Except for a gatekeeper, the bleak, exposed pier had the air of being

deserted. The lights of the town flickered in the distance, and above

them rose dimly the gaunt outlines of the fortified hills. In front

was the intemperate and restless sea. I felt that I was at the

extremity of England, and on the verge of unguessed things. Now, I had

traversed about half the length of the lonely pier, which seems to

curve right out into the unknown, when I saw a woman approaching me in

the opposite direction. My faculties were fatigued with the crowded

sensations of that evening, and I took no notice of her. Even when she

stopped to peer into my face I thought nothing of it, and put her

gently aside, supposing her to be some dubious character of the night

hours. But she insisted on speaking to me.

"You are Carl Foster," she said abruptly. The voice was harsh,

trembling, excited, yet distinguished.

"Suppose I am?" I answered wearily. How tired I was!

"I advise you not to go to Paris."

I began to arouse my wits, and I became aware that the woman was

speaking with a strong French accent. I searched her face, but she

wore a thick veil, and in the gloom of the pier I could only make out

that she had striking features, and was probably some forty years of

age. I stared at her in silence.

"I advise you not to go to Paris," she repeated.

"Who are you?"

"Never mind. Take my advice."

"Why? Shall I be robbed?"

"Robbed!" she exclaimed, as if that was a new idea to her. "Yes," she

said hurriedly. "Those jewels might be stolen."

"How do you know that I have jewels?"

"Ah! I--I saw the case."

"Don't trouble yourself, madam; I shall take particular care not to be

robbed. But may I ask how you have got hold of my name?"

I had vague ideas of an ingenious plan for robbing me, the particulars

of which this woman was ready to reveal for a consideration.

She ignored my question.

"Listen!" she said quickly. "You are going to meet a lady in Paris. Is

it not so?"

"I must really--"

"Take advice. Move no further in that affair."

I attempted to pass her, but she held me by the sleeve. She went on

with emphasis: "Rosetta Rosa will never be allowed to sing in 'Carmen' at the Opéra

Comique. Do you understand?"

"Great Scott!" I said, "I believe you must be Carlotta Deschamps."

It was a half-humorous inspiration on my part, but the remark produced

an immediate effect on the woman, for she walked away with a highly

theatrical scowl and toss of the head. I recalled what Marie Deschamps

had said in the train about her stepsister, and also my suspicion that

Rosa's maid was not entirely faithful to her mistress--spied on her,

in fact; and putting the two things together, it occurred to me that

this strange lady might actually be Carlotta.




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