A terrible restlessness set in upon me, and turn succeeded turn, till I wished myself a polygon, so that the sides to which I could change might be more numerous. Some people have recourse to a small shelf of bedside books to lull them to rest. I think it was Thackeray who said, "'Montaigne' and 'Howell's Letters' are my bedside books. If I wake at night I have one or other of them to prattle me off to sleep again." Montaigne seems to have been a favourite author with many people for this purpose. The cheerful, companionable garrulity of the Gascon is the ideal pabulum for those suffering from wakeful hours at night, for both Pope and Wycherley used to lull themselves to sleep by his aid.
Alas! I had no Montaigne—nothing, indeed, more literary or prattling than a couple of the local newspapers of Nice. Therefore I was compelled to lie and endure the thoughts which fled through my brain in a noisy whirr, and prevented me falling off into slumber. The hotel seemed full of noise. Strange sounds came from the staircase, and stealthy footfalls seemed to make themselves audible. From the outer world came other sounds, some familiar, others inexplicable—all jarring upon the delicate nerves of hearing.
I lay there thinking it all over. I had now not the slightest doubt that the man in the owl's dress was the actual assassin of poor Reggie. And I had chatted amiably with him. I had actually danced with him! The very thought held me horrified.
What marvellous self-confidence the fellow had displayed; what cool audacity, what unwarrantable interference in my private affairs, and what a terrible counter-stroke he had effected in presenting me with the actual notes filched from the dead man's pocket! The incident was rendered the more bewildering on account of the entire absence of motive. I lay awake reflecting upon it the whole night long.
When we took our morning coffee together I related to Ulrica all that had passed. She sat, a pretty and dainty figure in her lace-trimmed and beribboned robe de chambre, leaning her bare elbows upon the table, and listening open-mouthed.
"And the police actually allowed him to escape scot-free?" she cried indignantly.
"Yes."
"The thing is monstrous. I begin to think that their failure to trace the murderer is because they are in league with him. Here abroad, one never knows."
"No, I think not," I responded. "He was clever enough to evade observation, and took care to make the most of the little alcove in the box."
"But the stolen notes!" she cried. "He evidently wished to get rid of them in order to avoid being found with the money in his possession. So he presented you with them. A grim present, certainly. The fellow apparently has a sense of humour."