“Seven years must elapse before you return to civilisation. Meanwhile much can be accomplished. Sacre! I hope you’ll die the death you deserve, and rot in a criminal’s grave before that, curse you! Your wife —ma foi! – your victim!”
Hissing the last sentence with bitter contempt, and stamping her shapely foot vehemently, she added —
“Why should I barter myself? By going through the ceremony I have effectually closed his mouth for at least seven years, yet I still have freedom and the means whereby to enjoy life. Shall I calmly submit, then, and pose before the world as a social outcast – the wife of a notorious convict?”
The words were uttered in a tone that clearly demonstrated her intense hatred of the man to whom she had bound herself.
After pausing, deeply engrossed in thought, she exclaimed resolutely —
“No, I will not.”
In a frenzy of passion she tore the ring from her finger, and with a fierce imprecation flung it into the water as far as her strength allowed.
“And so I cast aside my vows,” she muttered between her teeth, as she watched it disappear.
Then, without a second glance, she turned upon her heel, and, with a harsh, discordant laugh, resumed her walk towards Noumea.
Chapter Two
The Charing Cross Mystery
Two years later. A frosty evening, clear and starlit – one of those dry nights in early spring so delightful to the dweller in London, too familiar with choking fog, drizzling rain, and sloppy mire.
In the vicinity of Charing Cross the busy stream of traffic had almost subsided. At ten o’clock the Strand is usually half deserted – the shops are closed, foot passengers are few, and the theatres have not yet disgorged their crowds of pleasure-seekers anxious to secure conveyances to take them to the suburbs. For half an hour previous to eleven o’clock the thoroughfare, notwithstanding the glare of electricity at theatre entrances and the blaze of garish restaurants and public-houses, assumes an appearance of almost dismal solitude. Boys who have hitherto indefatigably cried “special editions,” congregate at corners to chat among themselves, the few loungers stroll along dejectedly, and cadgers slink into doorways to await the time when they can resume their importunities among returning playgoers.
A similar aspect was presented this calm, bright night, as one of the omnibuses plying between the Strand and Kilburn slowly crossed Trafalgar Square, mounted the short incline to Charing Cross at walking pace, and, turning into Duncannon Street, pulled up before the public-house which at that time was the starting-point for that route.
The driver, facetiously adjuring his colleague on the ’bus, which was just moving off, to get “higher up,” unfastened his waist-strap, and, casting aside his multifarious wraps, descended. Stamping his feet to promote circulation, he was about to enter the bar. Suddenly he remembered that the conductor, after collecting the fares, had left the vehicle at the corner of the Haymarket for the purpose of walking the remainder of the journey – a proceeding not unusual in cold weather, when one’s hands become numbed, and a walk proves a welcome exercise.
It occurred to him that some one might still be inside. His surmise proved correct for, ensconced in a corner in the front of the conveyance, sat a well-dressed, middle-aged man. His fur-trimmed overcoat was unbuttoned, his head had fallen forward upon his chest, and he was apparently slumbering soundly.
“Charin’ Cross, sir,” shouted the plethoric old driver, peering in at the door.
The man showed no sign of awakening.
Sleeping passengers, who at their journey’s end awake irate and in great consternation at finding themselves a mile or two past their destination, are the daily experience of every omnibus conductor; and it is a remarkable fact that the rattle, combined with the rocking of the vehicle, is conducive to slumber.
Chuckling at the unconscious man’s probable chagrin, the driver entered the conveyance, and, grasping his shoulder, shook him violently, exclaiming in a loud voice —
“’Ere y’are! Charin’ Cross, sir. Wake up, guv’nor, please.”
The passenger did not stir. His arm dropped inertly by his side, and as the driver relaxed his hold, he swayed forward, and, before the mishap could be prevented, fell heavily upon the cushions opposite, and rolled upon the floor.
“He must be ill,” the driver exclaimed to himself in alarm.
Then stooping, he seized the prostrate man round the waist, and with some difficulty succeeded in dragging him to his feet and replacing him upon the seat.
As he did so he felt his fingers come into contact with some wet, sticky substance. Holding his hand against the dim oil lamp, he examined it closely.
“Blood, by God!” he gasped.
Glancing quickly down at the feet of the inanimate man, he noticed for the first time a small, dark pool, beside which lay a white handkerchief.
In a moment the terrible truth dawned upon him.
Vaguely apprehensive of foul play, he pulled aside the overcoat, and placed his hand upon the heart of the prostrate man.
There was no movement.
“Hullo, Teddy, what’s up? Any one would think you were robbing the chap,” shouted a voice jocosely at the door.
The driver started, and, looking up, saw his conductor who, having taken a shorter route than the omnibus by walking along Pall Mall, across the north side of Trafalgar Square, and entering Duncannon Street from the opposite end, had just arrived.
“Bill,” replied the driver in an awe-stricken tone, his face wearing a scared look, “there’s something wrong here. I believe the gent’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. Come here.”
The conductor grew pale, and got into the conveyance beside his companion.
“Look! that’s blood,” the latter said, pointing to the floor.
“You’re joking,” the other replied incredulously, bending down to examine it.
“’Pon my honour I’m not. There’s some on my hand here. Besides, his heart doesn’t beat.”
Leaning hastily forward, the conductor pressed his hand to the passenger’s breast. He quickly withdrew it, admitting that such indeed was the case.
“But what can be wrong with him, Ted? He looks like a gentleman,” he added in amazement.
“I can’t tell. In this ’ere light it’s impossible to see.”
Striking a vesta, the conductor held it close to the man’s coat. As it shed its light in fitful gleams, their eager eyes at once discerned a small hole in the breast, from which blood was slowly oozing.
Both drew back in dismay.
“He’s been stabbed?” the man who held the match exclaimed in a low, terrified voice. “See, the overcoat must have been opened first, as it isn’t pierced.”
The victim had been wounded in the heart, struck by a steady hand, and evidently with great violence.
They stood aghast at the horrifying discovery.
“What do you think of it, Bill?” asked the old driver timorously.
“Murder, without a doubt.”
“I wonder whether this will give any clue to the murderer?” the elder man said, picking up the handkerchief.
It was a lady’s – a small square of fine cambric with a delicate border of lace.
“Let’s look,” exclaimed his companion, taking it in his hands, and holding it to the lamp.
“Any