So great a crowd was there, and so many dresses exactly similar, that to distinguish Ulrica or Gerald, or indeed any of the others, proved absolutely impossible. They might, of course, be in one or other of the supper-rooms, and I saw from the first that there was but little chance of finding them.
Leaning my elbows on the edge of the box, I gazed down upon the scene of reckless merriment, but my thoughts were full of the strange words uttered by the mysterious masker. The packet he had given me I had transferred to my pocket, though with pardonable curiosity I longed to open it and see what it contained.
The warning he had given me was extremely disconcerting. It worried me. No woman likes to think that she has unknown enemies ready to take her life. Yet that was apparently my position.
That life could be taken swiftly and without detection, I had plainly seen in the case of poor Reggie. When I recollected his terrible fate I shuddered. Yet this man had plainly given me to understand that the same fate awaited me if I did not adopt the line of conduct which he had laid down.
Whoever he might be, he certainly was acquainted with all my movements, and knew intimately my feelings. There was certainly no likelihood of my marriage with old Benjamin Keppel. I scouted the idea. Yet he knew quite well that the millionaire had become attracted by me, and reposed in me a confidence which he did not extend to others. The more I reflected, the more I became convinced that the stranger's fear of being recognised arose from the fact that he himself was either the murderer or an accessory to the murder of poor Reggie.
What did the demand that I should return to London denote? It could only mean one thing—namely, that my assistance was required.
Whoever were my enemies, they were, I argued, enemies likewise of old Mr. Keppel. The present which the stranger had pressed upon me was nothing less than a bribe to secure either my silence or my services.
However much I tried, it appeared out of the question for me to discover the motive guiding the stranger's conduct. The only certain fact was that this man, so cleverly disguised that I could not distinguish his real height, much less his form or features, had come there, watched for a favourable opportunity to speak with me, and had warned me to sever my friendship with the millionaire.
Leaning there, gazing blankly down upon the crowd screaming with laughter at the Parisian quadrilles and antics of clown and columbine, I coolly analysed my own feeling towards the blunt, plain-spoken old gentleman with the melancholy eyes. I found—as I had believed all along—that I admired him for his honest good-nature, his utter lack of anything approaching "side," his strenuous efforts to assist in good works, and his regard for appearances only for his son's sake. But I did not love him. No, I had loved one man. I could never love another—never in all my life!
Perhaps Ernest Cameron was present, disguised by a mask and dress of parti-coloured satin! Perhaps he was down there among the dancers, escorting that woman who had usurped my place. The thought held me in wonder.