“I was playing at the same table, and he continued to love me, although I had warned him of the consequences, as I have now warned you. He lost and lost. Each time he played he lost, till every farthing he possessed had gone. Then I turned away, but ere I had left the room there was the sound of a pistol-shot, and he fell across the table dead.”
She had the photograph in her hand, and bent to the light, examining it closely.
“It cannot be the same man,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” she responded. “There can be no mistake, for the ring which secures his cravat is mine. I gave it to him.”
I looked, and there sure enough was an antique ring of curious pattern, through which his soft scarf was threaded.
“It is Etruscan,” she said. “I picked it up in a shop in Bologna.”
I glanced quickly at her. Her face was that of a girl of twenty; yet her speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and become utterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.
“Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph he certainly 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 has suffered enough—I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet—we cannot. I tell you he is dead—and his body lies unmarked in the suicides’ cemetery at Monte Carlo.”
I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should be sufficient to convince her.