So still, so pale, 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 hands had endeavored to strangle her, were of a pale yellowish brown, like disappearing bruises, the one 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 again 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 happily divides Italy from France; its rays penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman stirred not. 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 a clue to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she was still unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the skirt, and placing my hand in the pocket drew out the contents.
The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile leather, hoping to discover her visiting-card therein. But in this I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few francs in 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 instant 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 woman 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 an address of some person in Brussels.
I therefore carefully replaced them all, having failed to ascertain her name, and then 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,—and 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 recognized the name of some small station through which we dashed.
"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 upon which I immediately proceeded to act. "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-mounted 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 obliged to remain in that stuffy little den for another twenty hours or so—that is, if they intended to go on to Paris. The prospect was certainly not inviting, for a single night in a Continental sleeping-car over a badly laid line gets on one's nerves terribly. Compelled, however, to feign illness, I turned in again at Turin, and 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 am not well," I explained to the man when he handed it to me. "Are you going through to Paris?"
"Sisignorina."
"Then will you see that I'm not disturbed, either at the frontier or anywhere else?"
"Certainly—if the Signorina has the keys of her baggage."
"I have no baggage," I responded. "Only see that I get something to eat, and buy me a Italian—French—anything will do, and also some newspapers."
"Sisignorina." And the door was closed.
Five minutes later, just as the train was gliding out of Turin, the man returned with a couple of and half-a-dozen of those four-paged badly printed Italian newspapers, and with them I managed to while away the long, tedious hours as we sped 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 recognized 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 responded. "I've had enough of cruising. You too must be very tired of it."
"Tired!" she cried. "Imprisoned in that 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 quite another matter—quite another matter."
"I do wish that you would satisfy my curiosity and tell me 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 some one with strong, sinewy fingers were trying to strangle me. I have the marks there now."
"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 some one tried to take my life."
"Rubbish! Why, whom could you suspect? I was the only soul on board who knew of your presence there. Surely you don't suspect me of attempted 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 in accord in order to obtain some object the nature of which was to me a complete mystery.
She came a short time afterwards and inquired kindly 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 brdaylight 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 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 would explain everything on the morrow. The yacht would be lying safely in Genoa harbor awaiting her owner, who never intended to return.
And where was the unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I could not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to whom he might really be.
The day passed slowly and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The woman with the mysterious marks upon her returned with 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 tone perfectly well.
For some 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 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 confidential conversation with Keppel and my travelling-companion, as though they were old friends.
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.
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