If Sinners Entice Thee

“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?”