Chapter 1

Richard Burwell, of New York, will never cease to regret that the French
language was not made a part of his education.

This is why:

On the second evening after Burwell arrived in Paris, feeling lonely
without his wife and daughter, who were still visiting a friend in
London, his mind naturally turned to the theatre. So, after consulting
the daily amusement calendar, he decided to visit the _Folies Bergere_,
which he had heard of as one of the notable sights. During an
intermission he went into the beautiful garden, where gay crowds were
strolling among the flowers, and lights, and fountains. He had just
seated himself at a little three-legged table, with a view to enjoying
the novel scene, when his attention was attracted by a lovely woman,
gowned strikingly, though in perfect taste, who passed near him, leaning
on the arm of a gentleman. The only thing that he noticed about this
gentleman was that he wore eye-glasses.

Now Burwell had never posed as a captivator of the fair sex, and could
scarcely credit his eyes when the lady left the side of her escort and,
turning back as if she had forgotten something, passed close by him, and
deftly placed a card on his table. The card bore some French words
written in purple ink, but, not knowing that language, he was unable to
make out their meaning. The lady paid no further heed to him, but,
rejoining the gentleman with the eye-glasses, swept out of the place
with the grace and dignity of a princess. Burwell remained staring at
the card.

Needless to say, he thought no more of the performance or of the other
attractions about him. Everything seemed flat and tawdry compared with
the radiant vision that had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously.
His one desire now was to discover the meaning of the words written on
the card.

Calling a fiacre, he drove to the Hotel Continental, where he was
staying. Proceeding directly to the office and taking the manager aside,
Burwell asked if he would be kind enough to translate a few words of
French into English. There were no more than twenty words in all.

"Why, certainly," said the manager, with French politeness, and cast his
eyes over the card. As he read, his face grew rigid with astonishment,
and, looking at his questioner sharply, he exclaimed: "Where did you get
this, monsieur?"

Burwell started to explain, but was interrupted by: "That will do, that
will do. You must leave the hotel."

"What do you mean?" asked the man from New York, in amazement.

"You must leave the hotel now--to-night--without fail," commanded the
manager excitedly.

Now it was Burwell's turn to grow angry, and he declared heatedly that
if he wasn't wanted in this hotel there were plenty of others in Paris
where he would be welcome. And, with an assumption of dignity, but
piqued at heart, he settled his bill, sent for his belongings, and drove
up the Rue de la Paix to the Hotel Bellevue, where he spent the night.

The next morning he met the proprietor, who seemed to be a good fellow,
and, being inclined now to view the incident of the previous evening
from its ridiculous side, Burwell explained what had befallen him, and
was pleased to find a sympathetic listener.

"Why, the man was a fool," declared the proprietor. "Let me see the
card; I will tell you what it means." But as he read, his face and
manner changed instantly.

"This is a serious matter," he said sternly. "Now I understand why my
confrere refused to entertain you. I regret, monsieur, but I shall be
obliged to do as he did."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that you cannot remain here."

With that he turned on his heel, and the indignant guest could not
prevail upon him to give any explanation.

"We'll see about this," said Burwell, thoroughly angered.

It was now nearly noon, and the New Yorker remembered an engagement to
lunch with a friend from Boston, who, with his family, was stopping at
the Hotel de l'Alma. With his luggage on the carriage, he ordered the
_cocher_ to drive directly there, determined to take counsel with his
countryman before selecting new quarters. His friend was highly
indignant when he heard the story--a fact that gave Burwell no little
comfort, knowing, as he did, that the man was accustomed to foreign ways
from long residence abroad.

"It is some silly mistake, my dear fellow; I wouldn't pay any attention
to it. Just have your luggage taken down and stay here. It is a nice,
homelike place, and it will be very jolly, all being together. But,
first, let me prepare a little 'nerve settler' for you."

After the two had lingered a moment over their Manhattan cocktails,
Burwell's friend excused himself to call the ladies. He had proceeded
only two or three steps when he turned, and said: "Let's see that
mysterious card that has raised all this row."

He had scarcely withdrawn it from Burwell's hand when he started back,
and exclaimed:--

"Great God, man! Do you mean to say--this is simply--"

Then, with a sudden movement of his hand to his head, he left the room.

He was gone perhaps five minutes, and when he returned his face was
white.

"I am awfully sorry," he said nervously; "but the ladies tell me
they--that is, my wife--she has a frightful headache. You will have to
excuse us from the lunch."

Instantly realizing that this was only a flimsy pretense, and deeply
hurt by his friend's behaviour, the mystified man arose at once and left
without another word. He was now determined to solve this mystery at any
cost. What could be the meaning of the words on that infernal piece of
pasteboard?

Profiting by his humiliating experiences, he took good care not to show
the card to any one at the hotel where he now established himself,--a
comfortable little place near the Grand Opera House.

All through the afternoon he thought of nothing but the card, and turned
over in his mind various ways of learning its meaning without getting
himself into further trouble. That evening he went again to the _Folies
Bergere_ in the hope of finding the mysterious woman, for he was now
more than ever anxious to discover who she was. It even occurred to him
that she might be one of those beautiful Nihilist conspirators, or,
perhaps, a Russian spy, such as he had read of in novels. But he failed
to find her, either then or on the three subsequent evenings which he
passed in the same place. Meanwhile the card was burning in his pocket
like a hot coal. He dreaded the thought of meeting anyone that he knew,
while this horrible cloud hung over him. He bought a French-English
dictionary and tried to pick out the meaning word by word, but failed.
It was all Greek to him. For the first time in his life, Burwell
regretted that he had not studied French at college.

After various vain attempts to either solve or forget the torturing
riddle, he saw no other course than to lay the problem before a
detective agency. He accordingly put his case in the hands of an _agent
de la surete_ who was recommended as a competent and trustworthy man.
They had a talk together in a private room, and, of course, Burwell
showed the card. To his relief, his adviser at least showed no sign of
taking offence. Only he did not and would not explain what the words
meant.

"It is better," he said, "that monsieur should not know the nature of
this document for the present. I will do myself the honour to call upon
monsieur to-morrow at his hotel, and then monsieur shall know
everything."

"Then it is really serious?" asked the unfortunate man.

"Very serious," was the answer.

The next twenty-four hours Burwell passed in a fever of anxiety. As his
mind conjured up one fearful possibility after another he deeply
regretted that he had not torn up the miserable card at the start. He
even seized it,--prepared to strip it into fragments, and so end the
whole affair. And then his Yankee stubbornness again asserted itself,
and he determined to see the thing out, come what might.

"After all," he reasoned, "it is no crime for a man to pick up a card
that a lady drops on his table."

Crime or no crime, however, it looked very much as if he had committed
some grave offence when, the next day, his detective drove up in a
carriage, accompanied by a uniformed official, and requested the
astounded American to accompany them to the police headquarters.

"What for?" he asked.

"It is only a formality," said the detective; and when Burwell still
protested the man in uniform remarked: "You'd better come quietly,
monsieur; you will have to come, anyway."

An hour later, after severe cross-examination by another official, who
demanded many facts about the New Yorker's age, place of birth,
residence, occupation, etc., the bewildered man found himself in the
Conciergerie prison. Why he was there or what was about to befall him
Burwell had no means of knowing; but before the day was over he
succeeded in having a message sent to the American Legation, where he
demanded immediate protection as a citizen of the United States. It was
not until evening, however, that the Secretary of Legation, a
consequential person, called at the prison. There followed a stormy
interview, in which the prisoner used some strong language, the French
officers gesticulated violently and talked very fast, and the Secretary
calmly listened to both sides, said little, and smoked a good cigar.

"I will lay your case before the American minister," he said as he rose
to go, "and let you know the result to-morrow."

"But this is an outrage. Do you mean to say--" Before he could finish,
however, the Secretary, with a strangely suspicious glance, turned and
left the room.

That night Burwell slept in a cell.

The next morning he received another visit from the non-committal
Secretary, who informed him that matters had been arranged, and that he
would be set at liberty forthwith.

"I must tell you, though," he said, "that I have had great difficulty in
accomplishing this, and your liberty is granted only on condition that
you leave the country within twenty-four hours, and never under any
conditions return."

Burwell stormed, raged, and pleaded; but it availed nothing. The
Secretary was inexorable, and yet he positively refused to throw any
light upon the causes of this monstrous injustice.

"Here is your card," he said, handing him a large envelope closed with
the seal of Legation. "I advise you to burn it and never refer to the
matter again."

That night the ill-fated man took the train for London, his heart
consumed by hatred for the whole French nation, together with a burning
desire for vengeance. He wired his wife to meet him at the station, and
for a long time debated with himself whether he should at once tell her
the sickening truth. In the end he decided that it was better to keep
silent. No sooner, however, had she seen him than her woman's instinct
told her that he was labouring under some mental strain. And he saw in a
moment that to withhold from her his burning secret was impossible,
especially when she began to talk of the trip they had planned through
France. Of course no trivial reason would satisfy her for his refusal to
make this trip, since they had been looking forward to it for years; and
yet it was impossible now for him to set foot on French soil.

So he finally told her the whole story, she laughing and weeping in
turn. To her, as to him, it seemed incredible that such overwhelming
disasters could have grown out of so small a cause, and, being a fluent
French scholar, she demanded a sight of the fatal piece of pasteboard.
In vain her husband tried to divert her by proposing a trip through
Italy. She would consent to nothing until she had seen the mysterious
card which Burwell was now convinced he ought long ago to have
destroyed. After refusing for awhile to let her see it, he finally
yielded. But, although he had learned to dread the consequences of
showing that cursed card, he was little prepared for what followed. She
read it turned pale, gasped for breath, and nearly fell to the floor.

"I told you not to read it," he said; and then, growing tender at the
sight of her distress, he took her hand in his and begged her to be
calm. "At least tell me what the thing means," he said. "We can bear it
together; you surely can trust me."

But she, as if stung by rage, pushed him from her and declared, in a
tone such as he had never heard from her before, that never, never again
would she live with him. "You are a monster!" she exclaimed. And those
were the last words he heard from her lips.

Failing utterly in all efforts at reconciliation, the half-crazed man
took the first steamer for New York, having suffered in scarcely a
fortnight more than in all his previous life. His whole pleasure trip
had been ruined, he had failed to consummate important business
arrangements, and now he saw his home broken up and his happiness
ruined. During the voyage he scarcely left his stateroom, but lay there
prostrated with agony. In this black despondency the one thing that
sustained him was the thought of meeting his partner, Jack Evelyth, the
friend of his boyhood, the sharer of his success, the bravest, most
loyal fellow in the world. In the face of even the most damning
circumstances, he felt that Evelyth's rugged common sense would evolve
some way of escape from this hideous nightmare. Upon landing at New York
he hardly waited for the gang-plank to be lowered before he rushed on
shore and grasped the hand of his partner, who was waiting on the wharf.

"Jack," was his first word, "I am in dreadful trouble, and you are the
only man in the world who can help me."

An hour later Burwell sat at his friend's dinner table, talking over the
situation.

Evelyth was all kindness, and several times as he listened to Burwell's
story his eyes filled with tears.

"It does not seem possible, Richard," he said, "that such things can be;
but I will stand by you; we will fight it out together. But we cannot
strike in the dark. Let me see this card."

"There is the damned thing," Burwell said, throwing it on the table.

Evelyth opened the envelope, took out the card, and fixed his eyes on
the sprawling purple characters.

"Can you read it?" Burwell asked excitedly.

"Perfectly," his partner said. The next moment he turned pale, and his
voice broke. Then he clasped the tortured man's hand in his with a
strong grip. "Richard," he said slowly, "if my only child had been
brought here dead it would not have caused me more sorrow than this
does. You have brought me the worst news one man could bring another."

His agitation and genuine suffering affected Burwell like a death
sentence.

"Speak, man," he cried; "do not spare me. I can bear anything rather
than this awful uncertainty. Tell me what the card means."

Evelyth took a swallow of brandy and sat with head bent on his clasped
hands.

"No, I can't do it; there are some things a man must not do."

Then he was silent again, his brows knitted. Finally he said solemnly:--

"No, I can't see any other way out of it. We have been true to each
other all our lives; we have worked together and looked forward to never
separating. I would rather fail and die than see this happen. But we
have got to separate, old friend; we have got to separate."

They sat there talking until late into the night. But nothing that
Burwell could do or say availed against his friend's decision. There was
nothing for it but that Evelyth should buy his partner's share of the
business or that Burwell buy out the other. The man was more than fair
in the financial proposition he made; he was generous, as he always had
been, but his determination was inflexible; the two must separate. And
they did.

With his old partner's desertion, it seemed to Burwell that the world
was leagued against him. It was only three weeks from the day on which
he had received the mysterious card; yet in that time he had lost all
that he valued in the world,--wife, friends, and business. What next to
do with the fatal card was the sickening problem that now possessed him.

He dared not show it; yet he dared not destroy it. He loathed it; yet he
could not let it go from his possession. Upon returning to his house he
locked the accursed thing away in his safe as if it had been a package
of dynamite or a bottle of deadly poison. Yet not a day passed that he
did not open the drawer where the thing was kept and scan with loathing
the mysterious purple scrawl.

In desperation he finally made up his mind to take up the study of the
language in which the hateful thing was written. And still he dreaded
the approach of the day when he should decipher its awful meaning.

One afternoon, less than a week after his arrival in New York, as he was
crossing Twenty-third Street on the way to his French teacher, he saw a
carriage rolling up Broadway. In the carriage was a face that caught his
attention like a flash. As he looked again he recognized the woman who
had been the cause of his undoing. Instantly he sprang into another cab
and ordered the driver to follow after. He found the house where she was
living. He called there several times; but always received the same
reply, that she was too much engaged to see anyone. Next he was told
that she was ill, and on the following day the servant said she was much
worse. Three physicians had been summoned in consultation. He sought out
one of these and told him it was a matter of life or death that he see
this woman. The doctor was a kindly man and promised to assist him.
Through his influence, it came about that on that very night Burwell
stood by the bedside of this mysterious woman. She was beautiful still,
though her face was worn with illness.

"Do you recognize me?" he asked tremblingly, as he leaned over the bed,
clutching in one hand an envelope containing the mysterious card. "Do
you remember seeing me at the _Folies Bergere_ a month ago?"

"Yes," she murmured, after a moment's study of his face; and he noted
with relief that she spoke English.

"Then, for God's sake, tell me, what does it all mean?" he gasped,
quivering with excitement.

"I gave you the card because I wanted you to--to--"

Here a terrible spasm of coughing shook her whole body, and she fell
back exhausted.

An agonizing despair tugged at Burwell's heart. Frantically snatching
the card from its envelope, he held it close to the woman's face.

"Tell me! Tell me!"

With a supreme effort, the pale figure slowly raised itself on the
pillow, its fingers clutching at the counterpane.

Then the sunken eyes fluttered--forced themselves open--and stared in
stony amazement upon the fatal card, while the trembling lips moved
noiselessly, as if in an attempt to speak. As Burwell, choking with
eagerness, bent his head slowly to hers, a suggestion of a smile
flickered across the woman's face. Again the mouth quivered, the man's
head bent nearer and nearer to hers, his eyes riveted upon the lips.
Then, as if to aid her in deciphering the mystery, he turned his eyes to
the card.

With a cry of horror he sprang to his feet, his eyeballs starting from
their sockets. Almost at the same moment the woman fell heavily upon the
pillow.

Every vestige of the writing had faded! The card was blank!

The woman lay there dead.