But the woman who had told the curious story slept on. Probably the concoction of so much romantic fiction had wearied her brain. The story she had related could not, of course, be true. If she were really old Keppel’s ward, then what motive had he in concealing her in that gilded deck-house which was believed to be stored with curios? Who too was that unseen man whom he had apparently taken into his confidence--the man who had promised assistance by blowing up the yacht with all hands? I shuddered at thought of that wicked, dastardly plot. Yet Keppel had been declared by this unknown person to be the murderer of the woman now lying in the berth above me. Why? The train was at a stand-still, and I rose to peep out. As I turned to re-enter my berth again my eyes fell upon the sleeping form of my companion. Her face was turned towards me, and her bodice, unhooked, disclosed a delicate white throat and neck. I bent quickly to examine more closely what I saw there. Upon the throat were two dark marks, one on either side,--the marks of a human finger and a thumb,--the exact counterpart of those puzzling marks found upon the throat of poor Reggie. CHAPTER XVI IS MORE ASTONISHING So still, so pale, so bloodless were my mysterious companion’s lips, that at the first moment I feared she might be dead. Her appearance was that of a corpse, but after careful watching I saw that she was breathing, lightly but regularly, and thus I became satisfied. The curious marks, as though a man’s hands had endeavored to strangle her, were of a pale yellowish brown, like disappearing bruises, the one narrow and small where the finger had pressed, the other wide and long, the mark of the thumb. Again I returned to my berth, and as the express again thundered on its way northward towards Turin, I tried to form some theory to account for my discovery of those curious marks upon her. The hours of early morning crept slowly by. The sun rose over the beautiful vine-lands of Asti as we whirled forward towards the great Alpine barrier which happily divides Italy from France; its rays penetrated into our narrow chamber, but the sleeping woman stirred not. She seemed as one in a trance. Close beside me lay her dress-skirt. My eyes had been fixed upon it a hundred times during the night, and it now occurred to me that by searching its pocket I might discover something that would give a clue to her real identity. Therefore, after ascertaining that she was still unconscious of things about her, I slowly turned over the skirt, and placing my hand in the pocket drew out the contents. The first object I opened was a silver-mounted purse of crocodile leather, hoping to discover her visiting-card therein. But in this I was disappointed. The purse contained only a few francs in French money, a couple of receipts from shops in Paris, and a tiny scrap of card an inch square with several numerals scribbled upon it.