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.