One evening, about ten days later, we dined at old Benjamin Keppel's invitation at the Villa Fabron.
Visitors to Nice know the great white mansion. High up above the sea, beyond the Magnam bridge, it stands in the midst of extensive grounds shaded by date-palms, olives, and oranges, approached by a fine eucalyptus avenue, and rendered bright with flowers, its dazzlingly white walls relieved by the green persiennes, a residence magnificent even for Nice, the town of princes. Along the whole front of the great place there runs a brmarble terrace, from which are obtained marvellous views of Nice on the left, the gilt-domed Jetée Promenade jutting out into the azure bay, the old chateau, Mont Boron, and the snow-capped Alps, while on the right lies the valley of the Var and that romantic chain of dark-purple mountains which lie far away beyond Cannes, a panorama almost as magnificent as that from the higher Corniche.
The interior was, we found, the acme of luxury and comfort. Everywhere was displayed the fact that its owner was wealthy, yet none on entering there would believe him to be so simple in tastes and curiously eccentric in manner. Each winter he came to Nice in his splendid steam-yacht, the Vispera, which was now anchored as usual in Villefranche harbor, and with his sister, a small, wizen-faced old lady, and Mr. Barnes, his secretary, he lived there from December until the end of April.
Ulrica had met him several times in New York, and he greeted us both very affably. He was, I found, a queer old fellow. Report had certainly not lied about him, and I could hardly believe that this absent-minded, rather ordinary-looking old gentleman with disordered gray hair and beard and dark, deep-set eyes was Gerald's father, the great Benjamin Keppel, of Pittsburg.
Dinner, even though a stately affair, was quite a pleasant function, for the old millionaire was most unassuming and affable. One of his eccentricities displayed itself in his dress. His dining-jacket was old and quite glossy about the back and elbows, he wore a paper collar, his white tie showed unmistakable signs of having done duty on at least a dozen previous occasions, and across his vest was suspended an albert, not of gold but of rusty steel. There had never been any pretence about Ben Keppel in his earlier days, as all the world knew, and there was certainly none in these days of his affluence. He had amassed his fabulous fortune by shrewdness and sheer hard work, and he despised the whole of that chattering little ring which calls itself Society.
Ere I had been an hour in this man's society I grew to like him for his honest plain-spokenness. He possessed none of that sarcastic arrogance which generally characterizes those whose fortunes are noteworthy, but in conversation spoke softly, with a carefully cultivated air of refinement. Not that he was refined in the least. He had gone to the States as an emigrant from a little village in Norfolk, and had succeeded by reason of several striking inventions in the manufacture of steel in amassing the third largest fortune in the United States.
He sat at the head of the table in his great dining-room, while Ulrica and myself sat on either hand. As a matter of course, our conversation turned upon the mysterious death of poor Reggie, and both of us gave him the exact version of the story.
"Most extraordinary!" he ejaculated. "Gerald has already explained the painful facts to me. There seems no doubt whatever that the poor fellow was murdered for the money. Yet to me the strangest part of the whole affair is why he should have left you so suddenly at the Hermitage. If he changed the money for large notes, as we may suppose he did, why didn't he return to you?"
"Because he must in the meantime have met someone," I suggested.
"That's just it," he said. "If the police could but discover the identity of the friend, then I feel convinced that all the remainder would be plain sailing."
"But, my dear guv'nor, the police hold the theory that he did not meet anyone until he arrived in Nice," Gerald observed.
"The police here are a confounded set of idiots," cried the old millionaire. "If it had occurred in New York or Chicago, or even in Pittsburg, they would have arrested the murderer long before this. Here, in France, there's too much confounded controle."
"I expect if the truth were known," observed Miss Keppel in her thin, squeaky voice, "the authorities of Monaco don't relish the idea that a man should be followed and murdered after successful play, and they won't help the Nice police at all."
"Most likely," her brother said. "The police of the Prince of Monaco are elegant blue-and-silver persons who look as though they would hesitate to capture a prisoner for fear of soiling their white kid gloves. But surely, Miss Rosselli," he added, turning to me, "the Nice police haven't let the affair drop, have they?"
"I cannot say," I responded; "the last I saw of any of the detectives was a week ago. The man who called upon me then admitted that no clue had so far been obtained."
"Then all I have to say is that it's a public scandal!" Benjamin Keppel cried angrily. "The authorities here entertain absolutely no regard for the personal safety of their visitors. It appears to me that in Nice year by year prices have increased until hotel charges have become unbearable, and people are being driven over the frontier to Bordighera and San Remo. During these past two years absolutely no regard has been paid by the Nice authorities to the comfort of the visitors who bring them their wherewithal to live!"
"The guv'nor's disgusted," laughed Gerald across to me. "He's taken like this sometimes."
"Yes, my boy, I am disgusted. All I want in winter is quiet, sunshine, and good air. That's what I come here for. And I can get all that at San Remo, for the air is better even than here."
"But it isn't so fashionable," I observed.
"To an old man like me it does not matter whether a place is fashionable or not, my dear Miss Rosselli," he said with a serious look. "I leave all that sort of thing to Gerald. He has his clubs, his horses, his fine friends, and all the rest of it. But all the people know Ben Keppel, of Pittsburg. Even if I belonged to the most swagger of the clubs and mixed in good society,—among lords and ladies of the aristocracy, I mean,—I'd still be the same. I couldn't alter myself as some of 'em try to and do."
We laughed. The old man was so blunt that one could not help admiring him. He had the reputation of being niggardly in certain matters, especially regarding Gerald's allowance, but, as Ulrica remarked, there were no doubt plenty of people who would be anxious to lend money to the millionaire's heir upon post-obits, so that after all it didn't much matter. If inclined to be economical in one or two directions, he certainly kept a remarkably good table, but although there were choice wines for us, he drank only water.
When, with Gerald, he joined us in the great drawing-room, he seated himself near me and suddenly said:
"I don't know, Miss Rosselli, whether you would like to remain here and gossip or whether you'd like to stroll round the place. You are a woman, and there may be something to interest you in it."
"I shall be delighted, I'm sure," I said, and together we went forth to wander about the great mansion which all the world on the Riviera knows as the home of the renowned Steel King.
He showed me his library, the boudoirs which were never occupied, the gallery of modern French paintings, the Indian tea-room, and the great conservatory, whence we walked out upon the terrace and looked down upon the lights of the gay winter city lying at our feet, and that flash of white brilliance which ever and anon shoots across the tranquil sea and marks the dangerous headland at Antibes.
The night was lovely—one of those dry, bright, perfect nights which occur so often on the Riviera in January. At sundown the air is always damp and treacherous, but when darkness falls it is no longer dangerous even to those with the most delicate constitutions.
"How beautiful!" I ejaculated, standing at his side and watching the great white moon slowly rising from the sea. "What a fairyland!"
"Yes. It is beautiful. The Riviera is, I believe, the fairest spot that God has created on this earth," and then he sighed as though world-weary.
Presently, when we had been chatting a few minutes, he suggested that we should re-enter the house, as he feared that I, being in décolleté, might catch a chill.
"I have a hobby," he said, "the only thing which prevents me from becoming absolutely melancholy. Would you care to see it?"
"Oh, do show it to me," I said, at once interested.
"Then come with me," he exclaimed, and led me through two long passages to a door which he unlocked with a tiny master-key upon his chain.
"This is my private domain," he laughed. "No one is allowed here, so you must consider yourself very privileged."
"That I certainly do," I responded, and as he entered he switched on the electric light, displaying to my astonished gaze a large place fitted up as a workshop with lathes, tools, wheels, straps, and all sorts of mechanical contrivances.
"This room is a secret," he said with a smile. "If the fine people who sometimes patronize me with visits thought that I actually worked here they'd be horrified."
"Then do you actually work?" I inquired, surprised.
"Certainly. Having nothing otherwise to occupy my time when I severed myself from the works, I took to turning. I was a turner by trade years ago, you know."
I looked at him in wonderment. People had said he was eccentric, and this was evidently one of his eccentricities. He had secretly established a great workshop within that princely mansion.
"Would you like to see how I can work?" he asked, noticing my look of wonder. "Well, watch—excuse me," and he threw off his jacket, and having raised a lever which set one of the lathes at work he seated himself at it, selected a piece of ivory, and placed it in position.
"Now," he laughed, looking towards me, "what shall I make you? Ah, I know, an object useful to all you ladies is a box for your powder-puff—eh?"
"You seem to be fully aware of feminine mysteries, Mr. Keppel," I laughed.
"Well, you see, I was married once," he answered. "But in those days my poor Mary didn't want face-powder, bless her!"
And at that instant his keen chisel cut deeply into the revolving ivory with a harsh, sawing sound that rendered further conversation impossible.
I stood behind watching him. His grand old head was bent keenly over his work as he hollowed out the box to the desired depth, carefully gauged it, finished it, and quickly turned the lid until it fitted with precision and exactness. Then he rubbed it down, polished it in several ways, and at last handed it to me complete, saying,—
"There is a little souvenir, Miss Rosselli, of your first visit to me."
"Thank you ever so much," I answered, taking it and examining it curiously. Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal wealth was remarkable even among the many millionaires in the United States.
"I ask only one favor," he said, as we passed out and he locked the door of his workshop behind us,—"that you will tell no one of my hobby—that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald's sake I am compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd moments."
"Do you earn money?" I inquired, amazed.
"Certainly. A firm in Bond Street, London, buy all my ivory work, only they are not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn't do, you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It has done so ever since I left the factory," he added simply.
"I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I'll tell no one if you wish it to remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings."
"You don't blame me, surely?" he said.
"Certainly not," I answered.
It seems, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his great houses in New York and Pittsburg, his shooting-box in Scotland, his yacht, acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa on the Riviera, should toil at turning in order to earn a pound or two a week as pocket-money.
"When I worked as a turner in England in the old days I earned sixteen shillings a week making butter and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I've paid for the ivory and the necessary things for the 'shop,'" he explained. Then he added: "You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you place yourself for a moment in my position—that of a man without further aim or ambition—you will not be surprised that I have, after the lapse of nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I served my apprenticeship."
"I quite understand," I responded, "and I only admire you that you do not, like so many other rich men, lead a life of easy indolence."
"I can't do that," he said. "It isn't in me to be still. I must be at work, or I'm never happy. Only I have to be discreet for Gerald's sake," and the old millionaire smiled—rather sadly, I thought.
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