The Bond of Black. Le Queux William
certainly not dead, for he was here smoking with me last night.”
“Not dead!” she cried, starting up and crossing to it. “Why, he died at Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had.”
“No,” I replied, rather amused. “That is the Honourable Roderick Morgan, member of Parliament.”
“Yes, that was the name,” she said aloud to herself. “Roddy Morgan they called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette.”
“He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo,” I observed, standing beside her.
“You’ve not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?” she said.
“No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me.”
“Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless as he was.”
The idea that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo seemed utterly absurd, nevertheless in order to convince her that he was still very much alive I picked up the paper and pointed to his name in the Parliamentary debate of the previous night.
“It is strange, very strange!” she said, reflecting. “I was in the Rooms when he shot himself. While sitting at one of the tables I saw them carry him away dead.”
“You must have made some mistake,” I suggested.
“I was playing at the same table, and he continued to love me, although I had warned him of the consequences, as I have now warned you. He lost and lost. Each time he played he lost, till every farthing he possessed had gone. Then I turned away, but ere I had left the room there was the sound of a pistol-shot, and he fell across the table dead.”
She had the photograph in her hand, and bent to the light, examining it closely.
“It cannot be the same man,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” she responded. “There can be no mistake, for the ring which secures his cravat is mine. I gave it to him.”
I looked, and there sure enough was an antique ring of curious pattern, through which his soft scarf was threaded.
“It is Etruscan,” she said. “I picked it up in a shop in Bologna.”
I glanced quickly at her. Her face was that of a girl of twenty; yet her speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and become utterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.
“Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph he certainly is not dead. If you wish, I will send my man for him.”
“Ah, no!” she cried, putting up her hand in quick alarm. “He has suffered enough – I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet – we cannot. I tell you he is dead – and his body lies unmarked in the suicides’ cemetery at Monte Carlo.”
I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should be sufficient to convince her.
Quickly, however, she turned to me, and with her gloved hand upon my arm, besought me to release her.
“Hate me!” she implored. “Go to your friend, if he really is alive as you declare, and ask of him my character – who and what I am.”
“I shall never hate you – I cannot!” I declared, bending again towards her and seeking her hand, but she instantly withdrew it, looking into my face with an expression of annoyance.
“You disbelieve me!” she said.
“All that you say is so bewildering that I know not what to believe,” I answered.
“In this room you have, I suppose, discovered certain objects reduced to ashes?” she asked in a hoarse tone.
“Yes, I have,” I answered breathlessly.
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