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 Opera 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.

Many women of the stage acquire a habitual staginess and theatricality, and it was quite conceivable that Carlotta had relations with Yvette, and that, ridden by the old jealousy which had been aroused through the announcement of Rosa’s return to the Opera Comique, she was setting herself in an indefinite, clumsy, stealthy, and melodramatic manner to prevent Rosa’s appearance in “Carmen.”

No doubt she had been informed of Rosa’s conference with me in the church of St. Gilles, and, impelled by some vague, obscure motive, had travelled to London to discover me, and having succeeded, was determined by some means to prevent me from getting into touch with Rosa in Paris.  So I conjectured roughly, and subsequent events indicated that I was not too far wrong.

I laughed.  The notion of the middle-aged prima donna going about in waste places at dead of night to work mischief against a rival was indubitably comic.  I would make a facetious narrative of the meeting for the amusement of Rosa at breakfast to-morrow in Paris.  Then, feeling all at once at the end of my physical powers, I continued my way, and descended the steps to the Calais boat.

All was excitement there.  Had I heard of the railway accident?  Yes, I had.  I had been in it.  Instantly I was surrounded by individuals who raked me fore and aft with questions.  I could not endure it; my nervous energy, I realized, was exhausted, and having given a brief outline of the disaster, I fled down the saloon stairs.

My sole desire was to rest; the need of unconsciousness, of forgetfulness, was imperious upon me; I had had too many experiences during the last few hours.  I stretched myself on the saloon cushions, making a pillow of the jewel-box.

“Shall we start soon?” I murmured to a steward.

“Yes, sir, in another five minutes.  Weather’s moderating, sir.”