CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH MATTERS ASSUME A VERY COMPLEX ASPECT
I started to walk along the Boulevard towards the Opera. To that woman with the tow-coloured hair, the blue eyes and pink cheeks—the woman who had replaced me in his affections—Ernest had written that strange message in cipher, a message of warning it might be. I hated her. I really believe that if ever the spirit of murder has entered my heart, it was at that moment. I could have sprung upon her and killed her as she stepped into the carriage.
She had said no word to her coachman. He apparently knew where to drive. That cipher was perhaps an appointment which he had gone forward to keep, while she was now following. The thought convulsed me with anger. This man, Ernest Cameron, the man who had once held me in his arms and declared that he loved me, was, upon his own admission, an assassin.
I had somehow ceased to think of the old millionaire and the chattering woman whom he had concealed on board the Vispera. All my thoughts were of the man who had, until then, held me as his helpless slave.
It may have been jealousy, or it may possibly have been the revulsion of feeling that had seized me on becoming aware of the terrible truth of his guilt, that caused me to vow to leave no stone unturned to secure his arrest and condemnation. I would follow her. She, that slim woman with the fair hair, had stolen him from me, but I determined that she should not be allowed to enjoy his society much longer. I had discovered the truth, and the blow that I intended to deal would be fatal to the happiness of both of them.
I laughed within myself as I got into a fiacre, and told the driver to keep her carriage in sight. I was not impatient. I would wait and watch until I had secured ample proof. Then I had but to apply to the police, and the arrest would be made. He, Ernest Cameron, had murdered and robbed the poor boy who had admired me, and with whom I had so foolishly flirted. It was the attention I had allowed him to pay to me that was primarily the cause of his assassination. Of that I had always been convinced. The moral responsibility rested upon myself.
I followed her straight up the Rue Lafayette to the Gare du Nord, where she alighted, and after speaking a moment with her coachman, dismissed her carriage. She evidently intended to leave Paris. I crept up quickly behind her in the long booking-office, and followed her in order to overhear her destination.
"First-class return to Enghien, please," she asked the girl who sold the tickets.
Enghien! I had heard of the place as being a popular resort near Paris, famous for its sulphur baths; but in what direction it lay, I had not the slightest idea. Nevertheless, the fact of her taking a return ticket, and having no baggage, showed that she did not intend to make a protracted stay. Therefore, when she was out of hearing, I took a ticket for the same destination; the price showed me that the distance could not be very great.
Secretly following her, I entered a train, and in half-an-hour alighted at a small suburban station, which was rather dimly lit. Outside, she entered a fiacre. Following her quickly, I drove through the narrow street of the little French town to the shore of a small lake, from which arose a strong and disagreeable odour of sulphur. She disappeared into the gaily-lit entrance of an illuminated garden, which I discovered to be the Casino of Enghien, an establishment where public gambling was permitted, and where there was a celebrated so-called cercle for baccarat. The place consisted of a garden extending along the shore of the lake, together with a large open-air café, a big theatre—where a variety performance was in progress—and beyond, the public gaming-room, play in which proved to be of the usual kind permitted at French and Belgian resorts.