The Bond of Black

“At Monte Carlo?”

“At Monte Carlo!”

“Well, how do you account for the fact that for six or seven months afterwards he was here, in London, occupying his seat in the House of Commons, and mixing with his friends, when, if what you say is truth, he was then lying in a grave in the suicides’ cemetery at La Turbie?”

“I do not attempt to reason,” she responded, in a voice which sounded so strange that it appeared far distant, while the cup she still held was shaken by a slight tremor. “I only tell you the true facts. It was myself who identified your friend, and gave his name to the Administration of the Casino.”

“And you say he killed himself because he lost everything?”

“That is what I surmise. Those who have good fortune at the tables do not generally seek the last extremity.”

“But I knew nothing of his visit there. Even his man was in ignorance,” I said. “I cannot help thinking that there must be some mistake. It must have been a man who resembled him.”

“I know that he went to the Riviera secretly.”

“Why?”

“Because he had devised some system which, like many others before him, he felt certain must result in large winnings, and he did not tell his friends his intentions lest they might jeer at him. He went; he lost; and he killed himself!”

“But he lived in London afterwards!” I protested. “I saw him dozens of times – dined with him, played billiards with him, and was visited here by him. He could not possibly have been dead at the time!”

“But he was dead!” she declared. “Strange though it may seem, I am ready to swear in any court of law that I was present when Roderick Morgan, the member for South-West Sussex, committed suicide in the Salle Mauresque at Monte Carlo. That fact can no doubt be established in two ways: first, by the register of deaths, and secondly, by exhumation of the body.”

“But when Roddy was here in London, dining, smoking, and talking with me, how can I believe that he was already dead?”

“It was for a brief space that he came back to his own home,” she responded, in that same far-away voice, turning her eyes full upon me. “And did not life leave him suddenly, in a manner which has since remained a mystery?”

“No,” I answered determinedly, my mind fully made up. “Not altogether a mystery. The police have discovered many things.”

“The police!” she gasped. “What have they discovered?”

“They do not generally tell the public the result of their investigations,” I answered. “But they have found out that he received a visitor clandestinely half an hour before his death, and further, that he was murdered.”

“Murdered!” she exclaimed, with an uneasy glance and stirring in her chair. “Do they suspect any one?”

“Yes,” I replied. “They suspect his visitor; and they have discovered that this mysterious person who came to see him immediately before his death was a woman!”

Her lips compressed until they became white and bloodless, and the light died from her countenance. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to utter sound, and she covered her confusion by placing her teacup upon the table.

“Have they found out who it was who called upon him?” she inquired at last, in a low, faltering voice.

“They have a strong suspicion,” I said firmly. “And they are resolved that the one responsible for his death shall be brought to justice.”

“There is no proof that he was murdered,” she declared quickly.

“Neither is there any proof that he died from natural causes,” I argued. Then I added, “Was it not strange, Aline, that you should actually have told me of my friend’s death on the very morning that he died?”

“It was certainly a very remarkable coincidence,” she faltered; after a pause adding: “If he has been murdered, as you suspect, I hope the police will not fail to discover the author of the crime.”

“But you declared that Roddy was already dead!” I cried, dumbfounded.

“Certainly!” she answered. “I still maintain the truth of my statement.”

“Then you do not believe he was murdered?”

She shrugged her shoulders without replying.

For an instant I gazed into those eyes which had once held me spell-bound, and said —

“The truth is already known to the police. Roddy Morgan was murdered by a woman, swiftly, silently, and in a manner which showed firm determination and devilish cunning. You may rest assured that she will not escape.”

She started. Her face was blanched to the lips, and she sat before me rigid, open-mouthed, speechless.

Chapter Sixteen

Rocks among Pebbles

Her attitude convinced me of her guilt, yet what conclusive proof had I? None – absolutely none.

“Your photograph was found in his rooms. I found it myself,” I said.

“Does that prove that I am untruthful?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows quickly.

I recollected the glove-button. But the gloves she wore were new ones, and all the buttons were intact.

There was a ring of truth in her denials, yet I was unconvinced. I saw in her answers careful evasion of my questions. First, I myself had found poor Roddy dead, and that he had committed suicide six months before seemed to me but a silly tale. Secondly, her strange actions were suspicious. Thirdly, her curious association with Muriel seemed coupled with the latter’s disappearance, and her clandestine visit to Jack Yelverton intensified the mystery in its every detail.

“Of course, the mere finding of a photograph is no proof that you had met Roddy for six months,” I admitted, recollecting Ash’s statement that he had never seen her visit his master.

“Then why suspect me?” she asked, in a tone of reproach.

“I have expressed no suspicion,” I said, as calmly as I could. “My surprise and doubt are surely pardonable under these curious circumstances – are they not?”

“Certainly!” she responded. “Nevertheless during our acquaintance I have, you must admit, been as open with you as I have dared. You professed your love for me,” she went on ruthlessly, “but I urged you to hesitate. Was I not frank with you when I told you plainly that we could never be lovers?”

I nodded in the affirmative, and sighed when I recollected my lost Muriel.

“Then why do you charge me with deception?” she asked, stretching out her tiny foot neat in its suède shoe, and contemplating it. She seemed nervous and hasty, yet determined to get to the bottom of my suspicions and so ascertain the depth of my knowledge of the truth.

Detecting this, I resolved to act with discretion and diplomacy. Only by the exercise of consummate tact could I solve this enigma.

“Deception!” I said. “You must admit that you are deceiving me by concealing the truth of who and what you are!”

“That is scarcely a polite speech,” she observed, toying with the lorgnette suspended from her neck by a long chain of gold with turquoises set at intervals. “What do you suspect me to be?” and she laughed lightly.

“According to your own confession,” I responded, “you are possessed of an influence which is baneful; you are a worker of mysterious evil; a woman whose contact is as venom, whose touch is blasting as fire!”

“No! no!” she cried, starting up wildly and putting out her hands in imploring attitude. “I have done you no wrong – I swear I have not! Spare me your reproaches. A guilt is upon me – a terrible guilt, I admit – but I have at least spared you. I warned you in time, and you escaped!”