of the supper-rooms, and I saw from the first that there was but little chance of finding them.

Leaning my elbows on the edge of the box, I gazed down upon the scene of reckless merriment, but my thoughts were full of the strange words uttered by the mysterious masker. The packet he had given me I had transferred to my pocket, though with pardonable curiosity I longed to open it and see what it contained.

The warning he had given me was extremely disconcerting. It worried me. No woman likes to think that she has unknown enemies ready to take her life. Yet that was apparently my position.

That life could be taken swiftly and without detection, I had plainly seen in the case of poor Reggie. When I recollected his terrible fate I shuddered. Yet this man had plainly given me to understand that the same fate awaited me if I did not adopt the line of conduct which he had laid down.

Whoever he might be, he certainly was acquainted with all my movements, and knew intimately my feelings. There was certainly no likelihood of my marriage with old Benjamin Keppel. I scouted the idea. Yet he knew quite well that the millionaire had become attracted by me, and reposed in me a confidence which he did not extend to others. The more I reflected, the more I became convinced that the stranger's fear of being recognised arose from the fact that he himself was either the murderer or an accessory to the murder of poor Reggie.

What did the demand that I should return to London denote? It could only mean one thing—namely, that my assistance was required.

Whoever were my enemies, they were, I argued, enemies likewise of old Mr. Keppel. The present which the stranger had pressed upon me was nothing less than a bribe to secure either my silence or my services.

However much I tried, it appeared out of the question for me to discover the motive guiding the stranger's conduct. The only certain fact was that this man, so cleverly disguised that I could not distinguish his real height, much less his form or features, had come there, watched for a favourable opportunity to speak with me, and had warned me to sever my friendship with the millionaire.

Leaning there, gazing blankly down upon the crowd screaming with laughter at the Parisian quadrilles and antics of clown and columbine, I coolly analysed my own feeling towards the blunt, plain-spoken old gentleman with the melancholy eyes. I found—as I had believed all along—that I admired him for his honest good-nature, his utter lack of anything approaching "side," his strenuous efforts to assist in good works, and his regard for appearances only for his son's sake. But I did not love him. No, I had loved one man. I could never love another—never in all my life!

Perhaps Ernest Cameron was present, disguised by a mask and dress of parti-coloured satin! Perhaps he was down there among the dancers, escorting that woman who had usurped my place. The thought held me in wonder.

Suddenly, however, I was brought back to a due sense of my surroundings by the opening of the door of the box, and the entry of one of the theatre attendants, who, addressing me in French, said:

"I beg mademoiselle's pardon, but the Director would esteem it a favour if mademoiselle would step down to the bureau at once."

"What do they want with me?" I inquired quickly, with considerable surprise.

"Of that I have no knowledge, mademoiselle; I was merely told to ask you to go there without delay."

Therefore, in wonder, I rose and followed the man downstairs and through the crowd of revellers to the private office of the Director, close to the main entrance of the Casino.

In the room I found the Director, an elderly man, with short, stiff grey hair, sitting at a table, while near him stood two men dressed as pierrots with their masks removed.

When the door was closed, the Director, courteously offering me a seat, apologised for disturbing me, but explained that he had done so at the request of his two companions.

"I may as well at once explain," said the elder of the two in French, "that we desire some information which you can furnish."

"Of what nature?" I inquired, in a tone of marked surprise.

"In the theatre, an hour ago, you were accosted by a masker, wearing a dress representing an owl. You danced with him, but were afterwards lost in the crowd. Search was made through all the rooms for you, but you could not be found. Where have you been?"

"I have been sitting in the box in conversation with the stranger."

"All the time?"

"Yes. He took precautions against being seen."

"Who was he?"

"I have no idea," I responded, still puzzled by the man's demand.

"I had better, perhaps, explain at once to mademoiselle that we are agents of police," he said, with a smile, "and that the movements of the individual who met you and chatted with you so affably are of the greatest interest to us."

"Then you know who he is?" I exclaimed quickly.

"Yes. We have discovered that."

"Who is he?"

"Unfortunately, it is not our habit to give details of any case on which we are engaged until it is completed."

"The case in question is the murder of Mr. Thorne at the 'Grand Hotel,' is it not?"

"Mademoiselle guesses correctly. She was a friend of the unfortunate gentleman's, if I mistake not?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Well," he said, in a confidential tone, while his companion, a slightly younger man, stood by regarding me and tugging at his moustache, "we should esteem it a favour if you would kindly relate all that has transpired this evening. When we saw him meet you we were not certain of his identity. His disguise was puzzling. Afterwards there could be no doubt, but he had then disappeared."

"I had thought that the police had relinquished their inquiries," I said, gratified, nevertheless, to know that they were still on the alert.

"It is when we relax our efforts slightly that we have the better chance of success," the detective replied. "Did the man give you any name?"

"No; he refused to tell me who he was."

"And what was his excuse for accosting you and demanding a tête-à-tête?"

"He said he wished to warn me of an impending peril. In brief, he told me that my life was in jeopardy."

"Ah!" the man ejaculated, as he exchanged a meaning glance with his companion. "And his pretence was to give you warning of it. Did he tell you by whom your life was threatened?"

"No. He refused any details, but made certain suggestions as to the course I should pursue."

"That sounds interesting. What did he suggest?"

I hesitated for a few moments. Then reflecting that the stranger was evidently under the observation of the police, and that the latter were trying to bring poor Reggie's assassin to justice, I resolved to reveal all that had passed between us.

Therefore I gave a brief outline of our conversation just as I have written it in the foregoing pages. Both detectives, at hearing my story, seemed very much puzzled.

"You will pardon my intrusion," exclaimed the agent of police who had first spoken to me, "but as you will see, this is a clue which must be thoroughly investigated. Will mademoiselle forgive me for asking whether there is any truth in this man's surmise that she is about to become engaged to marry this Monsieur Keppel?"

"None whatever," I answered frankly. "I can only suppose that some unfounded gossip has arisen, as it so often does, and that it has reached his ears."

"Yet he threatens—or at least warns you of peril if you should become the wife of this wealthy monsieur! Ah! there seems to be some very deep motive; what it really is, we must seek to discover. When we have found it we shall have, I feel confident, a clue to the murderer of Monsieur Thorne."

"But there is still another rather curious fact," I went on, now determined to conceal nothing. "He declared that it was necessary for my well-being that I should return to London, and there meet some person who would visit me on the 2nd of June next."

"Ah! And you intend keeping that appointment, I presume?"

"I intend to do nothing of the kind, monsieur," I replied, with a laugh. "The affair is a very ugly one, and I have no desire whatever that my name should be linked further with it."

"Of course. I quite understand the annoyance caused to mademoiselle. It is sufficient to have one's friend murdered in that mysterious manner, without being pestered by mysterious individuals who mask themselves and prophesy all sorts of unpleasant things if their orders are not obeyed. Did you promise to return to London?"

"I said I would consider the advisability of doing so."

"You are diplomatic—eh?" he said, with a laugh. "It is unfortunate that this fellow has slipped through our fingers so cleverly—very unfortunate!"

"But if he is known to you, there will surely not be much difficulty in rediscovering him."

"Ah! that's just the question, you see. We are not absolutely certain as to his identity." Then after a slight pause, he glanced at me and asked suddenly: "Mademoiselle has a friend—or had a friend—named Cameron—a Monsieur Ernest Cameron? Is that so?"

I think I must have blushed beneath the piece of black velvet which hid my cheeks.

"That is correct," I stammered. "Why?"

"The reason is unimportant," he answered carelessly. "The fact is written in the papers concerning the case, and we like always to verify facts in such a case as this—that's all."

"But he has no connection with this tragic business!" I hastened to declare. "I haven't spoken to him for nearly two years—we have been apart for quite that time."

"Of course," said the man reassuringly; "the fact has nothing to do with the matter. I merely referred to it in order to obtain confirmation of our reports. You mentioned something of a proposed yachting cruise. What did this mysterious individual say regarding that?"

"He warned me not to go on board the Vispera——"

"The Vispera?" he interrupted. "The owner of the yacht is monsieur the millionaire, is he not?"

I responded in the affirmative.

"And this Monsieur Keppel has invited you to go with others on a cruise to Naples?

"Yes. But how did you know that it was to Naples?" I inquired.

"All yachts sailing from Nice eastward go to Naples," he answered, laughing. "I suppose the programme includes a run to the Greek islands. Constantinople, Smyrna, and Tunis, eh?"

"I think so; but I have not yet heard definitely."

"You have accepted the invitation, I take it?"

I nodded.

"And that, of course, lends colour to the belief that monsieur the millionaire is in love with you, for it is well known that although he has that magnificent yacht he never goes on a pleasure cruise."

"I can't help what may be thought by gossips," I said hastily. "Mr. Keppel is a friend of mine—nothing further."

"But this friendship has apparently caused certain apprehensions to arise in the minds of the persons of whom your mysterious companion was the mouthpiece—the people who threaten you with death should you disobey them."

"Who are those people, do you imagine?" I inquired, deeply in earnest, for the matter seemed to grow increasingly serious.

"Ah!" he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "If we knew that we should have no difficulty in arresting the assassin of Monsieur Thorne."

"Well, what do you consider my best course?" I asked, utterly bewildered by the mysterious events of the evening.

"I should advise you to keep your own counsel, and leave the inquiries to us," was the detective's rejoinder. "If this man again approaches you, make an appointment with him later and acquaint us with the time and place at once."

"But I don't anticipate that I shall see him again."

Then, determined to render these police agents every assistance, even though they had been stupidly blind to allow the stranger to escape, I drew from my pocket the small packet which he had given me.

"This," I said, "he handed to me at the last instant, accompanied by a hope that I would not fail to keep the appointment in London."

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

"Will you permit us to open it?" he inquired, much interested.

"Certainly," I responded. "I am anxious to see what it contains."

The detective took it, and cut the string with his pocket-knife; then, while his subordinate and the Director of the Casino craned their necks to investigate, he unwrapped paper after paper until he came to a square jewel-case covered in dark crimson leather.

"An ornament, I suppose!" exclaimed the detective.

Then he opened the box, and from its velvet-lined depths something fell to the ground which caused us to utter a loud cry of surprise in chorus.

The detective stooped to pick it up.

I stood dumbfounded and aghast. In his hand was a bundle of folded French bank-notes—each for one thousand francs. They were the notes stolen from Reginald Thorne by his assassin.