Chapter II: Concerns Certain Secrets

Monte Carlo at night.

You who know the Riviera know well the scene. It never changes, the terrestrial paradise that is so near hell. The garish, noisy cafes, the expensive restaurants, full to overflowing with the smartest crowd in Europe, the myriad-coloured lights, the waving palms, the beds of sweet-smelling flowers, the well-dressed men, the pretty women in wonderful toilettes, and the centre of it all, the Casino with its red-carpeted steps, its wide portals, and its uniformed attendants. It was just before Carnival, and the place was crowded.

The old harbour-master and his millionaire host had dined at the Hotel de Paris, amid a scene of luxury unfamiliar to Jorgen Berentsen. The artistically lit tables, the flowers, the gay laughter of the pretty women, and the soft strains of the Roumanian band, all combined to create an impression upon the case-hardened old whaling captain, who had spent the greater part of his adventurous life in the desolation of the Arctic. To him civilisation of that luxurious kind was a revelation.

As they crossed the palm-lined Place to the Casino they could see the long white yacht, with its many lights, lying in the port, a magnificent craft that had been familiar to habitués of the Riviera for several seasons past.

Peter Sundt was well known to the officials in the Casino, otherwise it is doubtful whether the entrance-card would have been issued to his burly companion, who carried with him so unmistakably the air of the Northern sea.

But the door at the end of the atrium swung over, and a moment later the pair found themselves in the great world-famous gaming-room, where the roulette tables were already crowded by a smart, eager throng. It happened to be a Saturday night, and that is the evening of the week when the women dress well and put on their jewels.

“_Rien ne va plus!_” The strident cries of the croupiers were incessant, mingled with the fascinating jingle of gold, the soft rustle of bank-notes, and the sharp click of the little ivory ball which, each moment, brought many of those standing by nearer to the verge of ruin.

As Peter and Jorgen passed from table to table they found at each crowds four or five deep, eager to stake their money in the hope of the fickle goddess smiling upon them.

Hot and close were the rooms, as they always are, with that indescribable odour which ever pervades the place—that fevered, fetid odour of mingled perspiration and perfume.

Sundt, while standing at one of the roulette tables, handed a croupier a hundred-franc note to place upon the last dozen. Then old Jorgen, following his example and bitten by the contagious excitement, handed the same croupier a louis to place on the zero.

The game was made, the ball spun, and gradually losing its impetus, it fell with a loud click.

“Ze-r-ro!” announced the croupier.

The old captain’s furrowed face brightened when a moment later he was handed a small handful of golden louis, which he at once pocketed, and then turned away, with Peter congratulating him upon his stroke of luck.

But Jorgen smiled bitterly. He was dreading the fast-approaching hour—ten o’clock.

As they were passing on to the next table, a tall, slim, dark-haired French girl, quite young, but most elegantly dressed in pale pink chiffon, unmistakably a creation of the Rue de la Paix, with a big black hat which suited her admirably, and a collar of gleaming diamonds, swept past them laughing gaily with an elderly woman in grey satin who accompanied her. Into her golden chain purse she was carelessly stuffing a number of thousand-franc notes, which she had just won by a lucky coup.

Peter Sundt halted and stared at her for a second. His red cheeks had blanched, and he held his breath.

She, however, had not noticed him, and passed on towards the great swing doors.

As she walked down the room, two young Frenchmen, evidently Riviera loungers, bowed acquaintance with her, and she smiled upon them. She was not more than twenty, and her clear-cut, regular features were strikingly handsome.

Jorgen Berentsen noticed his friend’s sudden surprise, but made no remark. He, however, wondered that the sight of that butterfly of fashion, that elegant little Parisienne, with her dark hair arranged in bandeaux across her white brow, should have produced such a curious impression upon him.

The young girl went out, her skirts rustling as she walked, leaving Peter Sundt standing in the great salon gazing after her as though dumfounded.

“Who’s that?” the Captain inquired a few moments later.

“That girl? Oh!—oh, well only somebody I know. I am very surprised to meet her here, that’s all,” he responded, somewhat confused.

“A friend of yours—eh?”

“Well—no—not exactly,” replied the millionaire, now thoroughly recovered from the evident shock that her unexpected appearance had caused him.

But the harbour-master saw plainly that the sight of that young Parisienne, flushed with the excitement of winning a large coup, had produced an extraordinary change in his companion, and that he knew more of her than he intended to admit.

“Perhaps you’d like to follow and join her? If so, I’ll stay here for a little,” said the burly old sailor.

“Join her!” echoed his companion, staring at him. “_Join her!_ No, thank you,” he said, laughing grimly. “No,” he added, with an apparent effort, as he braced himself up. “Let’s go into yonder room, and watch the _trente-et-quarante_.”

And together they strolled in the great painted salon adjoining, where only gold was being played, and where the cards were being dealt in a quiet and serious manner.

To the hardy old sea-captain gambling possessed little attraction. He had won a zero, and was therefore perfectly satisfied. Already he found the atmosphere stifling and the thousand perfumes of the women nauseating. The jingle of gold sounded everywhere, and above all the voices of the croupiers inviting the company to play, or declaring that no further stakes could be accepted, or announcing the winning numbers.

“I’m ready to go,” he said at last, with a deep-drawn sigh as he looked at the big clock at the end of the great gilded gaming-room.

It wanted but fifteen minutes to ten—the hour of the secret appointment which he had been so long dreading.

At ten o’clock he was to commit a crime unpardonable!

Together, they passed through the atrium, down the red-carpeted steps, and out into the moonlit Place.

The manner of the red-faced man had changed. He gazed swiftly on every side, and looked eagerly across to the terrace of the Cafe de Paris, as though in search of that laughing, dark-haired girl, the sight of whom had caused him such great surprise.

But she had gone; and upon his coarse face was a look of bitter disappointment.

As they re-crossed the Place and walked on beneath the dark shadows of the palms, the old sea-captain, pale and agitated, suddenly halted, exclaiming in a determined voice:

“No, Peter! I—I’ll not do this! I—I’ll go no further!”

“What!” cried his companion, stopping aghast. “What are you saying?”

“I say what I mean,” replied the bluff old fellow resolutely.

“You can’t mean it! Why, it would be utterly absurd to withdraw now,” declared Peter Sundt.

“Better withdraw now than be guilty of such an offence,” the Captain replied in the low, hoarse voice of a man struggling with his own conscience.

“I’ve arranged it all and brought you here, yet you now go back upon your word, and make a fool of me!” cried the other.

“You brought me here, Peter, as your catspaw—just as I have always been, ever since I took that first false step!” remarked the old fellow, who owed his present snug position to the man standing before him.

“And what have you to complain of, pray? I’ve assisted you, exercised my influence on your behalf, yet this is how you thank me! You cast mud in my face!” exclaimed the wealthy man in quick anger.

“I shall not do this,” said Berentsen. “I have decided.”

“You shall! Come, it’s just on ten o’clock. We shall be late. Women are impatient creatures.”

“Not a step further will I go in this dirty business, Peter—even for you.”

“But I say you shall!” was Sundt’s determined response. “You’ve suddenly grown conscientious, a trait which in you, my dear Jorgen, is unusual. Conscientiousness is a very bad sign. No man who entertains such thoughts can ever hope to prosper in these bright days, believe me!”

“I—I’d rather starve than do this to-night,” declared Jorgen, his eyes staring before him, as though confronted by his own terrible doom.

“You can’t afford to starve, my dear friend,” replied the other with a short, harsh laugh. “Besides, think of little Thyra!”

“It is of her that I’m thinking,” he said. “What would she say if she knew that her father was—was—a—— But enough! Let us part, Peter. Let us part now. I will get back to the north alone.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the red-faced man angrily. “You are not going to play the fool like this. Come,” and he linked his arm in that of his friend. “Come, at once, and don’t show the white feather. I never before thought you were a coward, Jorgen.”

“I’m no coward!” cried his companion fiercely. “No man has ever called me that. But I refuse to commit this crime at your bidding!”

“You will act as I have arranged,” replied the other. “If not—well, you know the consequences.”

“Yes,” said the old fellow in a low, strained voice, “imprisonment for me—and ruin for the child!”

“You have to choose one or the other,” the coarse-faced man remarked. “As I told you not long ago, you must choose between prosperity and ruin. None but an imbecile would choose the latter—which must mean your exposure to Thyra.”

The man addressed bit his lip. His hard hands were clenched. Within him a fierce struggle was taking place, for he knew alas! too well, that this man, who had amassed a huge fortune by his callous unscrupulousness, now held him entirely in his power.

He was thinking of Thyra—his own little Thyra, to whom he was so entirely devoted.

Peter Sundt, quick to notice his companion’s indecision, linked his arm in his again, and drew him slowly forward, saying:

“Come, man. Don’t be a fool! You can’t draw back now. Why discuss such an unpleasant subject further? Come—or we shall be too late.”

And the old harbour-master, his face pale, his eyes set straight before him at the long dark vista of the palms, allowed himself to be slowly led towards that fatal rendezvous, knowing, alas! that to refuse at that, the eleventh, hour would mean an exposure that he dare not face.

He was as a fly in the web of the spider. The more he struggled, the more inextricable became his position. So he only sighed bitterly, and with set teeth bowed to the inevitable.

It was not long before they reached the obscure little hotel, the Palmiers—a place in a narrow street which make a speciality of cheap table d’hôte luncheons and dinners. And into its small private entrance both men entered, Jorgen Berentsen holding his breath, terrified at the act which he was thus forced to commit.

Five minutes afterwards Peter Sundt emerged alone, and retracing his steps, sauntered slowly back to the Place du Casino, where, beneath the dark shadow of the trees, he halted, anxiously awaiting the man over whom he exercised a baneful influence.

For a full twenty minutes he idled up and down, impatiently smoking a cigar, until suddenly Jorgen’s big, square figure loomed up in the darkness.

“Well?” inquired Sundt anxiously.

“It’s done!” answered the old fellow breathlessly, in a low, hoarse voice. “Let’s get away from this horrible place—away anywhere.”

“First let’s go across to the Cafe de Paris yonder. You want a drop of brandy, no doubt. Then we’ll go on board. By eleven, we’ll weigh anchor and be away.”

They crossed to the big, brilliantly-lit cafe, where, at the small tables, many well-dressed men and women were drinking in the interval of staking their money on the tables of the Casino opposite.

Upon the terrace outside Peter’s quick eye caught sight of the sweet-faced young Parisienne in pale pink chiffon and black hat, seated alone at a little table placed in the shadow against the wall.

He therefore turned, and walking along the terrace both men took seats at a table near. So agitated was the old harbour-master that he, at first, did not notice her.

It was only when he followed the direction of his companion’s eyes that he recognised the girl whom they had encountered in the Rooms. He saw that she had turned her head, and was staring straight at Peter Sundt with a wild, fixed look, as though she had seen an apparition.

With her dark eyes still upon him, she drained her tiny liqueur glass. Then her pretty lips relaxed into a smile, half of recognition, half of defiance.

Peter Sundt raised his hat politely, and was in the act of crossing to where she was seated in the shadow, when she half-rose from her seat. Her face suddenly became blanched and drawn, her jaws were fixed, and next instant, even before he could reach her, she had collapsed upon her chair and, reeling sideways, fell heavily upon the stone flooring.

In a moment both men dashed across to her, and all became confusion, for there were many people seated in the vicinity.

The first belief was that she had merely fainted, but next moment a terrible truth became evident. Upon the little marble table lay a tiny phial about two inches long, and empty. Jorgen took it up and smelt it. The odour was that of almonds.

In a few seconds two agents of police were on the spot, not, however, before the old harbour-master had realized the ghastly fact.

The unfortunate girl, like many another butterfly whose wings are singed in that gilded inferno opposite, had deliberately swallowed a fatal draught!

The police wrested her lifeless body from Peter Sundt, who held it tenderly in his arms, and as they did so the red-faced man, now pale as the poor girl herself, placed his hand wildly to his brow, and shrieked aloud:

“_Dead!_ My God!—she’s dead! This, then, is my punishment—the vengeance of Heaven!”