The Villa

"Mademoiselle is not at home," said the servant.

"Not at home! But I am dining with her, my friend."

"Mademoiselle has been called away suddenly, and she has left a note
for monsieur. Will monsieur give himself the trouble to come into the
salon?"

The note ran thus: "Dear Friend:--A thousand excuses! But the enclosed will
explain. I felt that I must go--and go instantly. She might
die before I arrived. Will you call early to-morrow?

"Your grateful
"Rosa"

And this was the enclosure, written in French: "VILLA DES HORTENSIAS,
"RUE THIERS, PANTIN, PARIS.

"Mademoiselle:--I am dying. I have wronged you deeply, and I
dare not die without your forgiveness. Prove to me that you
have a great heart by coming to my bedside and telling me
that you accept my repentance. The bearer will conduct you.

"Carlotta Deschamps."

"What time did mademoiselle leave?" I inquired.

"Less than a quarter of an hour ago," was the reply.

"Who brought the note to her?"

"A man, monsieur. Mademoiselle accompanied him in a cab."

With a velocity which must have startled the grave and leisurely
servant, I precipitated myself out of the house and back into the
fiacre, which happily had not gone away. I told the cabman to drive to
my hotel at his best speed.

To me Deschamps' letter was in the highest degree suspicious. Rosa, of
course, with the simplicity of a heart incapable of any baseness, had
accepted it in perfect faith. But I remembered the words of Yvette,
uttered in all solemnity: "She is dangerous; you must take care."
Further, I observed that the handwriting of this strange and dramatic
missive was remarkably firm and regular for a dying woman, and that
the composition showed a certain calculated effectiveness. I feared a
lure. Instinctively I knew Deschamps to be one of those women who,
driven by the goad of passionate feeling, will proceed to any length,
content to postpone reflection till afterwards--when the irremediable
has happened.