As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon had not intoxicated him, for, although young, he was a practised, unemotional player, to whom gains and losses were alike—at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction other than a broad smile when his winning number was announced by the croupier. No. Of the many theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely, that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent.
The Petit Niçois, the Eclaireur and the Phare du Littoral were next day full of "The Mystery of the 'Grand Hotel.'" In the article we were referred to as Mademoiselle Y—— and Mademoiselle R——, as is usual in French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry sarcasm. The Petit Niçois, a journal which has on so many recent occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone, declared its "disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large sum stated," and concluded by urging the police to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to discover the murderer, who, it added, would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal believed that one of us had conspired to murder him.
Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against the cruel calumnies of such torchons.
The official inquiry, held next day, after the post-mortem examination had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth, so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was no abrasion of the skin—no wound of any kind. On the neck, however, were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to establish that as a fact. He died from some cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, the doctors admitted, have been almost described as a natural death, but for the fact that the notes were missing, which pointed so very markedly to murder.
That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels, we followed the dead man's remains to their resting-place in the English cemetery, high up in the olive groves of Caucade—perhaps one of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in the world. Winter and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the most charming in all the Riviera.
The English chaplain of the Rue de France performed the last rites, and then, turning sorrowfully away, we drove back, full of gloomy thoughts, to Nice.
The puzzling incident had crushed all gaiety from our hearts. I suggested that we should immediately go on to Mentone, but Ulrica declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve what seemed an inscrutable mystery. Thus the days which followed were days of sadness and melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious, for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out of the hotel we overheard many whisperings.
As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of deep thought and sadness, I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who might, perhaps, have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion, clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament. When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favour of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all hazards see him again.
I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said:
"Curious that we've seen nothing more of Ernest. I suppose, however, you've forgotten him."