The conductor brought me a cutlet and a bottle of Beaujolais after we had passed through the Mont Cenis, and for some hours afterwards I lay reading and thinking. We were on our way to Paris, but with what motive I had no idea.
I wondered what they would think on board the Vispera when they found me to be missing, and laughed aloud when I reflected that the natural conclusion would be that I had eloped with old Mr. Keppel. I rather regretted that I had told Ulrica nothing, but, of course, a telegram to her could explain everything on the morrow. The yacht would be lying safely in Genoa harbour awaiting her owner, who never intended to return.
And where was that unseen man? That was a puzzling problem which I could not solve. I could not even form the slightest theory as to his share in the mystery.
The day passed slowly, and evening fell. We were nearing Culoz. The woman with the mysterious marks upon her neck returned, accompanied by her escort, from the dining-car, and sat chatting with him in the corridor. Their voices reached me, but I could distinguish little of their conversation. Suddenly, however, I thought I could hear a third voice in conversation—the voice of a man.
It sounded familiar. I listened again. Yes, it seemed as though I had heard that voice somewhere before. Indeed, I knew its tones perfectly well.
For some few minutes I lay listening, trying to catch the words. But the train was roaring through a deep cutting, and I could only hear disjointed words, or parts of sentences.
In my determination to see who it was, I carefully opened the door of the compartment, so that I could peer through the chink.
I bent forward until my eyes rested upon the speaker, who, lounging near, was engaged in serious conversation with Keppel and my travelling companion, as though he were an old friend.
In an instant I drew back and held my breath. Was this the man who had suggested the blowing up of the Vispera? Surely not! Perhaps, however, he had actually travelled with us from Pisa in another carriage, or perhaps he had joined the train at some intermediate station. But by whatever means he had come there, the fact of his identity remained the same.
It was Ernest Cameron, the man I loved!