was that of a girl of twenty; yether speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and becomeutterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.
"Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph hecertainly is not dead. If you wish, I will send my man for him."
"Ah, no!" she cried, putting up her hand in quick alarm. "He hassuffered enough--I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet--wecannot. I tell you he is dead--and his body lies unmarked in thesuicides' cemetery at Monte Carlo."
I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should besufficient to convince her.
Quickly, however, she turned to me, and with her gloved hand upon myarm, besought me to release her.
"Hate me!" she implored. "Go to your friend, if he really is alive asyou declare, and ask of him my character--who and what I am."
"I shall never hate you--I cannot!" I declared, bending again towardsher and seeking her hand, but she instantly withdrew it, looking into myface with an expression of annoyance.
"You disbelieve me!" she said.
"All that you say is so bewildering that I know not what to believe," Ianswered.
"In this room you have, I suppose, discovered certain objects reduced toashes?" she asked in a hoarse tone.
"Yes, I have," I answered breathlessly.
"Then let them be sufficient to illustrate the influence of evil whichlies within me," she answered, and after a pause suddenly added: "I camehere to fulfil that which the irresistible power has decreed; but I willleave you to reflect. If you have regard for me, then hate me.Transfer your affections to Muriel Moore, the woman who really lovesyou; the woman who weeps because you refrain from caressing her; thewoman who is wearing out her life because of you."
She held her breath, her lips trembled and her hands quivered, as thoughthe effort of speaking had been too great.
"I love you!" I cried. "I cannot forget you, Aline. I adore you!"
"No, no!" she said, holding up both her hands. "Enough! I only praythat the evil I dread may not befall you. Farewell!" and bowing low sheturned, and swept out of the room, leaving me alone, bewildered,dumbfounded.
The words she had uttered were completely confounding. She wasapparently possessed of attainments which were supernatural; indeed, sheseemed to me as a visitant from the Unknown, so strangely had shespoken; so mysterious had been her allegations regarding Roddy.
For nearly an hour I remained deep in thought, plunged in abjectdespair. Aline the beautiful had left me, urging me to transfer myaffections. The situation was extraordinary. She had, it seemed, goneout of my life for ever.
Suddenly I roused myself. Her extraordinary statement that Roddy hadcommitted suicide at Monte Carlo oppressed me. If she really knewMuriel's innermost thoughts, then it was quite feasible that she knewmore of my friend than I had imagined. Besides, had he not left thetheatre hurriedly on catching sight of her? There was a mystery whichshould be elucidated. Therefore I assumed my hat and coat and wentround to Roddy's chambers in Dover Street, Piccadilly, to endeavour toobtain some explanation of her amazing statement.
He lived in one of those smoke-blackened, old-fashioned houses with deepareas, residences which were occupied by families fifty years ago, butnow mostly let out as suites of chambers. The front door with its innerswing-door was, as usual, open, and I passed through and up the stairsto the second floor, where upon the door was a small brass plate bearingmy friend's name.
The door was ajar, and pushing it open I walked in, exclaiming cheerilyas was my habit--
"Anybody at home?"
There was no response. Roddy was out, and his man had evidently gonedownstairs to obtain something. I walked straight on into thesitting-room, a good-sized, comfortable apartment, which smelt eternallyof cigars, for its owner was an inveterate smoker; but as I entered Iwas surprised to discover Roddy in his old velvet lounge-coat, sittingalone in his chair beside the fire.
"Morning, old chap!" I cried. But he was asleep and did not move.
I crossed the room and shook him by the shoulder to awaken him, at thesame moment looking into his face.
It was unusually pale.
In an instant a terrible thought flashed across my mind, and I benteagerly towards him. He was not asleep, for his eyes were stillwide-open, although his chin had sunk upon his breast.
I placed my hand quickly upon his heart, but could detect no movement.I touched his cheek. It was still warm. But his eyes told theappalling truth. They were bloodshot, stony, discoloured, and alreadyglazing. The hideous, astounding fact could not be disguised.
Roddy Morgan was dead!
CHAPTER SEVEN.
WHAT ASH KNEW.
The shock caused me by this discovery was indescribable.
My first action on recovering was to alarm those in the house, but itwas found that Ash, Roddy's man, was absent.
The three occupants of the other chambers, men I knew, entered, andendeavoured to restore their friend to consciousness. But all effortswere in vain. A doctor from Burlington Street was quickly fetched, andafter a brief examination pronounced that life had been extinct abouthalf an hour, but there being no sign of violence he could make nosurmise as to the cause of death without a post-mortem.
Roddy had evidently been sitting beside the fire reading the newspaperand smoking when he expired, for at his side his cigar had dropped andburned a hole in the carpet, while the newspaper was still between hisstiffening fingers.
A detective and a constable were very soon on the scene, but as thedoctor expressed an opinion that it was a case of sudden death, mostprobably from syncope, the appearance of the body leading to thatconclusion, the plain-clothes officer merely made a few notes, andawaited with me the return of the man Ash, in order to question him.
In the meantime the others left the presence of the dead, and I had anopportunity of glancing round the place. I was well acquainted withRoddy's chambers, for I often smoked with him of an evening, therefore Iknew their arrangement almost as well as I knew that of my own. Butthis discovery was to me a staggering blow. Over the mantel-shelf was amirror, and stuck in its frame were a truly miscellaneous collection ofcards of invitation for all sorts and descriptions of festivities. Onecard, however, attracted my attention as being unusual, and I took itdown to examine it. It was not a card of invitation, but a small,oblong piece of pasteboard ruled in parallel squares, each column beingheaded by the letter "N," alternate with the letter "R." In the squareswere hurriedly scribbled a curious collection of numbers.
At first I could not recollect where I had seen a similar card before,but it suddenly dawned upon me that it was one of those used byprofessional gamblers at Monte Carlo, to record the numbers which comeup at the roulette-table, the "R" standing for Rouge, and the "N" forNoir. The discovery was interesting. I carefully examined thepencilled figures, and saw they were in Roddy's own hand.
Did not this bear out Aline's allegation that he had been to MonteCarlo?
I said nothing to the detective, but replaced the card in the frame ofthe mirror.
The detective strolled around the other rooms in an aimless sort of way,and when he returned I asked--
"What is your opinion of this affair?"
"I really don't know, sir," he answered in a puzzled tone. "It may besuicide."
"Suicide!" I gasped, recollecting Aline's declaration. "What causesyou to surmise that?"
"From the fact that the valet is absent," he answered. "The gentleman,if he desired to take his own life, would naturally send his servant outon an errand."
"But the cigar on the carpet? How do you account for that?" Iinquired. "If he meant to deliberately take his life he wouldinstinctively cast his lighted cigar into the fire."
The officer was silent. He was a keen, shrewd, clean-shaven man ofabout forty, whose name I afterwards learnt was Priestly.
"Your argument is a sound one," he answered after a long pause. "Butwhen a man is suffering fr
om temporary insanity, there is no accountingfor his actions. Of course, it's by no means evident that your friendhas committed suicide, because there is absolutely no trace of such athing. Nevertheless, I merely tell you my suspicion. We shall know thetruth to-morrow, when the doctor has made his post-mortem. At thestation, when I go back, I'll give orders for the removal of the body tothe mortuary. I presume that you will communicate the news to hisfriends. You said, I think, that his uncle was the Duke of Chester, andthat he was a Member of Parliament. Are his parents alive?"
"No. Both are dead," I answered, glancing again around the room,bewildered because of Aline's strange statements only an hour before.
Could she, I wondered, have known of this? Yet when I remembered thedoctor's assertion that poor Roddy had not