C. N. Williamson & A. N. Williamson: 30+ Murder Mysteries & Adventure Novels (Illustrated). Charles Norris Williamson
the stateroom, unless, indeed, there were some truth in Loria's suggestion that the yacht was bound for New Caledonia, to take the girl out to her convict brother. In that case, perhaps, it might conceivably be necessary to keep the captain and crew in ignorance of her presence, lest they should gossip in port. Still, Virginia's restlessness, her lack of interest in the beautiful places so easy to visit, her desire to remain on board when the Bella Cuba was in port, seemed to point to some peculiar motive under her indifference to all pleasures of the trip.
In Alexandria, the girl "did not see why they should pack up to stop a night in Cairo." What if the crankshaft could be repaired sooner than they supposed? Then they would be wasting time. But she was overruled, and just before sunset they drove up to one of the most beautiful hotels in the world.
The evening chill was beginning to fall, yet many people still lingered on the huge terrace overlooking the Nile, where the "winging" sails of the little boats were pink and golden as mother-o'-pearl, reflecting the crimson glory of the sky. A woman sitting alone at a little table looked up as they passed, and with a slight start. Virginia half stopped, staring almost rudely at the face which was lifted for a moment. But it was only for a moment.
The woman, who was exceedingly handsome, of the most luscious Spanish type of beauty, flushed under the American girl's intent gaze, drew up a sable cape which had partly fallen from the shoulders of her white cloth dress, and turned a resentful back.
"What a handsome creature, but awfully made up!" whispered Kate, who had no mercy on her own sex.
Virginia did not answer. She walked on, looking as if she had awakened from a dream.
At dinner that night, next to the party from the yacht, was a small table laid for one. It was unoccupied until they had half finished dinner; then heads began suddenly to turn toward the door; people whispered, there was a perceptible, though scarcely definable thrill of interest, and a tall woman in sequined black tulle, glittering with diamonds, came slowly up the room. She must have known that all eyes were upon her, yet she appeared unconscious. Her lashes were cast down as she moved toward a chair held obsequiously ready by a waiter at the little empty table, and their dusky length was not second even to Virginia's. As the newcomer sat down, she faced Roger Broom.
"That woman's face looks somehow familiar to me," he said, "yet I can't think where, if ever, I have seen it. I suppose it can only be a chance resemblance to somebody or other."
Virginia opened her lips to speak, but closed them again hastily. Kate then threw a questioning glance her way, and saw that she had suddenly grown pale. "I wish you or George would find out who she is," the girl said presently. "She is one of the handsomest women I ever saw. If possible, I should like to know her."
"I can promise that you shall at least know her name," replied Roger, smiling. "It wouldn't be safe to say more." And, true to his word, an hour after dinner he came to the private drawing-room where Virginia and Lady Gardiner sat, with the required information.
"The strange beauty is a Portuguese countess," he announced. "Her name is De Mattos, and she is a widow, spending the winter here alone, except for her maid. She is much admired, especially by men, but apparently does not care to make acquaintances; otherwise, as she seems to be a person whose name the gossips respect, your wish might perhaps have been gratified."
"Have you remembered yet where you saw her before?"
"I've remembered where I saw some one like her. But it is not the same woman."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. The other was a blonde with Titian hair. And she has been dead for years."
Virginia said no more, and appeared to forget the Portuguese countess. But when Lady Gardiner complained of being tired, and went off to bed, that she might be fresh for sight-seeing next morning, also to write a puzzled letter to the Marchese Loria, Virginia remained. George Trent had gone to a Cairene theatre, and she and Roger were alone together.
Scarcely had the door closed upon Kate Gardiner, when the girl sprang up from her chair, and before Roger knew what she meant to do, was sitting on a divan beside him, her hand on his sleeve.
"Roger," she exclaimed, "I thank you a thousand, thousand times for insisting that I should come here."
"You haven't seen anything yet," he returned. "Thank me after to-morrow."
"It's the most wonderful thing in the world that we should have come," she went on. "If we had employed the cleverest detectives in Paris and London they might never have discovered what chance, merest chance—if there is such a thing as chance—has put into our hands to-night."
"What are you talking about, dear child?" asked Roger.
"I'm talking about Liane Devereux, the actress that Maxime Dalahaide is supposed to have murdered. You've been very good, Roger. I've appreciated it, for you never believed in his innocence. Now you must believe, in spite of yourself, since she is here, calling herself the Countess de Mattos."
Roger stared at her in amazement. "But this is madness, dear," he said. "Liane Devereux was murdered; whether Maxime Dalahaide or another was her murderer, there is no possible doubt that she is dead. You can't know the story as well as I thought you did, if you don't put that beyond questioning."
"I tell you, Liane Devereux is in this house, and Providence sent me here to see her. It's that which is beyond question."
"Did Madeleine Dalahaide show you the woman's picture?"
"Yes, two pictures; a photograph and an ivory miniature. She kept them because they were her brother's, just as she kept everything of his. I looked at them again and again, until I knew the features line by line. I can't be mistaken. This is the same woman. There was an even deeper mystery about that murder than Maxime Dalahaide's best friends guessed."
Roger Broom shrugged his shoulders with a despairing laugh. "For light-hearted trampling on established facts, give me an American girl!" he exclaimed. "A woman is murdered, her body found, identified, buried. Four or five years afterward another woman appears, a brunette, while Number One was blonde. Number One, a Frenchwoman, was murdered in Paris; Number Two, a Portuguese, is spending the winter in Cairo. There is absolutely nothing to link these women together except a resemblance of feature, which, though strong, is not convincing even to a man who saw Number One on the stage many times. Yet here comes a maiden from the States, who was in the schoolroom in her own country when Number One was murdered, and insists, because she has seen a portrait or two, that Liane Devereux, the dead actress, and the Countess de Mattos are one and the same."
"I know it sounds childish," admitted Virginia, with unwonted meekness; "nevertheless, I'm absolutely sure. I'd stake my life on it, if it were necessary."
"How do you proceed to explain the identification and burial of Liane Devereux's body if she is now alive in Cairo?"
"I don't pretend to explain—yet. There was a mistake—that's all I can say."
"Liane Devereux was too well known for that to be possible. Besides, if there had been such a mistake, another woman, murdered and buried in her place, must have been missing. As a matter of fact, no other woman was missing."
"You mean no other woman's disappearance was discovered."
"You're incorrigible! I know you're wrong; but, admitting for the sake of argument that you might be right, what use could you make of this marvellous private information, supplied to your brain only? If the Countess de Mattos is really Liane Devereux, come to life, one might be sure that a woman clever enough to plan from the beginning so astounding an affair would be too clever to leave any tracks behind her."
"Yes, that is one of the difficulties," said Virginia. "Only somehow we must get over it."
"I hope, my dear free-lance detective, that you aren't plotting to accuse the Countess to her face, and have a dramatic scene in the hall of the Ghezireh Palace?"
"I don't know yet what to do," the girl answered slowly. "But I don't want to leave Cairo until after we've done something."