Dinner, even though rather a stately affair, was quite a pleasant function, for the old millionaire was most unassuming and affable. One of his eccentricities displayed itself in his dress. His dining-jacket was old, and quite glossy about the back and elbows; he wore a paper collar, his white tie showed unmistakable signs of having done duty on at least a dozen previous occasions, and across his vest was suspended an albert chain, not of gold, but of rusty steel. There had never been any pretence about Ben Keppel in his earlier days, as all the world knew, and there was certainly none in these days of his affluence. He had amassed his fabulous fortune by shrewdness and sheer hard work, and he despised the whole of that chattering little ring which calls itself Society.
Before I had been an hour in this man's society I grew to like him for his honest plain-spokenness. He possessed none of that sarcastic arrogance which generally characterises those whose fortunes are noteworthy, but in conversation spoke softly, with a carefully cultivated air of refinement. Not that he was refined in the least. He had gone to the Transvaal as an emigrant from a little village in Norfolk, and had succeeded in amassing the third largest fortune in the United Kingdom.
He sat at the head of the table in his great dining-room, while Ulrica and myself sat on either hand. As a matter of course our conversation turned upon the mysterious death of poor Reggie, and we both gave him the exact version of the story.
"Most extraordinary!" he ejaculated. "Gerald has already explained the painful facts to me. There seems no doubt whatever that the poor fellow was murdered for the money. Yet, to me, the strangest part of the whole affair is why he should have left you so suddenly at the Hermitage. If he changed the money for large notes, as we may suppose he did, why didn't he return to you?"
"Because he must in the meantime have met someone," I suggested.
"That's just it," he said. "If the police could but discover the identity of this friend, then I feel convinced that all the rest would be plain sailing."
"But, my dear guv'nor, the police hold the theory that he didn't meet anyone until he arrived at Nice," Gerald observed.
"The police here are a confounded set of idiots!" cried the old millionaire. "If it had occurred in London, or Chicago, or even in Glasgow, they would have arrested the murderer long before this. Here, in France, there's too much confounded contrôle."
"I expect if the truth were known," observed Miss Keppel, in her thin, squeaky voice, "the authorities of Monaco don't relish the idea that a man may be followed and murdered after successful play, and they won't help the Nice police at all."
"Most likely," her brother said. "The police of the Prince of Monaco are elegant blue and silver persons, who look as though they would hesitate to capture a prisoner for fear of soiling their white kid gloves. But surely, Miss Rosselli," he added, turning to me, "the Nice police haven't let the affair drop, have they?"