William Le Queux (continued 4)

A few minutes after nine the door was thrown open by one of the servants, behind whom stood a tall, well-dressed lady.

“M’sieur Stra-atfeeld?” she exclaimed interrogatively, with a very pronounced French accent.

“That is my name,” he answered, bowing and inviting her into the room.

The spring nights are chilly in Nice, and she was warmly clad in furs, and wore a neat toque with black veil, but even the spotted net was insufficient to conceal that an eminently handsome face was beneath.

“Your room is warm and cosy,” she exclaimed, when he had placed an armchair for her. “It is quite cold outside. May I be permitted to remove my cape?”

“Certainly, madame,” he answered, still standing near her, a puzzled expression upon his countenance as she unloosened her sealskin and allowed it to fall over the back of her chair, revealing a trim figure with narrow waist, neatly attired in black silk, the bodice trimmed with cream.

“You were smoking,” she said, with a smile. “Pray do not desist on my account. I love tobacco. Indeed, if you offered I would take one of your cigarettes—or would you think me very, very shocking?”

“By all means,” he laughed. “I shall be delighted if you’ll join me,” and he offered her his cigarette-case, and took one himself. Then he struck a vesta while she raised her veil, disclosing a pretty face and an adorable mouth, and lit up with the air of an inveterate smoker. Her fair hair was, he noticed, well-dressed, and her eyes were dark, but there was just the faintest suspicion of artificial colouring in the former, and her cheeks betrayed the use of the hare’s foot and carmine. He reflected however, that in a Frenchwoman these little aids to beauty might be forgiven. Her handsome head was well poised, her throat soft and well-rounded, her white gloves new, and her dress a model of combined neatness and elegance. Her exact age was difficult to determine, nevertheless she was still young-looking, and possessed the chic of the true Parisienne, which to Englishmen seldom fails to prove attractive.

He made a movement to close the window, but with a pretty pout she detained him, declaring that the room was a little warm, and at least for the present she felt no draught.

He sank back into his chair, and regarded her with an expression half of curiosity, half of surprise. Their eyes met. The silence was awkward, and he broke it by apologising for receiving her somewhat abruptly.

“Ah, you bachelors are generally abrupt to unwelcome visitors?” she answered in her pleasant broken English, with a low rippling laugh. “It is only my much abused sex who prevent you from reverting to utter barbarity. You are not married. Ah, you should have a wife to look after you.”

“Perhaps I may have one—some day,” he answered, smiling at her frankness.

Slowly she removed the cigarette from her lips, and her gaze wandered round the brightly-furnished room.

“But you declare yourself to be an unwelcome visitor,” he continued. “Why?”

For a moment she regarded the end of her cigarette contemplatively, then turning her dark eyes upon his, answered in a half-apologetic tone—

“Well, you must think my visit here curious, m’sieur. It is. Nevertheless, I trust I may be forgiven for encroaching upon your time, and coming here without introduction. The object of my call is of some concern to you, inasmuch as it is in the interests of one who loves you.”

“One who loves me!” he echoed in surprise. “Who?”

“Liane Brooker,” answered his fair visitor. “In her interests, and in yours.”

“Are you, then, a friend of Liane’s?” he inquired, suddenly interested.

“Well, not exactly,” she replied, a little evasively he thought.

Then she replaced her cigarette daintily between her lips, and continued smoking with that ease and grace acquired by ladies who are in the habit of soothing their nerves with tobacco.

“Are you acquainted with Captain Brooker?” he asked.

“Yes, we have met,” she answered. “You know him, of course? He is such a kind-hearted man, such a thorough Bohemian, yet such a perfect gentleman.”

“Unfortunately, I have only met him on one or two occasions,” George said. In an instant it had occurred to him that from his mysterious visitor he might learn what Liane and poor Nelly had always refused to tell him. “He has lived here, in France, for some years. What has been his profession?”

“Profession!” she exclaimed, raising her dark well shaped eyebrows. “What! are you unaware?”

“I am entirely ignorant.”

“Well, although a military officer, of late years his chief field of operations has been the trente-et-quarante table at Monte Carlo, where he is as well-known as—well, as the fat old gentleman who sits in the bureau to examine one’s visiting card.”

“A gambler!” he cried, in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes, a gambler,” she went on. “Few men of late years have lost such large sums so recklessly as he has. Once everybody followed his play, believing him to be a sort of wizard who could divine the cards undealt; but at last his ill-luck became proverbial, and after ruining himself he left with Liane and Nelly Bridson and went to England.”

“And Liane? What of her?” he inquired, dismayed that the man he had held in high esteem as a good-hearted, easy-going fellow should actually turn out to be an adventurer.

“Ah! she has led a strange life,” sighed the handsome Frenchwoman. “I have seen her many times, but have seldom spoken much with her. I often met her father in the days of his success, but he for some reason avoided introducing me. Although the circle in which Erle Brooker moved was usually composed of thieves, adventuresses, and the scum of the gambling-hells, he held his daughter aloof from it all. He would never permit her to mix with any of his companions, appearing to entertain a curious suspicion towards even respectable folk, fearing lest she should become contaminated by the world’s wickedness. Thus,” she added, “Liane and her companion Nelly grew to be sweet and altogether ingenuous girls, who were everywhere respected and admired.”

There was a short pause, during which he pondered deeply over the facts his strange visitor had explained. The truth was out at last. Liane was the daughter of an adventurer. He recollected how well she had been dressed when he had met her on the terrace at Monte Carlo, and reflected that her father must be again winning. The reason why she had compelled him to leave her that afternoon, why she had always preserved such a reticence regarding her past life, was now entirely plain. She did not wish that he should know the truth.

“You said that you called in Liane’s interests,” he observed, presently, glancing at her with earnestness. “How?”

“What are her interests are yours; are they not?” she asked.

“Certainly.”

“You love her?”

He smiled at the abruptness of her question. She was leaning back, regarding him with her keen, dark eyes, and holding her cigarette daintily between her bejewelled fingers.

“She has promised to become my wife,” he answered.

A strange look crossed her features. There was something of surprise mingled with anger; but in an instant she hid it beneath a calm, sphinx-like expression.

“I fear she will never marry you,” she said, with a sigh.

“Why?”

“Because of her engagement to the Prince d’Auzac.”

“I care nothing for that,” he cried, in anger at mention of his rival’s name. “We love each other, and will marry.”

“Such a course is impossible,” she answered, in a deep impressive voice. “It would be far better if you returned to London—better for you both—for she cannot marry you.”

“Why?” he demanded. He suddenly recollected that from this mysterious woman who knew so much of their personal affairs he might obtain knowledge of the secret his well-beloved had refused to disclose. “Why cannot she abandon him, and marry the man she loves?”

“There is a secret reason,” his visitor replied. “She dare not.”

“Are you aware of the reason?” he demanded, quickly.

“I can guess. If it is as I suspect, then marriage with you is entirely out of the question. She must marry Zertho.”

“Because she is in fear of him?” he hazarded.

She shrugged her shoulders with that vivacity which only Frenchwomen possess, but no reply left her lips.

“From what does her strange fear arise?” he asked, bending towards her in his eagerness to learn the truth.

“An overwhelming terror holds her to Zertho. It is a bond which, although he may be hateful to her, as undoubtedly he is, she cannot break. She must become Princess d’Auzac.”

“She fears lest he should expose some hidden secret of her past?” he suggested.

“I don’t say that,” she answered. “Remember I have only suspicions. Nevertheless, from whatever cause arises her terrible dread its result is the same—it prevents her from becoming your wife.”

“Yes,” he admitted, plunged in gloomy reflections. “It does. I have come out here from London to see her, but she will tell me nothing beyond the fact that she is betrothed to this man, Zertho d’Auzac. At first I believed that the attractions of wealth had proved too strong for her to resist; but your words, in combination with hers, are proof positive that there is some strange, dark secret underlying her engagement to him.”

“He has forced her to it,” his fair visitor said in a harsh voice. “He’s absolutely unscrupulous.”

“You know him?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a slight hesitancy. “His career has been a curious one. Not long ago he was a fellow-adventurer with Captain Brooker, and well-known in all the gaming-houses in Europe—at Monte Carlo, Spa, Ostend, Namur, and Dinant—as one who lived by exercising his superior intelligence over his fellow-men. He was an ‘escroc’—one who lived by his wits, won money at the tables, and when luck was against him did not hesitate to descend to card-sharping in order to secure funds. He was the black sheep of a noble family, an outcast, a cheat and a swindler,” she went on with a volubility that surprised him. “He possessed all Erle Brooker’s shrewdness without any of his good qualities; for, although the Captain may be an adventurer he has never stooped to meanness. He has always lost and won honourably, regarding his luck, good or ill, with the same imperturbable grim humour and reckless indifference. In the days of his prosperity his hand was ever in his pocket to assist his fellow-gamesters upon whom Misfortune had laid a heavy hand, and more than one young man, drawn to the tables by the hope of winning, has been held back from ruin by his kindly and timely advice. The one was, and is still, a dishonest, despicable knave; while the other was a man of honour, truth and singleness of heart. Suddenly, not long ago, the fortunes of Zertho d’Auzac changed, for his father died and he found himself possessor of a truly princely income and estates. He left the gaming-tables, burned the packs of cards with which he had fleeced so many unsuspecting ones, and returned to Luxembourg to claim his possessions. Since then he has led a life of ease and idleness; yet he is still now, as he ever was, vicious, recreant, and utterly unprincipled.”

“And to this man Liane is bound?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Irrevocably, I fear; unless she can discover some means whereby to hold him at defiance.”

“But she must. I would rather see her dead than the wife of such a man,” he cried.

She remained silent for some minutes. Her cigarette had gone out and she tossed it away. At last she turned to him, exclaiming,—

“Towards her release I am striving. I want your assistance.”

“I will render you every help in my power,” he answered eagerly. “What can I do?”

“First,” she said, glancing at him curiously through her half-raised veil, “first describe to me in detail the whole of the circumstances in which poor Nelly Bridson was killed.”

“What!” he exclaimed quickly. “Has her fear any connection with that tragic incident?”

In an instant he remembered the finding of a hairpin near the spot, a pin which had been proved conclusively not to belong to the murdered girl.

“I know it was you who discovered the body,” she went on, disregarding his inquiry. “Tell me the whole of the sad affair as far as your knowledge extends. I have, of course, read the accounts of the inquest which appeared in the papers at the time, but I am anxious to ascertain some further details.”

“Of what nature?”

“I want you to tell me, if you will,” she replied with an interested look, “the exact position of the body when you discovered it.”

Her question brought to his memory his ghastly discovery in all its hideousness. There arose before his vision the blanched upturned face of the girl prostrate in the dust, the fallen cycle, and the white, deserted English lane, silent and gloomy in the evening mist.

“Why do you desire me to recall an event so painful?” he asked in a calm tone.

“Because it is necessary that you should tell me exactly how you discovered her,” she replied. “You had an appointment with Liane at that very spot on that same evening, had you not?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I was, unfortunately, late in keeping it, and rode to the railway bridge at full gallop, expecting to find her still waiting, but instead, found Nelly dead.”

“She was lying in the centre of the road?”

“Almost. But a little to the right,” he answered. “The road passing beneath the railway takes an abrupt but short incline just where I found her. She was evidently mounting the hill on her cycle when she was shot down.”

“Tell me exactly how you discovered her, and how you acted immediately afterwards,” she urged. “Begin at the beginning, and tell me all. It may be that you can assist me in releasing Liane from her bondage.”

Her words puzzled him, nevertheless, in obedience to her wish, he related in their proper sequence each of the events of that memorable evening; how he had made the appalling discovery, how he had found the long-lost miniature of Lady Anne, had ridden with all speed down to the village for assistance, and how he had subsequently discovered the mysterious hairpin among the long grass by the gateway.

“Have you been able to determine how the missing miniature came into Nelly’s possession?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It is entirely a mystery. It almost seems as if she had carried it in her hand, and it fell from her fingers when she was struck.”

“The papers also mentioned a brooch which was missing from Nelly’s dress,” she observed.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was no doubt stolen by the murderer.”

“Why are you so certain the assassin was also the thief?” she inquired.

“Well, everything points to such being the case,” he said.

“When you first discovered the crime are you certain that the brooch was not still at her throat?” his mysterious visitor asked, eyeing him seriously.

He paused, reflecting deeply for a moment.

“I took no notice,” he answered. “I was too much upset by the startling discovery to take heed what jewellery the victim wore.”

“Cannot you sufficiently recall the appearance of the unfortunate girl when first you saw her to say positively whether or not she was still wearing the ornament? Try; it is most important that this fact should be cleared up,” she urged. Her gay carelessness had left her, and she was full of serious earnestness.

Again he reflected. Once more before his vision rose the tragic scene just as he had witnessed it, and somehow, he felt a growing consciousness that this woman’s suggestion was correct. Yes, he felt certain that Nelly, although her eyes were sightless and her heart had ceased to beat, still wore the brooch which her admirer had given her. Again and again he strove to decide, and each time he found himself convinced of the one fact alone—that at that moment the brooch was still there.

“Well,” she exclaimed at last, after intently watching every expression of his face, “what is your reply?”

“Now that I come to reflect, I am almost positive that the brooch had not been stolen,” he answered, slowly.

“You are quite confident of that?” she cried, quickly.

“I will not swear,” he answered, “but if my memory does not deceive me it was still at her throat. I recollect noticing a strange mark beneath her chin, and wondering how it had been caused. Without doubt when her head sunk heavily upon her breast in death her chin had pressed upon the brooch.”

“In that case you certainly have sufficient justification to take an oath if the question were put to you in a court of justice,” she observed, her brows knit reflectively.

George was puzzled how this fact could affect Liane’s future welfare, or rescue her from marriage with the Prince. This woman, too, was a mystery, and he found himself wondering who and what she was.

“You are already aware of my name,” he observed, after a brief pause. “Now that we have exchanged confidences in this manner, may I not know yours?”

“It is no secret, m’sieur,” she replied, looking into his face and smiling. “My name is Mariette Lepage.”

“Mariette Lepage!” he gasped, starting from his chair, and glaring at her in bewilderment.

“That, m’sieur, is my name,” she answered, opening her dark eyes widely in surprise at his strange and sudden attitude. “Surely it is not so very extraordinary that, in giving you, a stranger, an address at the Post Restante I should have used a name that was not my own?”

Chapter Fifteen.

Held in Bondage.

George Stratfield walked out of his hotel next morning his mind full of Mariette Lepage’s strange statements. Long and deeply he pondered over the curious situation, but could discern no solution of the intricate problem. That there was some deep mystery underlying the actions of this woman he could not fail to recognise, yet, try how he would, he nevertheless found himself regarding her with misgiving. Her coquettishness caused him grave suspicion. Although she had endeavoured to convince him of her friendliness towards Liane it was apparent from certain of her remarks that she had some ulterior motive in endeavouring to obtain from him the exact details of the tragedy. He felt confident that she was Liane’s enemy.

Was it not a cruel vagary of Fate that he should discover this unknown woman whom his father had designated as his wife, only to find her the bitterest foe of the woman he loved? This was the woman who, under his father’s eccentric will, was to be offered twenty thousand pounds to accept him as husband!

He had said nothing of the offer which sooner or later must be formally made to her, but before they had parted she had given him as her address the Villa Fortunée, at Monaco. He remembered the strange fact of one of her letters being found in Nelly Bridson’s pocket, but when he mentioned it she had merely remarked that she had been acquainted with the unfortunate girl. Nevertheless, he also recollected that the letter had contained an expression never used in polite society, and that it had been considered by the police as an altogether extraordinary and rather incriminating document.

Confused and bewildered, he was walking beneath the awnings on the shops of the Quai Massena on his way to the Promenade, when suddenly he heard his name uttered, and on looking up found Liane standing before him smiling. In her tailor-made gown of pale fawn with a neat toque, she presented an extremely smart and fresh-looking appearance.

“You were so engrossed, George,” she said half-reproachfully, with a pretty pout, “that you were actually passing me unnoticed. What’s the matter? Something on your mind?”

“Yes,” he answered, endeavouring to laugh, so pleased was he that they had met. “I have something always on my mind—you.”

“Then I regret if thoughts of me induce such sadness,” she answered, as turning in the direction she was walking he strolled by her side. The March sun was so warm that its fiery rays burnt his face.

“Don’t speak like that, Liane,” he protested. “You surely must know how heavily those cruel words you spoke at Monte Carlo have fallen upon me. How can I have happiness when I know that ere long we must part?” They had crossed the road, and were entering the public garden in order that passers-by should not overhear their conversation, for in Nice half the people in the streets speak or understand English.

“Yes,” she sighed gloomily. “I know I ought not to have spoken like that, George. Forgive me, I know that happiness is not for me, yet I am trying not to wear my heart upon my sleeve.”

“But what compels you to marry this man, who was once an adventurer and swindler, and is still unscrupulous? Surely such a man is no fitting husband for you?”

Liane glanced at him quickly in surprise. If her lover knew of Zertho’s past he would no doubt have learnt that her father had also earned a precarious livelihood by his wits.

“Already I have told you that a secret tie binds me irrevocably to him,” she answered huskily, as slowly, side by side, they strolled beneath the trees.

“It must be broken, whatever its nature,” he said quickly.

“Ah! I only wish it could be,” she answered wistfully, again sighing. “I am compelled to wear a smiling face, but, alas! it only hides a heart worn out with weariness. I’m the most wretched girl in all the world. You think me cruel and heartless—you believe I no longer love you as I did—you must think so. Yet I assure you that day by day I am remembering with, regret those happy sunny days in Berkshire, those warm brilliant evenings when, wandering through the quiet leafy lanes, we made for ourselves a paradise which we foolishly believed would last always. And yet it is all past—all past, never to return.”

He saw that she was affected, and that tears stood in her eyes.

“Life with me has not the charm it used then to possess, dearest,” he said, in a low, intense tone, as together they sat upon one of the seats. “True, those days at Stratfield were the happiest of all I have ever known. I remember well how, each time we parted, I counted the long hours of sunshine until we met again; how, when I was away from your side, each road, house and tree reminded me of your own dear self; how in my day-dreams I imagined myself living with you always beside me. The blow came—my father died. You were my idol. I cared for nothing else in the world, and before he died I refused to obey his command to part from you.”

“Why,” she asked quickly, “did your father object to me?”

“Yes, darling, he did,” he answered. This was the first time he had told her the truth, and it had come out almost involuntarily.

“Then that is why he acted so unjustly towards you?” she observed, thoughtfully. “You displeased him because you loved me.”

He nodded in the affirmative.

“But I do not regret it,” he exclaimed hastily. “I do not regret, because I still love you as fervently as I did on that memorable evening when my father called me to his bedside and urged me to give up all thought of you. It is because—because of your decision to marry this man, Zertho, that I grieve.”

“It is not my decision,” she protested. “I am forced to act as I am acting.”

“But you shall never marry him!”

“Unfortunately it is beyond your power to assist me, George,” she answered, in a tone of despair. “We love each other, it is true, but we must end it all. We must not meet again,” she added, in a voice broken by emotion. “I—I cannot bear it. Indeed, I can’t.”

“Why should you say this?” he asked, reproachfully. “Loving each other as fondly as we do, we must meet. No power on earth can prevent it.”

They looked fondly into each other’s eyes. Liane saw in his intense passion and earnestness, and knew how well he loved her. Plunged in thought, she traced a semicircle in the dust with the ferrule of her sunshade.

“No,” she said at length, quite calmly. “You must forget, George. I shall leave here to marry and live away in the old château in Luxembourg as one buried. When I am wedded, my only prayer will be that we may never again meet.”

“Why?” he cried, dismayed.

“Because when I see you I always live the past over again. All those bright, happy, joyous days come back to me, together with the tragic circumstances of poor Nelly’s death—the dark shadow which fell between us, the shadow which has lengthened and deepened until it has now formed a barrier insurmountable.”

“What does Nelly’s death concern us?” he asked. “It was tragic and mysterious, certainly; nevertheless, it surely does not prevent our marriage.”

For an instant she glanced sharply at him, then lowering her gaze, answered drily,—

“Of course not.”

“Then why refer to it?”

“Because the mystery has never been solved,” she said, in a tone which surprised him.

“Where the police have failed we can scarcely hope to be successful,” he observed. Yet the harsh, strained voice in which she had spoken puzzled him. More than once it had occurred to him that Liane had never satisfactorily explained where she had been on that well-remembered evening, yet, loving her so well, he had always dismissed any suspicion as wild and utterly unfounded. Nevertheless, her statements to several persons regarding her actions on that evening had varied considerably, and he could not conceal the truth from himself that for a reason unaccountable she had successfully hidden some matter which might be of greatest importance.

“Do you think the truth will ever come out?” she inquired, her eyes still downcast.

“It may,” he answered, watching her narrowly. “The unexpected often happens.”

“Of course,” she agreed, with a faint smile. “But the police have obtained no further clue, have they?” she asked in eagerness.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he answered briefly, and a silence fell between them. “Liane,” he said at last, turning towards her with a calm, serious look, “I somehow cannot help doubting that you are acting altogether straightforward towards me.”

“Straightforward?” she echoed, glancing at him with a look half of suspicion, half of surprise. “I don’t understand you.”

“I mean that you refuse to tell me the reason you are bound to marry this man you hate,” he blurted forth. “You are concealing the truth.”

“Only because I am forced to do so,” she answered mechanically. “Ah, you do not know all, George, or you would not upbraid me,” she added brokenly.

“Why not tell me? Then I might assist you.”

“No, alas! you cannot assist me,” she answered, in a forlorn, hopeless voice, with head bent and her gaze fixed blankly upon the ground. “If you wish to be merciful towards me, leave here. Return to London and forget everything. While you remain, my terrible secret oppresses me with greater weight, because I know that I have lost for ever all love and hope—that the judgment of Heaven has fallen upon me.”

“Why, dearest?” he cried. “How is it you speak so strangely?” Then in an instant remembering her curious words when they had met at Monte Carlo, he added, “Anyone would believe that you had committed some fearful crime.”

She started, staring at him with lips compressed, but uttering no response. Her face was that of one upon whose conscience was some guilty secret.

“Come,” he said presently, in a kind, persuasive tone. “Tell me why poor Nelly’s death is a barrier to our happiness.”

“No,” she answered, “I cannot. Have I not already told you that my secret is inviolable?”

“You refuse?”

She nodded, her breast heaving and falling.

“Every detail of that terrible affair is still as vivid in my recollection as if it occurred but yesterday,” he said. “Until quite recently I have always believed that the assassin stole the brooch she was wearing; but I am now confident that it was stolen between the time I discovered the body and returned with assistance from the village.”

She held her breath, but only for a single instant.

“What causes you to think this?” she inquired. “Because I distinctly remember that the brooch was still at her throat when I found her lying in the road. Yet when I returned it was missing. The assassin was not the thief.”

“That has been my theory all along,” she said.

He noticed the effect his words produced upon her, and was puzzled.

“You have never explained to me, Liane, the reason you did not keep your appointment with me on that evening,” he said gravely. “If you had been at the spot we had arranged, Nelly’s life would most probably have been saved.”

“I was prevented from meeting you,” she answered vaguely, after a second’s hesitation.

“You have already told me that. What prevented you?”

“A curious combination of circumstances.”

“What were they?”

“I started out to meet you, but was prevented from so doing.”

“By whom?”

“By a friend.”

“Or was it an enemy?” he suggested. Her statement did not coincide with the fact that she had written to him postponing their meeting.

“I do not know,” she replied. “When we parted it was long past the hour we had arranged, so I returned home.”

“Nelly must at that moment have been lying dead,” he observed. “Have you any idea what took her to that spot of all others?”

“None whatever,” Liane replied. “Except that, unaware of our appointment, she met someone there.”

“You think she met there the person who afterwards shot her?”

“That is my belief.”

“Then if you know nothing further regarding the mysterious affair why should it prevent our marriage?” he asked, regarding her intently.

“It is not only that,” she replied quickly, “but there is a further reason.”

“What is it? Surely I may know,” he urged. “You will not send me away in doubt and ignorance, when you know I love you so well.”

“I cannot tell you,” she answered, panting.

“Then I shall not leave you, and allow you to become this man’s wife—nay, his victim,” he exclaimed passionately. “You do not love him, Liane. You can never love him. Although once a cheat and adventurer he may now have wealth and position, nevertheless he is no fitting husband for you, even though he may give you a fine château, a town house in Brussels, and a villa here, on the Riviera. Wealth will never bring you happiness.”

“Why do you not leave me, George?” she cried, with a sudden movement as if to rise. “Why do you taunt me like this? It is cruel of you.”

“I do not taunt you, dearest,” he protested in a tone of sympathy. “I merely point out the bitter truth. You are betrothed to a man who is in every respect unworthy of you.”

“Ah, no!” she exclaimed hysterically. “It is myself who is unworthy. I—I cannot break the bond between us because—because I fear him.”

“If he holds you secretly in his power why not confide in me?” her lover suggested earnestly. “I may devise some means by which you may escape.”

“If I did you would only hate me,” she answered, her lips trembling in blank despair. “No, do not persuade me. There is but one course I can pursue.”

“You intend marrying him?” he observed huskily.

“Unfortunately it is imperative.”

“Have you ever reflected how utterly wretched your life must necessarily be under such circumstances?” he asked, gazing seriously into her eyes.

“Yes,” she answered, endeavouring vainly to restrain the sob which escaped her. “I know full well the life which must now be mine. Without you I shall not care to live.”

“Then why not allow me to assist you?” he urged. “Whatever may be the nature of your secret, tell me, and let me advise you. Together we will frustrate Zertho’s plans, whatever they may be.”

“Any such attempt would only place me in greater peril,” she pointed out.

“But surely you can rely on my secrecy?” he said. “Do I not love you?”

“Yes, but you would hate me if you knew the truth,” she whispered hoarsely. “Therefore I cannot tell you.”

“Your secret cannot be of such a nature as to cause that, Liane,” he said quietly.

“It is. Even if I told you everything your help would not avail me. Indeed, it would only bring to me greater pain and unhappiness,” she answered quickly.

“Our days of bliss have passed and gone, and with them all hope has vanished. They were full of a perfect, peaceful happiness, because you loved me with the whole strength of your soul, and I idolised you in return. Hour by hour the remembrance of those never-to-be-forgotten hours spent by your side comes back to me. I remember how quiet and peaceful the English village seemed after the noise, rattle and incessant chatter of a gay Continental town, how from the first moment we met, I, already world-weary, commenced a new life. But it is all past—all gone, and I have now only before me a world of bitterness and despair.” And she turned her pale face from his to hide the tears which welled in her eyes.

“You say you were world-weary,” he observed in a low tone. “I do not wonder at it now that I know of your past.”

“My past!” she gasped quickly. “What do you know of my past?”

“I know that your father was a gambler,” he answered. “Ah! what a life of worry and privation yours must have been, dearest. Yet you told me nothing of it!”

She looked at him, but her gaze wavered beneath his.

“I told you nothing because I feared that you would not choose the daughter of an adventurer for a wife,” she faltered.

“It would have made no difference,” he assured her. “I loved you.”

“Yes,” she sighed; “but there is a natural prejudice against women who have lived in the undesirable set that I have.”

“Quite so,” he admitted. “Nevertheless, knowing how pure and noble you are, dearest, this fact does not trouble me in the least. I am still ready, nay, anxious, to make you my wife.”

She shook her head gravely. Her hand holding her sunshade trembled as she retraced the semicircle in the dust.

“No,” she exclaimed at last. “If you would be generous, George, leave me and return to London. In future I must bear my burden myself; therefore, it is best that I should begin now. To remain here is useless, for each time I see you only increases my sadness; each time we meet brings back to me all the memories I am striving so hard to forget.”

“But I cannot leave you, Liane,” he declared decisively. “You shall not throw yourself helplessly into the hands of this unscrupulous man without my making some effort to save you.”

“It is beyond your power—entirely beyond your power,” she cried, dejectedly. “I would rather kill myself than marry him; yet I am compelled to obey his will, for if I took my life in order to escape, others must bear the penalty which I feared to face. No, if you love me you will depart, and leave me to bear my sorrow alone.”

“I refuse to obey you,” he answered, firmly. “Already you know that because I loved you so well I have borne without regret my father’s action in leaving me almost penniless. Since that day I have worked and striven with you always as my pole-star because you had promised to be mine. Your photograph looked down at me always from the mantelshelf of my dull, smoke-begrimed room. It smiled when I smiled, and was melancholy when I was sad. And the roses and violets you have sent from here made my room look so gay, and their perfume was so fresh that they seemed to breathe the same sweet odour that your chiffons always exhale. Your letters were a little cold, it is true; but I attributed that to the fact that in Nice the distractions are so many that correspondence is always sadly neglected. Picture to yourself what a blow it was to me when, on the terrace at Monte Carlo, you told me that you had another lover, and that you intended to marry him. I felt—”

“Ah!” she cried, putting up her little hand to arrest the flow of his words, “I know, I know. But I cannot help it. I love you still—I shall love you always. But our marriage is not to be.”

He paused in deep reflection. There was one matter upon which he had never spoken to her, and he was wondering whether he should mention it, or let it remain a secret within him. In a few moments, however, he decided.

“I have already told you the cause which led my father to treat me so unjustly, Liane,” he said, looking at her seriously, “but there is one other fact of which I have never spoken. My father left me a considerable sum of money on condition that I married a woman whom I had never seen.”

“A woman you had never seen!” she exclaimed, at first surprised, then laughing at the absurdity of such an idea.

“Yes. It was his revenge. I would not promise to renounce all thought of you, therefore, in addition to leaving me practically a pauper, he made a tantalising provision that if I chose to marry this mysterious woman, of whom none of my family knew anything, I was to receive a certain sum. This woman must, according to the will, be offered a large sum as bribe to accept me as husband, therefore ever since my father’s death his solicitors have been endeavouring to discover her.”

“How extraordinary!” she said, deeply interested in his statement. “Has the woman been found?”

“Yes. I discovered her yesterday,” he replied. “You discovered her! Then she is here, in Nice?”

“Yes, strangely enough, she is here.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mariette Lepage.”

Instantly her face went pale as death.

“Mariette Lepage!” she gasped hoarsely.

“Yes. The woman whose strange letter was found upon Nelly after her death,” he answered. “What my father could have known of her I am utterly at a loss to imagine.”

“And she is actually here, in Nice,” she whispered in a strange, terrified voice, for in an instant there had arisen before her vision the dark angry eyes of the woman in mask and domino who had pelted her so unmercifully on that Sunday afternoon during Carnival.

“Yes, she is here,” he said, glancing at her sharply. “She was evidently well acquainted with poor Nelly. What do you know of her?”

“I—I know nothing,” she answered in an intense, anxious tone, as one consumed by some terrible dread. “Mariette Lepage is not my friend.”

And she sat panting, her chin sunk upon her breast as if she had been dealt a blow.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Golden Hand.

When a few minutes later they rose Liane declared that she must return to lunch; therefore they walked together in the sun-glare along the Promenade, at that hour all but deserted, for the cosmopolitan crowd of persons who basked in the brilliant sunshine during the morning had now sought their hotels for déjeûner. Few words they uttered, so full of gloom and sadness were both their hearts. Liane had insisted that this must be their last meeting, but time after time he had declared that he would never allow her to marry Zertho, although he could make no suggestion whereby she could escape the cruel fate which sooner or later must overwhelm her.

They had strolled about half-way towards the villa in which she and the Captain were staying, when suddenly he halted opposite a short narrow lane, which opened from the Promenade into the thoroughfare running parallel—the old and narrow Rue de France. On either side were high garden walls, and half-way along, these walls, taking a sudden turn at right angles, opened wider; therefore the way was much narrower towards where they stood than at the opposite end.

“Let us go down here,” George suggested. “There is more shade in the street, and you can then reach your villa by the back entrance.”

“No,” she answered, glancing with repugnance at the narrow lane, and turning away quickly. He fancied she shuddered; but, on glancing at the clean little thoroughfare only about a hundred paces in length, he could detect nothing which could cause her repulsion, and at once reassured himself that he had been mistaken.

“But it is so terribly hot and dazzling along here,” he urged.

“You should carry a sun-umbrella,” she smiled. “But there, I suppose men don’t care to be seen with green ginghams.”

“But surely this glare upon the footway hurts your eyes,” he continued. “It is so much cooler in the Rue de France.”

“No,” she replied. And again he thought he detected a gesture of uneasiness as, turning from him, she walked on, her sunshade lowered to hide her face. Puzzled, he stepped forward and quickly caught her up. There was, he felt certain, some hidden reason why she declined to pass along that small unnamed lane. But he did not refer to the subject again, although after he had left her he pondered long and deeply upon her curious attitude, and in walking back to the town he turned into the narrow passage and passed through it to the Rue de France, whence he took the tram down to the Place Massena.

A dozen times had she urged him to leave her and return to London, but so full of mystery seemed all her actions that he was more than ever determined to remain and strive to elucidate the reason of her dogged silence, and solve the curious problem of her strange inexplicable terror.

It was plain that she feared Mariette Lepage, and equally certain also that this mysterious woman who feigned to be her friend was nevertheless her bitterest foe. The reason of her visit to him was not at all plain. Her inquiries regarding the tragic circumstances of Nelly Bridson’s death were, he felt confident, mere excuses. As he sat in the tram-car while it jogged slowly along the narrow noisy street, it suddenly occurred to him that from her he might possibly obtain some information which would lead him to an explanation of Liane’s secret.

He thought out the matter calmly over a pipe at his hotel, and at last decided upon a bold course. She had given him her address, he would, therefore, seek her that afternoon.

In pursuance of his plan he alighted about four o’clock from the train at Monaco Station and inquired his way to the Villa Fortunée. Following the directions of a waiter at the Hôtel des Négociants, he walked down the wide read to the foot of the great rock whereon the town is situated, then ascended by the broad footway, so steep that no vehicles can get up, and passing through the narrow arches of the fort, found himself at last upon the ramparts, in front of the square Moorish-looking palace of the Prince. Around the small square were mounted several antiquated cannon, while near them were formidable-looking piles of heavy shot which are carefully dusted each day, and about the tiny review ground there lounged several gaudily-attired soldiers in light blue uniforms, lolling upon the walls smoking cigarettes. The Principality is a small one, but it makes a brave show, even though its defences remind one of comic opera, and its valiant soldiers have never smelt any other powder save that of the noon-day gun. The silence of the siesta was still upon the little place, for the afternoon was blazing hot. On one side of the square the sentry at the Palace-gate leaned upon his rifle half-asleep, while on the other the fireman sat upon the form outside the engine-house, and with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets moodily watched the slowly-moving hands of the clock in its square, white castellated tower.

George stood for a few moments in the centre of the clean, carefully-swept square, the centre of one of the tiniest governments in the world, then making further inquiry of the sleepy fireman, was directed along the ramparts until he found himself before a fine, square, flat-roofed house, with handsome dead white front, which, facing due south and situated high up on the summit of that bold rock, commanded a magnificent view of Cap Martin, the Italian coast beyond, and the open Mediterranean. Shut off from the ramparts by a handsome iron railing, the garden in front was filled with high palms, fruitful oranges, variegated aloes and a wealth of beautiful flowers, while upon a marble plate the words “Villa Fortunée” were inscribed in gilt letters. The closed sun-shutters were painted white, like the house, and about the exterior of the place was an air of prosperity which the young Englishman did not fail to notice.

Its situation was certainly unique. Deep below, on the great brown rocks descending sheer into the sea, the long waves lashed themselves into white foam, while away sea-ward the water was a brilliant blue which, however, was losing its colour each moment as the shadows lengthened. Within sight of gay, dazzling Monte Carlo, with all her pleasures and flaunting vices, all her fascinating beauty and hideous tragedy, the house was nevertheless quiet and eminently respectable. For an instant he paused to glance at the beautiful view of sea-coast and mountain, then entering the gate, rang the bell.

An Italian man-servant opened the door and took his card, and a few moments later he was ushered into the handsome salon, resplendent with gilt and statuary, where Mariette Lepage had evidently been dozing. The jalousies of the three long windows were closed; the room, perfumed by great bowls of violets, was delightfully cool; and the softly-tempered light pleasant and restful after the white glare outside.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Mariette exclaimed in English, rising to allow her hand to linger for an instant in his, then sinking back with a slight yawn upon her silken couch. In the half-light, as she reclined in graceful abandon upon the divan, her head thrown back upon a great cushion of rose silk, she looked much younger than she really was. George had guessed her age at thirty-five when she had called at his hotel, but in that dimly-lit room, with her veil removed and attired in a thin light-coloured gown she looked quite ten years younger, and certainly her face was eminently handsome.

She stretched out her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe, with an air of coquetry, and in doing so displayed either by accident or design that soupçon of lingerie which is no indiscretion in a Frenchwoman.

He had taken a seat near her, and was apologising for calling during her siesta.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “I am extremely glad you’ve come. I retire so late at night that I generally find an afternoon doze beneficial. We women suffer from nerves and other such things of which you men know nothing.”

“Fortunately for us,” he observed. “But then we are liable to a malady of the heart of far greater severity than that to which your sex is subject. Women’s hearts are seldom broken; men’s often are. A woman can forget as easily as a child forgets; but the remembrance of a face, of a voice, of a pair of eyes, to him brighter and clearer than all others, is impressed indelibly upon a man’s memory. Every woman from the moment she enters her teens is, I regret to say, a coquette at heart. In the game of love the chances are all against the man.”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” she asked, raising herself upon her elbow and looking at him amused. “All women are not heartless. Some there are who remember, and although evil and vicious themselves, are self-denying towards others.”

“Yes,” he answered. “A few—a very few.”

“Of course you must be forgiven for speaking thus,” she said, in a soft, pleasant tone. “Your choice of a woman has been an exceedingly unhappy one.”

“Why?” he exclaimed, with quick suspicion. “What allegation do you make against Liane?”

“I make no allegation, whatever, m’sieur,” she answered, with a smile. “It was not in that sense my words were intended. I meant to convey that your love has only brought unhappiness to you both.”

“Unfortunately it has,” he sighed. “In vain have I striven to seek some means in which to assist Liane to break asunder the tie which binds her to Prince Zertho, but she will not explain its nature, because she says she fears to do so.”

“I am scarcely surprised,” she answered. “Her terror lest the true facts should be disclosed is but natural.”

“Why?” he inquired, hastily.

But she shook her head, saying: “Am I not striving my utmost to assist her? Is it therefore to be supposed that I shall explain facts which she desires should remain secret? The object of your present visit is surely not to endeavour to entrap me into telling you facts which, for the present, will not bear the light? Rather let us come to some understanding whereby our interests may be mutual.”

“It was for that reason I have called,” he said, in a dry, serious tone. Her gaze met his, and he thought in that half-light he detected in her dark, brilliant eyes a keen look of suspicion.

“I am all attention,” she answered, pleasantly, moving slightly, so that she faced him.

“Well, mine is a curious errand,” he began, earnestly, bending towards her, his elbows on his knees. “There is no reason, as far as I’m aware, why, if you are really Liane’s friend, we should not be perfectly frank with one another. First, I must ask you one question—a strange one you will no doubt regard it. But it is necessary that I should receive an answer before I proceed. Did you ever live in Paris—and where?”

She knit her brows for an instant, as if questions regarding her past were entirely distasteful.

“Well, yes,” she answered, after some hesitation. “I once lived in Paris with my mother. We had rooms in the Rue Toullier.”

“Then there can be no mistake,” he exclaimed, quickly. “You are Mariette Lepage.”

“Of course I am,” she said, puzzled at the strangeness of his manner. “Why?”

“Because there is a curious circumstance which causes our interests to be mutual,” he answered, watching the flush of excitement upon her face as he spoke. “Briefly, my father, Sir John Stratfield, was somewhat eccentric, and because he knew I loved Liane, he left me penniless. He, however, added an extraordinary clause to his will, in which you are mentioned.” Then drawing from his breast-pocket a copy of the document, he glanced at it.

“I am mentioned?” she echoed, raising herself and regarding him open-mouthed.

“Yes,” he said. “By this will he has left me one hundred thousand pounds on condition that I become your husband within two years of his death.”

“You—my husband?” she cried. “Are you mad?”

“Not so mad as my father when he made this absurd will,” he answered, calmly. “You are, under its provisions, to be offered twenty thousand pounds in cash if you will consent to become my wife. This offer will be made to you formally by his solicitors in London as soon as I inform them that you are at last found. Read for yourself,” and he passed to her the copy of the will.

She took it mechanically, but for several moments sat agape and motionless. The extraordinary announcement held her bewildered. Quickly she glanced through the long lines of formal words, reassuring herself that he had spoken the truth. She was to receive twenty thousand pounds if she would marry the man before her, while he, on his part, would become possessed of a substantial sum sufficient to keep them comfortably for the remainder of their lives. At first she was inclined to doubt the genuineness of the document; but it bore the signature of the firm of solicitors, and was attested by them to be a true copy of the original will. It held her dumb in astonishment.

“Then we are to marry?” she observed amazedly, when at last she again found voice.

“The offer is to be made to you,” he answered, evasively. “As you have seen, if you refuse, or if you are already married, I am to receive half the amount.”

“I am not married,” she answered with a slightly coquettish smile, her chin resting upon her palm in a reflective attitude as she gazed at him. “Marriage with you will mean that we have together the substantial sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“That is so,” he said gravely. “If we married we certainly should have money.”

“But you love Liane,” she answered in a low tone. “You can never love me,” and she sighed.

He did not answer. The look upon his face told her the truth. He feared lest she should accept this curious offer, knowing that he would then be drawn into a marriage with her. She regarded him critically, and saw that he was tall, good-looking, muscular, and in every way a thorough type of the good-natured Englishman. Twenty thousand pounds was, she reflected, a sum that would prove very acceptable, for she lived extravagantly, and the Villa Fortunée itself was an expensive luxury.

“It is very dull living alone,” she exclaimed, with a little touch of melancholy in her voice. Then, with a laugh, she added, “To be perfectly frank, I should not object to you as my husband.”

“But is there not a barrier between us?” he exclaimed, quickly.

“Only Liane. And she can never marry you.”

“I love her. I cannot love you,” he answered. Her effort at coquetry sickened him.

“It is not a question of love,” she answered, coldly, toying with the fine marquise ring upon her white finger. “It is a question of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“Would either of us be one whit the better for it, even if we married?” he queried. “I think not. At present we are friends. If we married I should hate you.”

“Nevertheless I should obtain twenty thousand pounds,” she argued.

“Is it worth while to risk one’s future happiness for that?” he said.

“I have not yet sufficiently considered the matter,” she replied, with her eyes still fixed on him. “At present I’m inclined to think that it is. But I must have time to reflect. One cannot refuse such an offer without due consideration.”

“Then you are inclined to accept,” he observed, blankly.

She hesitated. Slowly she rose from the settee, crossed to the window and pushed open the sun-shutters, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room from over the clear blue-green sea.

“Yes,” she answered, standing gazing out upon the far-off horizon where the white-sailed racing yachts, Ailsa and Britannia, were passing, “I am inclined to accept.”

“Very well,” he stammered, sitting rigid and immovable. “My future is entirely in your hands.”

She passed her hand wearily across her brow. With the sunset falling full upon her, he saw how heavy-eyed she was, and how artificial was the complexion that had looked so well in the dreamy half-light when the jalousies had been closed. Yes. She no doubt bore traces of a faded beauty, but she was old; there were lines in her brow, and crows’ feet showed at the corners of her eyes. She was passée, and all the vivacity and coquettishness she had shown had been carefully feigned to assume an appearance of youth. The thought of it nauseated him.

Again she turned towards him. Her momentary gravity had vanished, and she commenced a commonplace conversation. At last, however, he rose to go, but she would not hear of it.

“No; remain here and dine,” she said, in a low, persuasive tone. “Afterwards we can go over to Monte Carlo for an hour or so, and you can catch the yellow rapide back to Nice at eleven.”

“But you must really excuse me. I—”

“I will take no excuse,” she said, laughing. “You must remain,” and she rang for the servant and told him that m’sieur would dine.

Together they stood at the open window watching the succession of lights and shadows upon the purple mountains, how the rose of the afterglow grew deeper over the sea until it faded, and the streak of gold and orange died out behind the distant rocks of Cap d’Aggio. Then the mists rose, creeping slowly up the mountain sides, the dusk deepened, a chill wind blew in from the sea, and just as they closed the windows the door opened and the man announced dinner.

The table, set for two in a cosy little salle-à-manger, glittered with its cut-glass and shining plate, and was rendered bright by its shaded candles and small silver repoussé stands filled with choice flowers. Throughout the meal she was gay and vivacious, speaking but little of herself and carefully avoiding all references to Liane. He found her a pleasant hostess, unusually well-informed for a woman. They discussed art and literature, and in all her criticisms she exhibited a wide and intimate knowledge of men and things. Then, when they rose, she opened a door at the further end of the room and he found himself in a spacious conservatory, where she invited him to smoke while she dressed to go to the Casino.

Half an hour later she reappeared in a handsome gown of pale blue silk, the corsage trimmed with narrow braiding of silver; a costume which suited her admirably, yet so daring was it that he could not disguise from himself the suggestion that it was the dress of a demi-mondaine. Her hair had been redressed by her maid, and as he placed about her shoulders her small black cape of lace and feathers, he mumbled an apology that he was not able to dress.

“What does it matter? I invited you,” she said, with a gay laugh. “Come.”

Together they entered the open carriage awaiting them, and descending the long winding road to the shore, drove rapidly through La Condamine, and ascended the steep incline which brought them round to the main entrance to the Casino.

The night was brilliant, and the broad Place, with its palms and flowers, its gay, laughing crowd of promenaders, and its showy Café de Paris, where the band was playing Mattei’s “Non è ver,” lay bright as day beneath the moonbeams and electric rays. As they entered, Mariette handed him her cape, which he deposited for her in the cloakroom, then both passed through a crowd of habitués of the rooms. Several men around bowed to her, and she greeted them with a smile.

“You appear to be well-known here,” he laughed, as the well-guarded doors opened to them.

“I suppose I am,” she answered vaguely. “When I am lonely I come here and play. It is the only recreation I have.”

The rooms were hot and crowded. The monotonous cry of the croupiers, the incessant clicking of the roulette-ball, the jingle of coin, and the faint odour of perfume were in striking contrast to the quiet of the road along which they had just driven, but walking side by side they passed through one room after another until they reached that fine square salon, with its huge canvas representing a peaceful pastoral scene occupying the whole of the opposite wall, the “trente-et-quarante” room.

There was not quite so large a crowd here, but the stakes were higher, a louis being the minimum. Mariette saw a player rise from his chair at the end of the table and instantly secured the vacant seat, then turning to her companion with a gay laugh, said,—

“I am going to tempt Fortune for half an hour.”

She took from the large purse she carried a card on which to record the game, impaled it to the green cloth with a pin, in the manner of the professional gambler, and drew forth a small roll of notes.

The first time she played the “tailleur” dealt the cards quickly, one by one, then cried, “Six, quatre, rouge gagne et couleur perd.”

She had lost. But next time she tossed two notes upon the scarlet diamond before her and won. She doubled her stake, won again, and then allowed the cards to be dealt several times without risking anything. Presently, she hesitated, but suddenly counted out five one hundred-franc notes, folded them in half and carelessly tossed them upon the red. Again the cards were dealt one by one upon the leather-covered square; again the monotonous voice sounded, and again came her winnings towards her, five notes folded together on the end of the croupier’s rake.

So engrossed had George become in the game, that he noticed nothing of what was transpiring around him. Had he not been so deeply interested in the play of this woman whom his father had designated as his wife, his attention would probably have been attracted by a curious incident.

At the moment when the cards had been dealt, a man seated at the end of the opposite table, who, with his companion had won a considerable sum, raised his head, and, for the first time, noticed amid the excited expectant crowd, that it was a woman who had been successful at the other table.

The man was Zertho. Next instant, however, his face went white. In his eyes there was a look of abject terror when he identified the lucky player. With a sudden movement he put his hand to his head to avoid recognition, and bending quickly to his companion, gasped,—

“Look, Brooker! Can’t you see who’s in front? Good God! why there’s ‘The Golden Hand.’ Quick! We must fly!”

Chapter Seventeen.

The House of the Wicked.

Next afternoon Liane and Zertho strolled up to Cimiez together to pay a call upon a Parisian family named Bertholet, who lived in one of those fine white houses high up on the Boulevard de Cimiez, and who had recently accepted the Prince’s hospitality.

As they turned from the dusty Boulevard Carabacel, and commenced the long ascent where the tree-lined road runs straight up to the glaring white façade of the Excelsior Regina Hotel, Zertho expressed a fear that she would be fatigued ere they reached their destination, and urged her to take a cab.

“I’m not at all tired,” she assured him, nevertheless halting a second, flushed and warm, to regain breath. “The day is so beautiful that a walk will do me no end of good.”

“It’s a dreadful bore to have to toil up and call on these people, but I suppose I must be polite to them. They are worth knowing. Bertholet is, I hear, a well-known banker in Paris.”

Liane smiled. The patronising air with which her companion spoke of his newly-found friends always amused her.

“Besides,” he added, “we must now make the best of the time we have in Nice. We leave to-morrow, or the day after.”

“So sudden!” she exclaimed, surprised. “I thought we should remain for another fortnight or three weeks. The weather is so delightful.”

“I have arranged it with the Captain,” he said briefly. “Do you regret leaving?”

“How can I regret?” she asked, glancing at him and raising her brows slightly. “How can I regret when the place, so fair in itself, is to me so hateful? No, I’m glad for several reasons that we are leaving.”

She recollected at that moment what George had told her. Mariette Lepage was near them. She remembered, too, the fierce expression of hatred in that pair of angry eyes shining through the mask.

“Yes,” he said at length, “one can have too much of a good thing, and sometimes it is even possible to have too much of the Riviera. I have the satisfaction at least of having succeeded in obtaining a footing in society.” And he laughed as he added, “A year ago I was a down-at-heel adventurer, almost too shabby to obtain admittance at Monte Carlo, while to-day I’m welcomed everywhere, even among the most exclusive set. And why? Merely because I have money and impudence.”

“Yes,” Liane admitted, with a touch of sorrow. “This is indeed a curious world. There is a good deal of truth in the saying that a man is too often judged by his coat.”

“And a woman by her dress,” he added quickly. “When you are Princess d’Auzac, you will find that other women will crowd around you and pet you, and declare you are the most beautiful girl of the year—as, of course, you are—all because you have wealth and a title. They like to speak to their friends of ‘My friend the Princess So-and-So.’”

“You are very complimentary,” she answered, coldly. “I have no desire to excite either the admiration or envy of other women.”

“Because you have never yet fully realised how beautiful you are,” he answered.

“Oh yes, I have. Every woman knows the exact worth of her good looks.”

“Some over-estimate them, no doubt,” he said, with a laugh. “But you have always under-estimated yours. If the Captain had chosen he could have already married you to a dozen different men, all wealthy and distinguished.”

“Dear old dad loved me too well to sacrifice my happiness for money,” she said, climbing slowly the steep hill.

“Yet you declare that you are doing so by marrying me,” he observed, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“I am only marrying you because you compel me,” she answered, huskily. “You know that.”

“Why do you hate me?” he cried, dismayed. “I have surely done my best to render your life here happy? In the past I admired your grace and your beauty, but because of my poverty I dared not ask the Captain for you. Now that I have the means to give you the luxury which a woman like yourself must need, you spurn my love, and—”

“Your love!” she cried, with a gesture of disgust, her eyes flashing angrily. “Do not speak to me of love. You may tell other women that you love them, but do not lie to me!”

“It is no lie,” he answered. She had never spoken so frankly before, and her manner showed a fierce determination which surprised him.

“You have a manner so plausible that you can utter falsehoods so that they appear as gospel truth,” she said. “Remember, however, that you and my father were once fellow-adventurers, and that years ago I thoroughly gauged your character and found it exactly as superficial and unprincipled as it is now.”

“The past is forgotten,” he snapped. “It is useless to throw into my face facts and prejudices which I am striving to live down.”

“No,” she cried. “The past is not forgotten, otherwise you would not compel me to become your wife. How can you say that the past is buried, when at this moment you hold me beneath your hateful thrall, merely because my face and my figure please you, merely because you desire that I should become your wife?”

“With you at my side I shall, I trust, lead a better life,” he said, calmed by her rebuff.

“It is useless to cant in that manner,” she exclaimed, turning upon him fiercely. “In you, the man I have always mistrusted as knavish and unscrupulous, I can never place confidence. The mean, shabby, tricks you have served men who have been your friends are in themselves sufficient proof of your utter lack of good-will, and show me that you are dead to all honour. Without confidence there can be no love.”

“I have promised before Heaven to make you happy,” he answered.

“Ah, no,” she said, in a choking voice of bitter reproach. “Speak not of holy things, you, whose heart is so black. If you would make your peace with God give me back my liberty, my life, before it is too late.”

Her face was pale, her lips were dry, and she panted as she spoke.

But they had gained the gate of the villa where they were to call, and pushing it open he held it back with a low bow for her to pass. Her grey eyes, so full of grief and despair, met his for an instant, and she saw he was inexorable. Then she passed in up to the door, and a few minutes later found herself in the salon chatting with her voluble hostess, while Zertho sat with Madame’s two smart daughters, both true Parisiennes in manner, dress, and speech.

“We only heard to-day of your engagement to the Prince,” Madame Bertholet was saying in French. “We must congratulate you. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.”

“Thank you,” she said, with a forced smile. “It is extremely good of you.”

“And when and where do you marry?”

“In Brussels, in about three weeks,” Liane answered, striving to preserve an outward appearance of happiness. It was, however, but a sorry attempt. From the windows of their salon Madame Bertholet and her daughters had noticed the strange imploring look upon Liane’s face as they had approached the gate, and had wondered.

Yet when she had entered she had sparkled with fun and vivacity, and it was only the mention of marriage which had disarmed her.

“After Brussels you will, of course, go to your new home in Luxembourg,” said Madame. “Have you seen it?”

Liane replied in the negative.

“I happen to know Luxembourg very well. My brother, strangely enough, is one of the Prince’s tenants.”

“Oh, then, you of course know my future home,” exclaimed Liane, suddenly interested.

“Yes, very well. The château is a fine old place perched high up, overlooking a beautiful fertile valley,” her hostess replied. “I once went there a few years ago, when the old Prince was alive, and I well remember being charmed by the romantic quaintness of its interior. Inside, one is back three centuries; with oak panelling, old oak furniture, great old-fashioned fireplaces with cosy corners, and narrow windows, through which long ago archers shed their flights of arrows. There is a dungeon, too; and a dark gloomy prison-chamber in one of the round turrets. It is altogether a most delightful old place.”

“Gloomy, I suppose?” observed Liane thoughtfully.

“Well, life amid such old-world surroundings as those could scarcely be quite as bright or enjoyable as Nice or Paris, but it is nevertheless a magnificent and well-preserved relic of a bygone age. Without doubt it is one of the finest of feudal châteaux in Europe.”

“Are any of the rooms modern?”

“None,” Madame replied. “It seems to have been the hobby of the Princes d’Auzac to preserve intact its ancient character. You will be envied as the possessor of such a fine old place. I shall be delighted to come and see you when you are settled—if I may.”

“Certainly. I, too, shall be delighted,” Liane answered mechanically. “In a place like that one will require a constant supply of visitors to make life at all endurable. It is, I fear, one of those grey, forbidding-looking old places as full of rats as it is of traditions.”

“I don’t know about the rats,” her hostess answered, laughing heartily. “But there are, I know, many quaint and curious legends connected with the place. My brother told me some.”

“What were they about?”

“Oh, about the tyranny of the d’Auzacs who, in the middle ages, ravaged the Eiffel and the Moselle valley, and more than once attacked the town of Trêves itself. In those days the name of d’Auzac was synonymous of all that was cruel and brutal; but the family have become civilised since then, and,” she added, looking towards Zertho, who was laughing with her two daughters, “the Prince scarcely looks a person to be feared.”

“No,” observed Liane, with a forced smile. To her also the name of d’Auzac was synonymous of cunning, brutality, and unscrupulousness. She pictured to herself the great mountain stronghold, a grim, grey relic of an age of barbarism, the lonely dreary place peopled by ghosts of an historic past, that was to be her home, in which she was to live with this man who held her enthralled. Then she shuddered.

Her hostess noticed it, wondered, but attributed it to the draught from the open window. To her it was inconceivable that any girl could refuse Prince Zertho’s offer of marriage. He was one of the most eligible of men, his polished manner had made him a favourite everywhere, and one heard his wealth discussed wherever one visited. Either of her own daughters would, she knew, be only too pleased to become Princess.

Liane, although nothing of a coquette, was nevertheless well enough versed in the ways of the world to be tactful when occasion required, and at this moment strenuously strove not to betray her world-weariness. Although consumed by grief and despair she nevertheless smiled with feigned contentment, and a moment later with an air so gay and flippant that none would guess the terrible dread which was wearing out her young life, joined in the light amusing chatter with Madame’s daughters.

“We saw you at Monte Carlo last night,” one of the girls exclaimed, suddenly, addressing Zertho.

“Did you?” he answered, with a start. “I really saw nothing of you.”

“We were quite close to you,” observed her sister, “You were sitting with Captain Brooker, and were having quite a run of good fortune when, suddenly, you both jumped up and disappeared like magic. We tried to attract your attention, but you would not glance in our direction. Before we could get round to you you had gone. Why did you leave so quickly?”

“We wanted to catch our train,” Zertho answered, a lie ever ready upon his lips. “We had only three minutes, and just managed to scramble in.”

“Did you notice a fine, handsome-looking woman at the table, a woman in blue dress trimmed with silver?” asked Madame Bertholet.

Zertho again started. In a second, however, he recovered his self-possession.

“I am afraid I did not,” he replied with a smile.

“I was too intent upon the game. Besides,” and he paused, glancing at Liane, “female beauty ought not to attract me now.”

They all laughed in chorus.

“Of course not,” Madame agreed. “But the woman wore such a gay costume, and was altogether so reckless that I thought you might have noticed her. Everybody was looking at her. I was told that she is a well-known gambler who has won huge sums at various times, and is invariably so lucky that she is known to habitués of the table as ‘The Golden Hand.’”

“Everything her hand touches turns to gold—eh?” Zertho hazarded. “I only wish my fingers possessed the same potency. It must be delightful.”

“But she’s not at all a desirable acquaintance, if all I hear is true,” Madame observed. “Do you know nothing of her by repute?”

“I fancy I’ve heard the sobriquet before,” he replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice her. Did she win?”

Liane and the Prince exchanged significant glances. “Yes, while we watched she won, at a rough estimate, nearly twenty thousand francs,” one of the girls said.

“A friend who accompanied us told us all about her,” Madame observed. “Hers has been a most remarkable career. It appears that at one time she was well-known in Paris as a singer at La Scala, and the music halls in the Champs Elysées, but some mysterious circumstance caused her to leave Paris hurriedly. She was next heard of in New York, where she was singing at the music halls, and it was said that she returned to France at the country’s expense, but that, on being brought before the tribunal, the charge against her could not be substantiated, and she was therefore released. Subsequently, after a strange and chequered life, she turned up about four years ago at Monte Carlo, and became so successful that very soon she had amassed a considerable sum of money. To the attendants and those who frequent the Casino she is a mystery. For sheer recklessness no woman who comes to the tables has her equal; yet she is invariably alone, plays at her own discretion without consulting anyone, and with a thoroughly business-like air, speaks to scarcely anybody, and always rises from the table at eleven, whether winning or losing. Indeed, ‘The Golden Hand’ is altogether a most remarkable person.”

“Curious,” observed Zertho, reflectively. “I wish I had noticed her. You say she was sitting at our table?”

“Yes,” answered one of the girls. “She sat straight before you, and because you were winning she watched you closely several times.”

“Watched me!” he exclaimed, dismayed.

“Yes,” answered the girl, with a laugh. “Why, you speak as if she possessed the evil eye, or something! She’s smart and good-looking certainly, but I don’t think Liane need fear in her a rival.”

“Scarcely,” he answered, with a forced smile. But the alarming truth possessed him that Mariette had surreptitiously watched Brooker and himself before they had discovered her presence. He reproached himself bitterly for having gone to Monte Carlo that night, yet gambler that he was he had been unable to resist the temptation of the tables once again ere they left the Riviera.

But the woman known as “The Golden Hand” had watched them both, and by this time most probably knew where they were living. Neither he nor the Captain had any idea that Mariette Lepage still hovered about the tables, or they would certainly never have set foot inside the Principality.

Liane in her cool summer-like gown sat in a low wicker lounge-chair and listened to this description of the notorious woman without uttering a word. She dared not trust herself to speak lest she should divulge the secret within her breast. She had grown uncomfortable, and only breathed more freely when, ten minutes later, they made their adieux and began to descend the Boulevard back to Nice.

“So your old friend Mariette has seen you!” she exclaimed, as soon as they had walked twenty paces from the house.

“Yes,” he snapped. “Another illustration of my accursed luck. The sooner we leave Nice the better.”

“Very well,” she answered, with a weary sigh. She did not tell him that she had already ascertained from George Stratfield that “The Golden Hand” had been to Nice.

“We must leave for Paris,” he said briefly. “It will not be wise to run too great a risk. If she chooses she can make things extremely unpleasant.”

“For you?”

“No,” he answered, turning quickly towards her. “For you.”

She held her breath; the colour fled from her cheeks. He lost no opportunity of reminding her of the terrible past, and as he glanced at her and watched the effect of his words he saw with satisfaction that he still held her in a thraldom of fear.

“I thought she had left France,” he continued, as if to himself. “I had no idea that she was still here. Fortune must have been kind to her of late.”

Liane said nothing. She had not failed to notice his anxiety when Mademoiselle Bertholet had explained how Mariette had watched him, and she wondered whether, after all, he feared this remarkable woman who had played such a prominent part in their past lives; this notorious gambler who was her bitterest foe.

She was already tired of Nice, and recognised that to remain longer was only to endanger herself. The Nemesis she had so long dreaded seemed to be closing upon her.

In the Boulevard Carabacel they took an open cab to drive home, but while crossing the Place opposite the Post Office they encountered George Stratfield walking. As he passed he raised his hat to Liane, and she greeted him with a smile of sadness.

Zertho noticed the young Englishman, and his bearded face grew dark.

“What! So your lover is also here!” he exclaimed in surprise, turning to catch another glance of the well set-up figure in light grey tweed. She had carefully concealed from him and from her father the fact that George had come to Nice.

“Yes,” she answered simply, looking straight before her.

“Why did you hide the truth from me?” he demanded angrily.

“Because the knowledge that he was here could not have benefited you,” she answered.

“You have met him, of course, clandestinely,” he said, regarding her with knit brows.

“I do not deny it.”

“And you have told him, I hope, that you are to be my wife?”

“I have,” she sighed.

“Then you must not meet again. You understand,” he exclaimed fiercely. “Send the fellow back to London.”

She bit her lip, but made no answer. Her eyes were filled with tears. Without any further words they drove rapidly along the Promenade, at that hour chill after the fading of the sun, until the cab with its jingling bells pulled up before the Pension, and Liane alighted. For an instant she turned to him, bowing, then entered the villa.

Her father was out, and on going into her own room she locked the door, cast down her sunshade, tossed her hat carelessly aside, and pushing her hair from her fevered brow with both hands, stood at the open window gazing aimlessly out upon the sea. A sense of utter loneliness crept over her forlorn heart. She was, she told herself, entirely friendless, now that her father desired her to marry Zertho. Hers had been at best a cheerless, melancholy life, yet it was now without either hope, happiness, or love. The sea stretching before her was like her own future, impenetrable, a great grey expanse, dismal and limitless, without a single gleam of brightness, growing every instant darker, more obscure, more mysterious.

Thoughts of the man she loved so fondly surged through her troubled mind. She remembered how sad and melancholy he had looked when she had passed him by; how bitterly he had smiled when she bowed to him. The memory of his dear face brought back to her all the terrible past, all the hopelessness of the future, all the hideousness of the truth.

She sank beside her bed, and burying her face in the white coverlet gave way to her emotion, shedding a torrent of tears.

The dusk deepened, the twilight faded and darkness fell, still she sobbed on, murmuring constantly the name of the one man on earth she loved.

A low tapping at the door aroused her, and thinking it was her father she hastily dried her eyes and stumbled blindly across the dark room to admit him. It was, however, the Provençal femme de chambre, who handed her a note, saying in her quaint patois—

“A letter for Mademoiselle. It was brought a minute or two ago by a man who gave it to me, with strict injunctions to give it only into Mademoiselle’s own hands.”

“Thank you, Justine,” she answered, in a low hoarse voice, then, closing the door again, she lit a candle, and mechanically tearing open the note found that it was dated from the Villa Fortunée, Monaco, and signed by Mariette. In it the woman who was her enemy made a strange request. She first asked that she should say no word to her father or to Zertho regarding the receipt of the note or inform them of her address, and then, continuing, she wrote: “To-morrow, at two o’clock, call upon George Stratfield, who is, as you know, staying at the Grand Hotel, and he will bring you over here to my house. It is imperative that I should see you. Fear nothing, but come. George is my friend, and he will be awaiting you.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Sinned Against.

Liane’s first inclination was not to comply with the request, for knowing the crafty nature of this woman, she feared that the words had been written merely to place her off her guard. Yet immediately after luncheon at the Villa Chevrier on the following day she declared her intention of going down to the English library to get some books, and leaving her father and the Prince smoking over their liqueurs, went out upon the Promenade. As soon, however, as she was out of sight of the windows of the villa, she hailed a passing cab and drove to the Grand Hotel, where she found George sitting in a wicker-chair in the doorway, consoling himself by smoking a cigarette and awaiting her.

“You have come at last,” he cried, approaching the carriage. “Don’t get out. We will drive straight to the station,” and stepping in, he gave the man directions.

“What does this mean?” inquired Liane, eagerly.

“I cannot tell its meaning, dearest,” he answered. “I merely received a note, saying that you would call for me on your way to Monaco.”

“Have you no idea why she desires to see both of us?”

“None whatever,” he replied.

“You have found her,” she observed in a deep, earnest tone. “In my letter she says that you are her friend. You don’t know her true character, I suppose,” his well-beloved added, looking earnestly into his eyes. “If you did you would not visit her.”

“She lives in an air of the most severe respectability,” he said. “I dined at the Villa Fortunée the night before last, and found her an extremely pleasant hostess.”

She smiled. Then, while driving along the Avenue de la Gare to the station she told him of Mariette’s past in similar words to those used by Madame Bertholet. He sat listening eagerly, but a dark shadow crossed his features when, in conclusion, she added, “Such, unfortunately, is the woman who is to be bribed to marry you.”

They alighted, obtained their tickets, crossed the platform, and entered the rapide. It was crowded with people going to Monte Carlo, and the tunnels rendered the journey hot, dusty and unpleasant. Nevertheless the distance was not far, and when half-an-hour later they were ascending the steep winding way which led up to the rock of Monaco, Liane’s heart sank within her, for she feared that she was acting unwisely.

“It is very remarkable that Mariette should have written to us both in this manner,” George was saying as he strolled on beside the pale-faced graceful girl. “Evidently she desires to consult us upon some matter of urgency. Perhaps it concerns us both. Who knows?”

“It may,” she answered mechanically. “She is not, however, a person to trust. Women of her character have, alas! neither feeling nor honour.”

“Is she, then, so notoriously bad?” he asked in surprise.

“You know who and what I am,” she answered, turning to him, her grave grey eyes fixed upon his. “I have been forced against my inclination to frequent the gambling-rooms through months, nay years, and I knew Mariette Lepage long ago as the most vicious of all the women who hovered about the tables in search of dupes.”

By her manner he saw that she was annoyed, and jealous that he should have visited and dined with this woman so strangely referred to in his father’s will, and he hastened to re-assure her that there was but one woman in the world for him.

“Then you will not marry her?” she cried eagerly. “Do not, for my sake. If you knew all you would rather cast the money into yonder sea than become her husband.”

“Well,” he said, “it is imperative that she should be offered the bribe to become my wife. If she refuses I shall gain fifty thousand pounds. I have thought of buying her refusal by offering to divide equally with her the sum I shall obtain.”

“Excellent!” she cried, enthusiastically. “I never thought of that. If she will do so the cruel punishment your father intended will be turned to pleasure, and you will be twenty-five thousand pounds the richer.”

“I will approach her,” he said, after brief hesitation. “You know, darling, that I love you far too well to contemplate marriage with any other woman.”

“But remember, I can never become your wife,” she observed huskily, her eyes behind her veil filled to overflowing with tears. “I am debarred from that.”

“Ah! no,” he cried, “don’t say that. Let us hope on.”

“All hope within me is dead,” she answered gloomily. “I care nothing now for the future. In a few brief days we are leaving here, and I shall say farewell, George, never again to meet you.”

“You always speak so strangely and so dismally,” he said. “You will never tell me anything of the reason you are so irrevocably bound to Zertho. In the old days at Stratfield you always took me into your confidence.”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, quickly. “I would tell you everything if I could—but I dare not. You would hate me.”

“Hate you. Why?”

“You could no longer grasp my hand or kiss my lips,” she faltered. “No, you must not, you shall not know, for I could not bear that you of all men should spurn me, leave me, and remember me only with loathing. I could not bear it. I would rather kill myself.”

She was trembling, her breast rose and fell with the exertion of the steep ascent, and her face was blanched and haggard. Her attitude, whenever he referred to Zertho, always mystified and puzzled him. Had she not spoken vaguely of some strange crime?

Yet he loved her with all the strength of his being, and the sight of her terrible anxiety and dread pained him beyond measure. He was ready and willing to do anything to assist and liberate her from the mysterious thraldom, nevertheless she preserved a silence dogged and complete. He strove to discern a way out of the complicated situation, but could discover none.

“Have you ever been to the Villa Fortunée before?” he asked presently, after a long and painful silence, when they had crossed the sunny square before the Prince’s palace, and were strolling along the road which skirted the rock with the small blue bay to their left and the white houses of Monte Carlo gleaming beyond.

“No,” she answered. “I had no idea Mariette, ‘The Golden Hand,’ lived here. She used always to live at the little bijou villa in the Rue Cotta at Nice.”

“The Golden Hand!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Why do you call her that?”

“It is the name she has earned at the tables because of her extraordinary good fortune,” Liane answered. “Her winnings at trente-et-quarante are said to have been greater perhaps than any other player during the past few years.”

At that moment the road turned sharply, almost at right angles, and Liane found herself before the great white house where lived the notorious gambler, the woman whose powdered, painted face every habitué of Monte Carlo knew so well, and whose luck was the envy of them all.

She read the name of the villa upon the marble tablet, and for a moment hesitated and held back, fearing to meet face to face the woman she held in fear. But George had already entered the gateway and ascended the steps, and she felt impelled to follow, a few moments later taking a seat in the cool handsome salon where the flowers diffused a sweet subtle perfume, and the light was softly tempered by the closed sun-shutters.

Liane and her lover sat facing each other, the silence being complete save for the swish of the sea as it broke ever and anon upon the brown rocks deep below. A moment later, however, there was a sound of the opening and shutting of doors, and with a frou-frou of silk there entered “The Golden Hand.”

She wore an elegant dress of pale mauve trimmed with velvet, and as she came forward into the room a smile of welcome played upon her lips, but George thought she looked older and more haggard than when he had visited her only two days before.

Closing the door quietly behind her, she crossed almost noiselessly to where they were seated, and sinking upon a settee expressed pleasure at receiving their visit.

“I was not exactly certain whether you would come, you know,” she exclaimed, with a coquettish laugh. “I was afraid Liane would refuse.”

“You told me that you were her friend,” he said.

“And that was the entire truth,” she answered.

Liane faced her, her countenance pale, her lips parted. She had held back in fear when this woman had entered, but the calm expression and pleasant smile had now entirely disarmed her suspicions. Yet she feared lest this woman whom she had known in the old days, should divulge the secret she had kept from her lover. George, the man she adored, was, she knew, fast slipping away from her. On the one hand she was forced to marry Zertho, while on the other this very woman, whom she feared, was to be bribed to accept her lover as husband. Liane looked into her face and tried to read her thoughts. But her countenance had grown cold and mysterious.

“You were not always my friend,” she said at last, in a low, strained tone.

“No, not always,” the woman admitted, in English. “I have seldom been generous towards my own sex. I was, it is true, Liane, until recently, your enemy,” she added, in a sympathetic tone. “I should be now if it were not for recent events.”

“You intend, then, to prove my friend,” Liane gasped excitedly, half-rising from her chair. “You—you will say nothing.”

“On the contrary, I shall speak the truth.”

“Ah, no,” she wailed. “No, spare me that. Think! Think! surely my lot is hard enough to bear! Already I have lost George, the man I love.”

“Your loss is my gain,” Mariette Lepage said slowly. “You have lost a lover, while I have found a husband.”

“And you will marry him—you?” she cried, dismayed.

“I know what are your thoughts,” the other said. “My reputation is unenviable—eh?”

Liane did not answer; her lover sat rigid and silent.

“Well,” went on the woman known at the tables as “The Golden Hand,” “I cannot deny it. All that you see here, my house, my furniture, my pictures, the very clothes I wear, I have won fairly at the tables, because—well, because I am, I suppose, one of the fortunate ones. Others sit and ruin themselves by unwise play, while I sit beside them and prosper. Because of that, I am pointed out by men and women as a kind of extraordinary species, and shunned by all save the professional players to whom you and I belong. But,” she added, gazing meaningly at Liane, “you know my past as well as I know yours.”