What was its significance, I wondered, as it lay in the palm of my hand. It was a souvenir of her—a souvenir of the woman who was my legal wife, and who had fallen a victim beneath the cruel hand of an assassin.
The crumpled scrap of paper I had also secured I brought from my pocket and likewise examined. The words upon it were in a man’s hand without a doubt—an educated hand which, by its angularity and the formation of the letters might possibly have been acquired on the Continent.
“I have seen La Gioia!”
The words conveyed some distinct message or warning which I could not determine. One fact was, however, plain; if I could discover this mysterious “La Gioia,” be she a woman or an object, I might perhaps ascertain the true meaning of the words, the reason they were penned, and the motive Beryl had in thus treasuring them beneath her pillow.
A desire possessed me to escape from that narrow place wherein the air was stifling. The porthole was screwed down so tightly that I could not move it without a wrench, and the place seemed hermetically sealed.
By the terrible racket of the machinery and the strong smell of tar and oil I felt certain that it was no passenger steamer by which I was travelling. Everywhere were traces of black dust. I dipped my finger in some of it, examining it closely; it was coal dust. The ship was a collier.
I rose again, and taking up a stout piece of wood lying on the floor, battered heavily at the door, demanding release. But the clash and roar of the rickety engines drowned my voice, and I feared that no one could hear me above the din.
A strong sea was running, although the sun shone brightly. We were evidently somewhere in the Channel, but from my porthole I could see no land.
Again and again I battered furiously, until of a sudden I heard gruff voices, and the door was unlocked and opened cautiously, disclosing two rough-looking bronzed seamen, dark-bearded and dressed in patched and faded dungareen.
“Well, mister,” exclaimed the elder of the two, “what’s the fuss?”