“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.”