CHAPTER IV.

THE NEW PASSENGERS.

When the inquest had been adjourned, and the excited passengers were assembled in saloon and smoking-rooms giving their ideas on the subject, Ronald Monteith, at the captain's request, remained to talk over things.

"It is a curious case altogether," said Captain Templeton, sitting back in his chair. "I never knew of such a thing to occur aboard one of our steamers before, and your story is a strange one."

"It is, rather," assented the Australian, pulling moodily at his mustache; "but I think it is true. Poor Ventin told me it only too bitterly to leave any doubt in my mind as to his veracity."

The captain took up the stiletto, which still lay on the table, and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Have you ever seen this in Ventin's possession?" he asked.

"No," replied Monteith, casting a careless glance at it. "But, then, I never was in his cabin. We sat next to one another in the saloon at meals, and talked together a good deal. Beyond the story I told you I know nothing about his life."

"Excuse me putting the question to you again; but do you really think this Maltese wife killed him?"

"Well, of course, I can't say for certain, but it looks very black against her. She wrote and told him she would kill him."

"Oh!" interrupted the captain, "did he show you the letter?"

"No; but it might be among his private papers, which you will of course take charge of."

"Yes; I will look over his things to-night. But go on."

"Well, he goes on shore at Valletta, sees his wife, who recognises him, comes back, she follows, hears the number of his cabin, and kills him."

"And then?"

"Well, the question is easy to answer. She must have committed the crime before nine o'clock, and escaped on shore in the confusion, or----"

"Well."

"She must be still on the boat. What passengers came on board at Valletta?"

"I ascertained that when I heard your story this morning--two only."

"Maltese or English?"

"The former. Marchese Matteo Vassalla is the name of one, and the other is Miss Cotoner--both cousins."

"Do you think she is the wife of Ventin?" asked Ronald, eagerly.

"How the deuce do I know?" said Templeton, quickly; "I never saw her before!"

"What age should you think she was?"

"About twenty-four or five."

"Women's appearances are so deceptive."

"What the deuce are you driving at?" asked the captain, annoyed.

"I know the exact age of the Maltese wife."

"How so?"

"Ventin told me he was forty years of age, and that he was twenty when he started his career in London; he said he had thirteen years of fast living there, so in order to be forty now, seven years must have elapsed since his marriage."

"But what has this got to do with the age of his wife?"

"Everything; he said his wife was twenty-three years of age when he met her first; that by my argument must have been seven years ago, so to-day his wife must be thirty years of age--now is this new passenger thirty?"

"No, I'm certain she isn't; besides, the Marchese told me his cousin and himself stayed on deck till the vessel started."

"Oh!" said Ronald, thoughtfully, "so that disposes of this young lady, it cannot be she, but the Marchese might help us."

"I don't think so; he wouldn't know Ventin."

"Perhaps not, but he might know Mrs. Ventin, as he lives at Valletta, and the whole affair might be sifted to the bottom; but oh hang it, I forgot," broke off Monteith in dismay, "Ventin was not his real name."

"Heavens, you don't say so! Then what was it?"

"He did not tell me."

"How vexatious," said Templeton, rising to his feet, "this involves the affair in still deeper mystery, for if Ventin were not his real name, we cannot find the former Mrs. Ventin, and will not be able to ascertain if there's any truth in the story he told you."

"Examine his boxes," suggested Ronald, as he followed the captain outside, "his real name may be among his papers, or else a crest; you might find out from that."

The captain jumped at the idea, and was going down to carry it into effect, when Ronald stopped him.

"I say," he asked, eagerly, "who is that pretty girl with the dark hair?"

"Oh that," said Templeton, with a laugh, "is the object of your suspicions, Miss Cotoner."

Captain Templeton turned away, and Ronald discovered the young lady in question was the very one he had seen on the Barraca, and of whose face he had been dreaming ever since. She, guilty of a crime? The thought was madness; if any one even hinted at such a thing, he'd throw him over the side, and he no longer was astonished at the captain's indignation at his suggestion. The fact was, Master Ronald was in the first stage of that universal disease called love. He approached Mrs. Pellypop as she sat knitting industriously, and took a seat beside her; of course, she commenced on the great subject of the day, and expressed her opinion that it was a "lascar."

"But what motive?" asked Ronald, absently; "couldn't be robbery--nothing was stolen."

"Then it must have been a steward," said Mrs. Pellypop, determinedly. "Mr. Ventin looked like a man with a temper, and very likely struck a steward, who retaliated by killing him--oh, it's as clear as day to me."

"But where did he get his weapon?" asked Ronald.

"Stole it from the plate basket," said Mrs. Pellypop, whose idea of stilettos was vague.

"It was not a table knife," began Ronald, then broke off suddenly as he saw Miss Cotoner move away with a tall, slender, dark man. "I say, Mrs. Pellypop, who's that?"

"Whom?" asked Mrs. Pellypop, putting up her glasses. "Oh, the girl from Malta?"

"No not Miss Cotoner, I know who she is; but the fellow?"

"Oh, her cousin, the Marchese Vassalla," answered Mrs. Pellypop; "not that I care much for foreign titles myself, but he looks a gentleman."

And, as a matter of fact, he was by no means ill-looking, but when Ronald saw him he instantly took a dislike to him. Why, he did not know, unless it was on the Dr. Fell principle; it might have been instinct, perhaps prejudice; but the fact remained nevertheless--he did not like Matteo Vassalla. A handsome face certainly, with swarthy skin, brilliant, black eyes, and a coal black beard carefully trimmed. In his slender, sinewy figure there was something of the lithe grace of a panther; and what with the graceful movements of his hands, and the deferential manner with which he bent towards Miss Cotoner, he decidedly did not impress Monteith favourably.

But the lady--well, she has been described before, and as Ronald looked at her he only found new perfections. She had rather a sad expression on her face, and her head was a little bent down, but, for the rest, she was as straight and graceful as Artemis. Ronald, who had stoutly resisted all the blandishments of the pretty girls on board, caught one glance of those brilliantly black eyes and surrendered at once. He also caught the glance of another pair of eyes which did not regard him in such a friendly manner, and drew himself up haughtily as he left Mrs. Pellypop, and went down to the saloon.

"What the deuce did that foreign cad mean by staring at me like that;" he muttered, quite forgetting that the cad in question had a title, and was of higher rank than himself; "I don't suppose he has anything to do with her; perhaps they are engaged--hang it, it's impossible, she'd never throw herself away on a thing like that. I'll ask old mother Pellypop to-morrow, she'll be sure to know all about her in that time."

Having thus, in his own mind, satisfactorily settled the affair, Ronald went down to his cabin to dress for dinner.

Meanwhile Miss Cotoner and her cousin were having a few words on the subject of Mr. Monteith.

"What a handsome man," said Miss Cotoner, following the tall figure of the Australian with her eyes.

"Bah! a beef-eating Englishman," retorted Vassalla, with an angry light in his wicked black eyes, "he has no brain."

"You've to find that out yet," retorted the young lady, who seemed to take delight in tormenting her companion. "I think he's charming. I'm sure he looks it; I saw him yesterday on the Barraca."

"Remember you are engaged to me," replied the Marchese, angrily.

"By my parents, yes," she replied, coldly; "but not with my own consent."

"Consent, bah! let wiser heads guide yours, Carmela."

"Well, I certainly would not ask your head to take the position," replied Carmela, contemptuously. "Why do you annoy me like this; do you think I left my sister only to be worried by you? No, I don't think so, there is too much of the frying-pan into the fire theory in that for me."

"I will get your sister to take you back," he said, vindictively.

"Oh no, you won't," she retorted, turning on him; "I'm of age--my own mistress, and I have elected to go and stop with my cousins in England. If I choose to marry an Englishman I certainly will in spite of your threats; so good-bye Matteo, I'm going to dress for dinner," and she walked gracefully away, leaving the Marchese in a delightful temper.

"Bah!" he muttered angrily to himself, "she is only a woman; patience my good Matteo, you shall win her yet, and then----." He closed his mouth with an angry snap that did not argue well for the happiness of Miss Cotoner's future life.

"What a flirt that girl is," thought Mrs. Pellypop, as she looked after the young lady; "I'm sure I don't know what the world is coming to; I never flirted," and to Mrs. Pellypop's credit, it must be said, she never had, but then, as Rochefoucauld remarks, some women are safe because nobody seeks after them.

When Ronald emerged from his cabin in evening dress, he was caught at the foot of the stairs by Pat, who, in company with a few convivial spirits, was having a sherry and bitters.

"Come and have something to drink after all your labours," he said, in a hospitable manner; "anything new about the affair?"

"No, I don't think so," replied Ronald sadly; "poor Ventin! To think he was so jolly last night and now dead."

"Do you think the person who killed him is on board?" asked Pat, confidentially.

"No I don't," retorted Ronald, decisively; "I believe she's to be found at Malta, and I'll hunt her down and punish her somehow."

"Why?"

"Because I liked Ventin--he had a miserable life, and a miserable end, and a wicked woman like that wife of his is not fit to live."

"Stop a bit old boy," observed Pat, coolly, "you haven't brought the crime home to her yet."

"But I will," reiterated Monteith, doggedly; "I'm sure it's she, and if it isn't, I'll make it my business in life to find out who is the criminal."

"I say Monteith," said Bentley, a vacuous-looking youth with no brains and lots of money, "Ventin's place was next to you at table--who are they going to put there?"

"I don't know and I don't care," growled Ronald, savagely turning away, cursing Mr. Bentley under his breath for his callous way of speaking.

"Seems cut up," lisped Bentley, putting up his eye-glass in nowise disturbed.

"Well, it's no joke having a fellow you like murdered," said Pat, finishing his sherry; "and Ventin was a good sort anyhow."

Then they all commenced talking again about the mystery till Pat grew weary of the discussion, and went on deck, where he found Ronald leaning over the side looking moodily at the water.

"Well old chap," said Pat, slapping him on the shoulder, "don't take it so much to heart."

"It wasn't that," replied Monteith; "I was thinking how we could find out his real name."

"Why, wasn't it Ventin?"

"He said it wasn't."

"Search his baggage."

"That's been done, but without result--all his linen is marked L. V., all his letters directed to Lionel Ventin, in fact, it's the only name that can be found."

"Then it must be his real name," asserted Pat.

"Not necessarily; he told me he changed his name, so he evidently did it thoroughly."

"Any crest--that might give a clue?"

"No, nothing."

"Oh! it seems a deuce of a muddle. Hullo, there's the dinner bell--come down old boy, I'm starving."

They went below, and found nearly all the tables full. Pat went to his own table, and Ronald sat sadly down by the side of Ventin's empty chair. He was not there very long when he heard a rustle, and on turning round saw that Miss Cotoner was sitting beside him. Yes, sitting in the dead man's chair, so with a sudden impulse Ronald arose.

"I beg your pardon," he said, bowing; "but would you mind taking my chair instead of that one?"

"Why?" asked the young lady coldly.

"Because--because," he stammered, confusedly, "it was Mr.--Mr. Ventin's, the gentleman who died."

"Oh!" she said, and turned rather pale, "thank you"--rising--"I will accept your offer," and she sat in Monteith's chair while he took poor Ventin's.

Of course this little incident was observed by all, and by none more so than Matteo Vassalla, who sat at a distant table, and looked remarkably savage.

"Wait a little," he muttered; "when you are mine, I'll tame you."

Pat, indicating Ronald and Miss Cotoner to Kate Lester, hummed the first line of his favourite song, "I love a lubly gal I do."

"What do you think?" he asked.

Miss Lester laughed and nodded.

"I think the same as you," she answered.