C. N. Williamson & A. N. Williamson: 30+ Murder Mysteries & Adventure Novels (Illustrated). Charles Norris Williamson
make no conditions," answered Loria. "It hurts me that you could think of it. All I want is a little gratitude from you—ah, no, I cannot say that is all I want. Only, it is all I ask. What I want more than anything on earth, more than anything which even Heaven could give, is the treasure of your love. For that, I could fight my way, and Maxime Dalahaide's way, through the place of lost spirits, and laugh at the tortures of Hades. I dare not ask for that treasure now. Give me what you can, that is all, and my life's blood is yours, for I worship you, Virginia. I dream of you night and day. If I cannot have you for my wife, I shall go to my grave unmarried, and the sooner the better. There's nothing but you in the world; no other woman but you; there never has been for me, and never will be."
"It's false!" cried the voice of a woman, husky with passion; and throwing open the door of her cabin, the Countess de Mattos stood on the threshold, not six feet distant from the two in the saloon.
Carried away on the tide of his very real love for Virginia Beverly, whose pale, spiritualized beauty had gone to his head like wine, the hot-blooded Italian was at a disadvantage. Strength had gone out of him in his appeal. Physically and mentally he was spent.
The passionate voice, the flaming eyes of the woman suddenly seen in the doorway, struck him like a double blow aimed at a drowning man. "Liane!" he cried, before he could regain the self-mastery which meant all the difference between life and death.
"Yes," she flung at him in French, "I am Liane—Liane Devereux. Come, every one, and hear what I have to say. This man is a traitor—traitorous friend and treacherous lover!" She stopped for an instant, and threw a glance round the saloon. Loria and Virginia Beverly were no longer alone there. George Trent, Sir Roger Broom, Kate Gardiner, and two men who were strangers had suddenly appeared as if by a conjuring trick. The woman stood with her head held high, like some magnificent wild creature of the forest at bay, fearing nothing save loss of vengeance. She was glad that all these people had come. The more there were to hear the tale she meant to tell, the more sure the stroke of her revenge. Yes, she was glad, glad! And though she died for it, under the knife of the guillotine, she would ruin the man who had deceived her.
"He pretended to love me," she went on. "But now I know that he never did, for when he vowed love and devotion his voice did not once sound as I have heard it now, speaking to that white-faced girl when he did not dream I was near.
"I am Liane Devereux, not a Portuguese woman, not the Countess de Mattos, therefore Maxime Dalahaide is not a murderer, since I live. It was the Marchese Loria who arranged everything—even my name, and credentials, and proofs of my identity as Manuela de Mattos, in case they were ever needed. Oh, there was nothing neglected. But now I know that it was not for my sake, as I thought, but to serve his own ends, and I am willing to die to hold him back from success.
"I will tell you the whole story from the beginning. Five years ago I was an actress in Paris. I made two or three failures. A powerful dramatic critic had vowed to drive me off the stage. He had begun his work; and at this perilous time in my career, just as I had quarrelled with my manager, Maxime Dalahaide fell in love with me. I thought he was rich. It occurred to me that if I became his wife I could leave the stage in a blaze of glory. Besides, he was brilliant and handsome. I was flattered by his admiration, and felt that it would be easy to love him. I did all I could to win an offer of marriage from him. When it came I accepted. But soon after our engagement his father lost a great deal of money. I realized that Maxime would not be as good a match as I had counted upon making. Still, I did not throw him over; for by that time I cared for his handsome face, and I was of far too jealous a nature to risk throwing him into the arms of another woman. If we parted, I thought I knew to what woman he would turn. There was an English girl singing at the Opera Comique, whose name at one time had been coupled with Maxime Dalahaide's. She had a good voice and a pretty enough face, but she would not have succeeded in Paris, people whispered, if Maxime had not helped her. I had spoken to him of this girl, and he had denied caring for her. She was a very ordinary, uninteresting creature, apart from her beauty, he said; but she had been friendless and in hard luck, and as he was half English himself, he had done what he could to aid a lonely and deserving young countrywoman, that was all. Still, I was never sure that he was not deceiving me. Altogether, in those days, I was unhappy. The Marchese Loria, Maxime's best friend—as I thought—was very sympathetic. He came often to see me, both with Maxime and alone. One day they quarrelled in my house. It was Loria who began it. He accused Maxime of prejudicing his sister Madeleine against him, and Maxime admitted that, though he loved Loria, he did not think he would made a good husband, and did not wish him to marry Madeleine. With a look of jealous hatred in his eyes, which I have never forgotten, Loria cried out that Maxime had always taken away from him everything he wanted most—love of friends and women, popularity, all that a man values in life. Then, almost before Maxime could answer to vow that never, consciously, had he been Loria's rival or injured him in any way, Loria begged forgiveness, said he had spoken in anger—that in his heart he did not mean a word. So the quarrel—if quarrel you could call it—was made up. But I guessed then that Loria had never really loved Maxime.
"It was only a few days after this that I found myself in great trouble with my creditors. Maxime had had too many losses to help me much, though he lent me two or three thousand francs. I asked him to pawn my jewels, which were worth a good deal, and to do it in his own name. It was Loria who put this idea into my head. He said that by this means I should prevent the pawn-tickets from being seized by other creditors. Late that very afternoon, when, against his will, Maxime had taken my jewels, the English girl, Olive Sinclair, came to my flat, saying that she must talk to me of an affair of great importance to us both. I was curious, and my jealousy was up in arms. She was admitted by my maid, who was just going out for the whole evening, by my permission.
"Olive Sinclair came in. We were alone together in the flat. She began by saying that she was going to England by the late boat that night, and that Maxime Dalahaide was going with her. As soon as possible, the girl went on, they would be married at a registrar's office, and the marriage kept secret from his family until she came of age the next year, when she would inherit a fortune, which she should be only too glad to share with her beloved Maxime. She had heard, she said, that I went about boasting everywhere of my engagement to Maxime Dalahaide, and that she could bear it no longer, so she had come to tell me the real truth, and humble my pride. Perhaps I would not have believed her if I had not known that Maxime did intend to go to England that night. He had told me that he wanted to see an uncle there on business. At once his story seemed improbable. I believed that the girl was telling me the truth. I have always had a hot temper, which often escapes beyond control. A wave of rage rushed up to my head, and made a red flame leap before my eyes. As the girl talked on, smiling insolently, I struck her in my passion. She staggered, and fell on the floor, her head pressed up against the fender in a curious way. Dear heaven, I can see her now, lying there, her eyes staring wide open, seeming to look at me, her lips apart! She did not cry out or move; and as I stood watching her, frightened at what I had done, a few drops of blood began to ooze from her mouth.
"I went down on my knees, and shook her by the shoulder, calling her name; but her head fell on one side, as if she had been a horrid dummy made of rags; and still her eyes were staring and her blood-stained lips smiling that foolish, awful smile. It was at this moment that I heard a knocking at the door.
"At first I kept quite still, dazed, not knowing what I should do. But then I thought it might be Maxime, who had changed his mind about selling the jewels, and come back soon to tell me. I was in the mood to see him at whatever cost. I called through the door to know who was there. Loria's voice answered. I let him in, explained confusedly what had happened, and begged him to bring the girl back to consciousness. Five minutes later he told me that she was dead. In falling, and striking against the fender, she had broken her neck.
"'What is to become of me?' I asked. 'I did not mean to kill her, and yet—I am a murderess. Will they send me to the guillotine for this?'
"'No, because I will save you,' Loria answered. Then, quickly, he made me understand the scheme that had come into his mind. So cunning, so wonderfully thought out it was, that I asked myself if he had somehow planned all that had happened; if he had sent the girl to me, and told her to say what she had