William Le Queux (continued 3)

“Only that of the one I attended,” Malvano answered, his searching eyes on the face of young Armytage. “Her name was Gemma.”

“Gemma!” he gasped. His trembling lips moved, but the words he uttered were lost in the two rapid barrels which the Doctor discharged at a couple of pheasants at that instant passing over their heads.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Shadow.

In an old and easy dressing-gown, Gemma was idling over her tea and toast in her room on the morning after her lover had been shooting down in Berkshire, when one of the precocious messenger-lads delivered a note to her.

At first she believed it to be from Armytage, but, on opening it, found scribbled in pencil on a piece of paper, the address, “73, St. James’s Street, second floor;” while enclosed were a few words in Italian inviting her to call at that address on the first opportunity she could do so secretly, without the knowledge of her lover. The note was from Tristram.

With a cry of anger that he should have already discovered her presence in London, she cast the letter from her and stamped her tiny foot, crying, in her own tongue—

“Diavolo! Then ill luck has followed me—even here!” For a long time she sat, stirring her tea thoughtfully, and gazing blankly at her rings.

“No,” she murmured aloud in a harsh, broken voice; “I won’t see this man. Let him act as he thinks fit. He cannot wreck my happiness more completely than it is already. Major Maitland is a friend of the man I love. Is not that fact in itself sufficient to show me that happiness can never be mine; that it is sheer madness to anticipate a calm, peaceful life with Charles Armytage, as my husband? But Dio! Was it not always so?” she sighed, as hot tears rose in her clear blue eyes, and slowly coursed down her cheeks. “I have sinned; and this, alas! is my punishment.” Again she was silent. Her breast heaved and fell convulsively, and with hair disordered and unbound she presented an utterly forlorn appearance. Her small white hands were clenched, her lips tightly compressed and in her eyes was an intense expression as if before her had arisen some scene so terrible that it froze her senses.

At last the striking of the clock aroused her, and she slowly commenced to dress. She looked at herself long and earnestly in the mirror, and saw how deathly pale she had become, and how red were her eyes.

Presently, as she crossed the room, she noticed the letter, and, snatching it up, slipped the paper with the address into her purse, tearing up the note into tiny fragments.

It was past eleven when she descended to the great hall, and there found her lover seated on one of the lounges, smoking and patiently awaiting her.

They sat together in the hall for a few minutes, then took a taxi and drove about the West End. Armytage did not fail to observe how Gemma’s beauty and foreign chic were everywhere remarked. In the streets men stared at her admiringly, and women scanned her handsome dresses with envious eyes; while in the hotel there were many low whisperings of admiration. Yet he could not conceal from himself the fact that she was as mysterious as she was beautiful.

While passing across Grosvenor Square, she had been suddenly seized with excitement, for her quick eyes caught sight of a red, white, and green flag, hanging limp and motionless from a flagstaff upon one of the largest houses.

“Look! There’s our Italian flag! Why is it there?” she cried, thrilled at sight of her own national colours.

“That’s the Embassy,” he replied. “I suppose to-day is some anniversary or other in Italy.”

“The Embassy!” she repeated, turning again to look at it. “Is that where Count Castellani lives?”

“Yes. He’s your Ambassador. Do you know him?”

“I met him once in Florence. He was at a ball at the Strossi Palace.”

“Then you know Prince Strossi?” he exclaimed.

“Quite well,” she answered. “The Strossis and my family have long been acquainted.”

Her prompt reply made it apparent to him that she had moved in the most exclusive set in Florence. She had never before mentioned that she was acquainted with people of note. But next instant he recollected the strange story which the Florentine Doctor had told him on the previous afternoon. Had not Malvano declared that her family was an undesirable one to know? What, he wondered, was the reason of this curious denunciation?

Again she fixed her eyes upon the Embassy, and seemed as though she were taking careful observation of its appearance and position.

“Did you go much into society in Florence?” he inquired presently.

“Only when I was forced to,” she answered ambiguously. “I do not care for it.”

“Then you will not fret even if, after our marriage, you know only a few people?”

The word “marriage” caused her to start. It brought back to her the hideous truth that even now, after he had brought her to England, their union was impossible.

“No,” she answered, glancing at him with eyes full of love and tenderness. “I should always be happy with you alone, Nino. I should want no other companion.”

“You would soon grow dull, I fear,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“No, never—never,” she declared. “You know well how I love you, Nino.”

“And I adore you, darling,” he answered. Then, after looking at her in hesitation for a moment, he added. “But you speak as though you still fear that we shall not marry. Why is that?” He had not failed to notice her sudden change of manner when he had spoken of marriage.

“I really don’t know,” she answered, with a forced laugh. “I suppose it is but a foolish fancy, yet sometimes I think that this happiness is too complete to be lasting.”

“What causes you to fear this?” he asked earnestly.

“When I reflect upon the unhappiness of the past,” she said with a sigh—“when I remember how bitter was my life, how utterly blank and hopeless was the world prior to our meeting, I cannot rid myself of the apprehension that my plans, like all my others, will be thwarted by the one great secret of my past; that all my castles are merely air-built; that your love for me, Nino, will soon wane, and we shall part.”

“No, no, piccina,” he cried, placing his arm tenderly around her waist, beneath the warm cape she wore. “It is foolish—very foolish to speak like that. You surely have no reason to doubt me?”

“I do not doubt your love, Nino. I doubt, however, whether you have sufficient confidence in me to await the elucidation of the strange mystery which envelops me—a mystery which even I myself cannot penetrate.”

“Have I not already shown myself patient?” he asked with a reproachful look.

“Yes, yes, mio adorato,” she hastened to reassure him. “You are good and kind and generous, and I love you. Only—only I fear the future. I fear you—I fear myself.”

“Why do you fear me, little one?” he asked. “Surely I’m not so monstrous—eh?”

The hand he held trembled.

“I distrust the future—because I know the fate cruel and terrible—which, sooner or later, must befall me,” she exclaimed, with heart-sinking.

“You steadily decline to tell me anything,” he said. “If you would only confide in me, we might together find some means to combat this mysterious catastrophe.”

“I cannot! I dare not!”

“But you must!” he cried. “You shall!”

“I refuse?” she answered fiercely.

“You shall not suffer this constant terror merely because of a foolish determination to preserve your secret. After all, I suppose it is only some curious and unfounded dread which holds you awe-stricken, when you could afford to laugh it all to scorn.”

“You will never wring confession from me, Nino—never!”

Her eyes met his fixedly, determinedly. On her countenance was an expression as if she were haunted by a shadow of evil, as if even then she saw before her the dire disaster which she had declared must ere long wreck her life, and extinguish all hope of happiness. No further word passed her lips, and a silence fell between them until the cab drew up at the hotel.

The afternoon being bright and sunny, they went down to the Crystal Palace.

To Gemma, all was fresh and full of interest; she even found in the plaster imitations of well-known statues something to criticise and admire, although she admitted that, living within a stone’s throw of the world-famed Uffizi Gallery, she had never entered the Tribuna there, nor seen the Satyr, the Wrestlers, or the Medici Venus.

After spending an hour in the Palace, they emerged into the grounds, and, descending the many flights of steps, passed the great fountains, and strolled down the long, broad walk towards Penge, it being their intention to return to town from that station. The sun was going down, a grey mist was rising, and the chill wind of evening whisked the dead leaves in their path. The spacious grounds were silent, deserted, cheerless.

She had taken his arm, and they were walking in silence beneath the fast-baring branches through the half-light of the fading day, when suddenly he turned to her, saying—“I’ve been thinking, Gemma—thinking very deeply upon all you told me this morning. I must tell you the truth—the truth that it is impossible for me to have complete confidence in you if you have none in me. The more I reflect upon this strange secret, the more am I filled with suspicion. I cannot help it. I have struggled against all my doubts and fears—but—”

“You do not trust me?” she cried hoarsely. “Did I not express fear only this morning that you would be impatient, and grow tired of the steady refusals I am compelled to give you when you demand the truth?”

“Having carefully considered all the facts, I can see no reason—absolutely none—why you should not explain the whole truth,” he said rather brusquely.

“The facts you have considered are those only within your own knowledge,” she observed. “There are others which you can never know. If you could only understand the situation aright, you would at once see plainly the reason that I am prepared for any sacrifice—even to lose your love, the most precious gift that Heaven has accorded me—in order to preserve my secret.”

“Then you are ready to wish me farewell if I still press for the truth?” he cried, dismayed; for the earnestness of her words impressed him forcibly.

“I am,” she answered in a low, intense voice.

They had halted in the broad, gravelled walk, and were alone.

“Listen!” he cried fiercely, as a sudden resolve seized him. “This cannot go on longer, Gemma. I have brought you here to London because I love you, because I hoped to make you my you wife. But you seem determined to keep all the story of your past from me.” Then, recollecting Malvano’s words when they had been shooting together, he added, “If you still refuse to tell me anything, then, much as it grieves me, we must part.”

“Part!” she echoed wildly. “Ah yes, Nino! I knew you would say that. Did I not tell you long, long ago, that it would be impossible for us to marry in the present circumstances? You doubt me? Well, I am scarcely surprised!” and she shuddered pale as death.

“I doubt you because you are never frank with me.”

“I love you, Nino,” she protested with all the ardour of her hot Italian blood as she caught his hand suddenly and raised it to her fevered lips. “You are my very life, for I have no other friend in the world. Surely you have been convinced that my affection is genuine, but I have not deceived you in this!”

“I believe you love me,” he answered coldly, in a half-dubious tone nevertheless.

“Ah no, caro!” she lisped softly, reproachfully, in her soft Tuscan. “Do not speak like that. I cannot bear it. If you can trust me no longer, then let us part. I—I will go back to Italy again.” And she burst into a torrent of hot tears.

“You’ll go back and face the mysterious charge against you?” he asked, with a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, as he drew his hand firmly from hers.

His words caused her to start. She looked him fiercely in the face for an instant, a strange light in her beautiful, tearful eyes, then cried huskily—

“Yes, if you cast me from you, Nino, I care no longer to live. I cannot live without your love.”

Chapter Sixteen.

“Traitors Die Slowly.”

They had returned to the hotel, and Armytage had dined with her, but the meal had been a very dismal one. Gemma, with woman’s instinct, knew that she looked horribly untidy, and that her eyes betrayed unmistakable signs of recent tears, therefore she was glad when the meal concluded, and she could escape from the staring crowd of diners.

From her lover’s manner, it was also plain that, notwithstanding his protestations of blind affection in Leghorn, he had suddenly awakened to the fact that some deep mystery lay behind her, and that he was disinclined to carry their acquaintance much further without some explanation. Time after time, as she sat opposite him at the table, she had watched him narrowly, looking into his dark, serious eyes in silence, and trying to divine his thoughts. She wondered whether, if he left her, his love for her would be sufficient to cause him to return to her side. Or had he met, as she once feared he would, some other woman—a woman of his own people; a woman, perhaps, that he had loved long ago? This thought sank deeply into her mind. As she watched him and listened to his low, jerky speech, it seemed plain to her that she had guessed the truth. He had grown tired of her, and was making her enforced silence an excuse for parting. When this thought crossed her mind, her bright, clear eyes grew luminous with unshed tears.

He told her that to meet next morning was impossible, as he had business to transact. This she knew to be a shallow excuse, as only that morning he had told her that his time was completely at her disposal. Yes, there was no disguising the truth that he had grown weary of her, and now meant to discard her. Yet she loved him.

When an Italian woman loves, it is with a fierce, uncontrollable passion, not with that too often sickly admiration for a man’s good looks which is so characteristic of love among the more northern nations. In no country is love so ardent, so passionate, so enduring, as in the sunny garden of Europe. The Italian woman is slow to develop affection, or even to flirt with the sterner sex; but when she loves, it is with all the strength of her being; she is the devoted slave of her lover, and is his for life, for death. Neither the strength of Italian affection nor the bitterness of Italian jealousy can be understood in England, unless by those who have lived among the hot-blooded Tuscans in that country where the sparkle of dark eyes electrify, and where the knives are cheap, and do their work swiftly and well.

They passed out of the table d’hôte room into the hall. Then he stretched forth his hand.

“You are not coming to see me to-morrow, Nino?” she asked in a low, despondent voice.

“No,” he replied. “I have an appointment.”

“But you can surely dine here?”

“I am not quite certain,” he answered. “If I can, I will send you a telegram.”

“You are impatient—you who promised me to wait until I could give you some satisfactory explanation. It is cruel of you—very cruel, Nino,” she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“You are never straightforward,” he replied quickly. “If you confessed to me, all this anxiety would at once cease.”

“I cannot.”

“No,” he said meaningly; “you will not. You dare not, because your past has not been what it should have been! Buona sera!” and with this parting allegation he lifted his hat and bowed stiffly.

“Felicissima notte, Nino,” she answered so low as to be almost inaudible.

Then he turned and passed out of the great glass doors which the porters held open for him.

Gemma went to her room, and, bursting into tears, sat for a long time alone, despairing, plunged in grief. She knew by her lover’s manner that he had forsaken her, and she felt herself alone in gigantic London, where the language, the people, the streets, all were strange to her. As she sat in her low easy chair, a slim, graceful figure in her pale-blue dinner-dress, she clenched her tiny hands till the nails embedded themselves in the palms, as she uttered with wild abandon the name of the man she so fondly loved.

“Ah!” she cried aloud. “You, Nino, who have treated me with this suspicion and contempt—you who have brought me here among your people and deserted me—can never know how much I have sacrificed for your sake. Nor can you ever know how fondly I love you. Why have I acted with all this secrecy must for ever remain a mystery. You have left me,” she added in a hoarse, strained voice, half inaudible on account of her sobs—“you have left me now; but some day when I am free—when I can show you things in their true light—you will regret that to-night you have broken a woman’s heart.” And she bent forward and gave way to a flood of hot, passionate tears.

Fully half an hour she sat plunged in a deep melancholy, but at last she rose and crossed the room unsteadily. Her fair brow bore a look of determination, her face was hard set, and in her tear-stained eyes was an expression of strength of will.

“Yes,” she murmured, “I’ll risk all. My life cannot be rendered more hopeless, more wretched, than it now is in this atmosphere of doubt and suspicion.” Then she bathed her face in eau-de-Cologne, sniffed her smelling-salts, rubbed her cheeks with a towel to take away their ghastly pallor, and assuming her travelling coat, with its wide fur collar and cuffs, which, being long, hid her dress, she put on her hat and went out.

She went up to one of the porters in the hall hastily, and said—

“Prendetimi una vettura.”

The man looked at her in surprise, unable to understand her. She pointed outside to where several hansoms were passing.

“Oh! a cab you want, miss!” he cried, the fact suddenly dawning upon him; and as he touched the electric bell which calls cabs from the rank, she handed him the slip of paper she had that morning received.

The porter read it, descended the steps with her, handed her into the cab, and, having shouted the address to the man, she was driven rapidly away to St. James’s Street, where she ascended to the second floor, and found upon a door a brass plate bearing Captain Tristram’s name.

She rang the bell, and in response the smart, soldier-servant Smayle appeared, and looked at her in surprise.

“The Signor Capitano Tristram?” she inquired.

“Yes, miss,” the man answered; and she entered the hall, and glanced around her while he closed the door.

At that moment Tristram’s voice, from one of the rooms beyond, cried—

“Show the lady in, Smayle.”

She followed the servant into the cosy sitting-room redolent of cigars. She was gazing round the apartment, noting how comfortable it was, when suddenly the door reopened and Tristram entered. He had evidently been dining out, or to a theatre, and had now discarded his dress-coat for an easy velvet lounge-jacket. When he had closed the door, he stood for a moment regarding her in silence.

“Well,” he said at length in Italian. “So you have come, eh?” His welcome was certainly the reverse of cordial.

“Yes,” she faltered; “I have come. How did you know I was in London?”

Certain furrows on Tristram’s brow revealed profound thought.

“A woman who is wanted by the police always has some difficulty in concealing her whereabouts,” he answered meaningly. His countenance was hard and vengeful; his features expressed so much disdain and cruelty at that moment that one would scarcely believe they could ever be susceptible of any gentle emotion.

“Why do you throw that in my face?” she asked angrily.

“My dear signorina,” he answered, crossing the room, “come here to this chair and sit down. I want to talk to you very seriously, if you’ll allow me.”

She moved slowly across, and, sinking into the armchair near the fire, unbuttoned her long coat.

“No,” he said; “it’s hot in this room: take it off, or you won’t find the benefit of it when you leave. See how solicitous I am after your health;” and he laughed.

In silence she rose and allowed him to help her divest herself of the heavy garment.

“How charming you look!” he said. “I really don’t wonder that you captivate the hearts of men—those who don’t know you.”

“It seems that you’ve invited me here for the purpose of raking up all my past,” she cried, darting at him a fierce look. “I have accepted your invitation because you and I are old friends, because our interests are identical.”

“How?” he asked, puzzled.

“There is a certain episode in my career that must for ever remain a profound secret,” she said in a low but distinct tone. “And there is one in yours which, if revealed, would bring you to disgrace, to ruin—nay, to death.”

He started, and his dark face paled beneath its bronze of travel.

“What do you mean?” he cried, standing astride before her, his back to the fire, his arms folded resolutely.

“What I have said!”

“And you are foolish enough to think that I fear you?” he cried with biting sarcasm.

“I think nothing, caro,” she answered in a voice of the same intense disdain. “The truth is quite obvious. We fear each other.”

“I fear you?” And he laughed, as if the absurdity of the idea were humorous.

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “I am no longer powerless in your hands. You know well my character, signore—you know what kind of woman I am.”

“Yes, I do, unfortunately,” he answered. “And what, pray, does all this extraordinary exhibition of bitterness imply?” he asked.

“You force me to speak plainly,” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. “Well, then, reflect upon the strange death of Vittorina, and bear in mind by whom was her death so ingeniously compassed.”

He sprang towards her suddenly in a fierce ebullition of indignation, his hand uplifted as if he intended to strike her.

“Enough! Curse you!” he muttered.

“Take care,” she said calmly, without stirring from her seat. “If you touch me, it is at your own peril.”

“Threats?”

“Threats! And to prove to you that they are not in vain,” she said, “learn in the first place, that the police have discovered the identity of the Major, and that a warrant is already issued for his arrest.”

“I don’t believe it,” he cried. “You have no proof.”

“Inquire of your friends at the Embassy,” she replied ambiguously. “You will there learn the truth.”

“Listen!” he cried wildly, grasping her roughly by the wrist. “What allegation do you make against me? Come, speak!”

“You have shown yourself at enmity with me, therefore it will remain for you to discover that afterwards,” she answered, shaking him off. “One does not show one’s hand to one’s adversaries.”

“You mentioned the death of your friend Vittorina—well?”

“Well?” she repeated, still coldly and calmly. “It is of no use to further refer to that tragic circumstance, except to say that I am aware of the truth.”

“The truth!” he cried blankly. “Then who killed her?”

“You know well enough with what devilish ingenuity her young life was taken; how at the moment when she least expected danger she was cut off by a means so curious and with such swiftness as to baffle even the cleverest doctors in London. You know the truth, Signor Capitano—so do I.”

“You would explain how her life was taken; you would tell the world the strange secret by which she was held in bondage. But you shan’t,” he cried, standing before her with clenched fists. “By Heaven, you shan’t!”

“Traitors die slowly in London, but they do die,” she said slowly, with deep meaning.

“Curse you!” he cried. “What do you intend to do?”

“Listen!” she answered, rising slowly from her chair and standing before him resolute, desperate, and defiant. “I came here to-night for one purpose—to make a proposal to you.”

“A proposal! To marry me, eh?” he laughed.

“This is no time for weak jokes, signore,” she answered angrily. “Silence is best in the interests of us both, is it not?”

He paused, his eyes fixed on the hearthrug.

“I suppose it is,” he admitted at last.

“Think,” she urged, “what would be the result were the whole of those strange facts exposed. Who would suffer?”

He nodded, but no word passed his hard lips. She noticed that what she uttered now impressed him.

“Our acquaintance,” she went on in a more sympathetic tone, “was formed in curious circumstances, and it has only been fraught with unhappiness, sorrow, and despair. I come to you to-night, Frank,” she added in a low despondent voice, “to ask you to help me to regain my freedom.”

He laughed aloud a harsh, cruel laugh, saying—“You have already your freedom. I hope you are enjoying it. No doubt Armytage loves you, and London is a change after Tuscany.”

His laugh aroused within her a veritable tumult of hatred.

“You speak as if I were not an honest woman,” she cried, her eyes glistening. “Even you shall not brand me as an adventuress.”

“Well, I think your adventures in Florence and in Milan were curious enough,” he said, “even if we do not mention that night in Livorno when Vittorina—”

“Ah no!” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “Why should you cast that into my face? Now that we are friends no longer, you seek to heap disgrace upon me by recalling all that has gone by. In this conversation I have not sought to bring back to your memory any of the many recollections which must be painful. My object in coming to you is plain enough. I am perfectly straightforward—”

“For the first time in your life.”

She took no heed of his interruption, but went on saying—

“Charles Armytage has promised me marriage.”

“He’s a fool!” was the abrupt rejoinder. “When he knows the truth, he’ll hate you just as much as I do.”

“You certainly pay me delicate compliments,” she said, drawing herself up haughtily. “Your hatred is reciprocated, I assure you. But surely this is not a matter of either love or hatred between us. It is a mere arrangement for our mutual protection and benefit.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, leaning back upon the mantelshelf in affected laziness—“you want my silence?”

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, looking straight into his dark countenance.

“You’re afraid that if you marry Charlie Armytage I may expose you—eh?”

She nodded, with downcast eyes.

He was silent for a few moments.

“Then,” he answered at last in a deep, determined voice, “understand once and for all that Armytage is a friend of mine. He shall never marry you.”

She knit her brows, and her pale lips twitched nervously. “Then you are still bent upon wrecking my life?” she said slowly and distinctly as she faced him. “I offer you silence in exchange for my freedom, for it is you alone who can give me that. Yet you refuse.”

“Yes,” he said. “I refuse absolutely.”

“Then you would debar me from happiness with the man I love?” she said in a low, deep whisper. “You, the man to whose machinations I owe my present wretchedness, refuse to free me from the trammels you yourself have cast about me—you refuse to tell the truth in exchange for my silence.”

He looked at her calmly with withering contempt.

“I have no desire for the silence of such as you,” he answered quickly. “I fear nothing that you may say. Threats from you are mere empty words, cara.”

“Then listen!” she cried, her brilliant eyes again flashing in desperation. “To-morrow I shall call upon Castellani at the Embassy, and tell him the truth.”

“You dare not!” he gasped fiercely. His face had blanched instantly as, advancing a couple of steps towards her with clenched hands, he gazed threateningly into her eyes.

“I have given you an alternative which you have rejected, Signor Capitano,” she said, taking up her fur-trimmed coat. “You defy me; and I wish you good-night.”

“You intend to expose the whole of the facts?” he cried in dismay. “You will incriminate yourself!”

“I care nothing for that. My happiness is now at an end. For the future I have no thought, no care, now that you and I are enemies. As I have already said, traitors die slowly in London, but they do die.”

“You shall not go to Castellani,” the Captain muttered between his set teeth; and with a cry of uncurbed, uncontrollable rage he sprang upon her before she could defend herself or raise an alarm, and seizing her, he compressed his strong, sinewy fingers upon her slim white throat. “You shan’t go!” he cried. “No further word shall pass your pretty lips—curse you! I’ll—I’ll kill you!”

Chapter Seventeen.

Smayle’s Dilemma.

Tristram’s sinewy fingers tightened upon the slender white throat of the helpless woman until her breath was crushed from her, her face became crimson, and in her wild, starting eyes was a ghastly expression of suffering and despair.

“Mercy!” she managed to gasp with difficulty. “Ah, no! Let me go! let me go!”

“Your evil tongue can ruin me. But you shall not!” he cried in a frenzy of anger, his face suffused by a fierce, murderous passion. “By Heaven, you shall die!”

“If—if you kill me,” she shrieked, “you will suffer; for even though I’m outcast, there is a law here, in your England, to deal with murderers.”

“Outcast!” he echoed wildly, with an imprecation. “Yes; curse you! Is there any wonder that you are hounded out of Italy, after all that has occurred? Is there any wonder, after what took place in Tuscany, that I now hold you within my hands, eager to extinguish the last remaining spark of your life?”

“You’re a brute!” she cried in a hoarse, gurgling voice. “Release me! I—I can’t breathe!”

“No, by Heaven, you shall die!” he declared, his strong, muscular hands trembling with uncurbed passion. “Your infernal tongue shall utter no more foul slanders, for to-night, now—this moment—I’ll silence you!” She uttered a low, agonised cry, then, fainting, panting, breathless, sank upon her knees, unable any longer to resist the frightful pressure upon her throat. At that instant, however, Smayle, hearing an unusual noise, dashed in, and, taking in the situation at a glance, seized his master firmly.

“Good heavens, sir! what’s the matter?” he cried. “Why, you’re killing the lady!”

“Get out?” cried the Captain with an oath, shaking himself free, and still holding the fainting woman at his feet. “Get out quickly! Leave the house, and—and don’t come back!”

“But you’re killing her!” he cried. “See, there’s blood in her mouth!”

“Obey me this instant!” he roared. “Leave me!”

“No,” Smayle answered, “I won’t!” And, springing upon his master, he managed, after a desperate struggle, to drag his hands free of the kneeling woman’s throat and fling him back with a smothered oath. “I won’t see a woman murdered in that cowardly way,” he declared vehemently, “even if you are my master?”

“What the devil do my affairs concern you, Smayle?” Tristram demanded fiercely, glaring at his servant, and glancing at Gemma, now fallen back prostrate on the floor, her hat crushed beneath her, her fair hair escaping from its pins.

“They concern me as far as this, sir—that you shall leave this room at once. If the lady is dead, then you’ve committed murder, and I am witness of it!”

“You’d denounce me, would you?” the Captain shrieked with rage, his hands still clenched in a fierce paroxysm of anger. Then, next instant he sprang at him.

But Smayle was a slim, athletic fellow, and, like most of the genus Tommy Atkins, knew how to use his fists when occasion required. He jumped aside, nimbly evaded the blow his master aimed at him, and cleverly tripped up his adversary, so that he fell headlong to the ground, bringing down from its pedestal a pretty Neapolitan statuette, which was smashed to atoms.

Tristram quickly rose with an imprecation, but Smayle, again grappling with him, succeeded at length, after an encounter long and fierce, in flinging him out of the room, and locking the door.

Then instantly he turned towards the white-faced woman, and, kneeling beside her, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. With his handkerchief he staunched the blood slowly trickling from the corners of her pale lips, placed a cushion beneath her head, and snatching some flowers from a bowl, sprinkled her face with the water. Her white, delicate throat was dark and discoloured where his master’s rough hands had pressed it in his violent attempt to strangle her, her dress was torn open at the neck, and her gold necklet she had worn, with its tiny enamelled medallion, lay upon the ground, broken by the sudden, frantic attack. Tenderly the soldier-servant stroked her hair, chafed her hands, and endeavoured to restore her to consciousness, but all in vain. Inert and helpless she remained while he held her head, gazing upon her admiringly, but unable to determine the best course to pursue.

The outer door banged suddenly, and he knew his master had fled.

With every appearance of one dead, Gemma lay upon the carpet where she had sunk from the cruel, murderous hands of the man who had attempted to kill her, while Smayle again rose, and obtaining some brandy from the liquor-stand, succeeded in forcing a small quantity of it down her throat.

This revived her slightly, for she opened her great clear eyes, gazing into Smayle’s with an expression of fear and wonder.

“Drink a little more of this, miss,” the man said eagerly, holding the glass to her lips, delighted to find that she was not, after all, dead as he had at first feared.

Unable to understand what he said, she nevertheless allowed him to pour a few more drops of the spirit down her dry, parched throat, but it caused her to cough violently, and she made a gesture that to take more was impossible.

For fully ten minutes she remained silent, motionless, her head lying heavily upon Smayle’s arm, breathing slowly, but each moment more regularly. The deathly pallor gradually disappeared as the blood came back to her cheeks, but the dark rings about her eyes, and the marks upon her throat, still remained as evidence how near she had been to an agonising and most terrible death.

At last Gemma again opened her eyes and uttered some words faintly, making a frantic gesture with her hands. The man who had rescued her understood that she wished to rise, and, grasping her beneath the arms, gradually lifted her into the Captain’s great leather-covered armchair, in which she reclined, a frail, beautiful figure, with eyes half closed and breast panting violently after the exertion.

Then again she closed her eyes, her tiny hands, cold and feeble, trembled, and in a few minutes her regular breathing made it apparent to the Captain’s man that, exhausted, she had sunk into a deep and peaceful sleep.

He left her side, and creeping from the room noiselessly, searched all the other apartments. His master had gone. He had taken with him his two travelling-bags—a sign that he had set out upon a long journey. As far as Constantinople, one bag always sufficed; to Teheran he always took both. The fact that the two bags were taken made it plain that his absence would be a long one—probably some weeks, if not more.

Smayle stole back to the sitting-room, and saw that the blue official ribbon with its silver greyhound hung no longer upon its nail, and that his revolver was gone. He returned to the Captain’s bedroom, and upon the dressing-table found a ten-pound note lying open. Across its face had been scribbled hastily, in pencil, the words, “For Smayle.” Upon the floor were some scraps of paper, letters that had been hurriedly destroyed, while in the empty grate lay a piece of tinder and a half-consumed wax vesta, showing that some letters of more importance than the others had been burnt.

The man, mystified, gathered the scraps together, examined them closely and placed them in a small drawer in the dressing-table. Then putting the banknote in his pocket, exclaimed to himself—

“This is curious, and no kid. The Captain ain’t often so generous as to give me a tenner, especially when he only paid me yesterday. I wonder who the lady is? I wish I could speak to her. She’s somebody he’s met, I suppose, when abroad.”

He went to the hall, and noted what coats his master had taken, when suddenly it occurred to him that without assistance it was impossible that he could have carried them all downstairs; somebody must have helped him.

Into the small bachelor’s kitchen he passed, pondering deeply over the strange occurrence. Only an hour before, his master had arrived home from dining at the club, and putting on his well-worn velvet lounge-coat, had announced his intention of remaining at home and smoking. Smayle had asked him whether he was under orders to leave with despatches, when he had answered that it was not yet his turn, and that he expected to have a fortnight in London. Three days ago he had returned from St. Petersburg, tired, hungry, irritable, as he always was after that tedious journey. A run home from Brussels, Paris, or even Berlin, never made him short-tempered, but always when he arrived from Petersburg, Madrid, or “Constant,” he grumbled at everything; always declared that Smayle had been drinking his whisky; that the place was dirty; that the weather in London was brutal; and ten thousand a year wouldn’t repay him for the loss of nerve-power on “those infernal gridirons they call railways.”

Yet he had made a serious attempt upon the life of a strange lady who had called, and had left hurriedly with sufficient kit to last him six months.

He was reflecting deeply, wondering what he should do with the lady, when suddenly he was startled by the door-bell ringing. With military promptness he answered it, and found his master’s new acquaintance, Arnoldo Romanelli. The latter had spent several evenings at Tristram’s chambers since the night they had dined together at Bonciani’s, therefore Smayle knew him well.

“The Captain’s not at home, sir,” he answered, in reply to the visitor’s inquiry.

“Is he away?”

“He left this evening suddenly.”

“On important business, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” Smayle answered. Then he added, “Excuse me, sir, but you are Italian, aren’t you?”

“Yes; why?” Arnoldo asked in surprise.

Smayle hesitated, fidgeted a moment, and then answered—

“Well, sir, there’s a lady there, in the Captain’s sitting-room, and she’s not well, and she can’t speak English.”

“A lady?” cried Romanelli, suddenly interested. “Young or old?”

“Young, sir. She’s Italian, I believe. And I thought, sir, that perhaps you wouldn’t mind assisting a friend of my master’s.”

“Of course not. Take me to her at once,” he said. “Is she very ill?”

“She had a bad fainting fit,” answered the servant as he led the way to the sitting-room. She was still lying back in the chair, now quite conscious, but still pale, dishevelled, and so exhausted as to be scarcely able to move her limbs. They seemed paralysed by the excruciating torture she had undergone.

The opening of the door aroused her, and looking up, her eyes met those of the young Italian.

“You—Gemma!” he cried in profound surprise, rushing forward. “Why are you here—in London? And in Tristram’s rooms?”

She held her breath in amazement at this unexpected meeting.

“I—I called here,” she explained in a low, weak voice, “and became seized with a sudden faintness. I—I think I fell.”

“I trust you’re not hurt,” he said quickly. “You are pale and trembling. Shall I call a doctor?”

“No, no,” she answered. “In a few minutes I shall be quite right again.”

Romanelli noticed her necklet at his feet, and picked it up. Then he glanced across the room and saw the broken statuette, and his quick, dark eyes detected signs of a struggle in the disarranged hearthrug and the chairs pushed out of place.

“Merely fainting did not break this,” he said gravely, holding up the chain and picking up the tiny medallion enamelled with the picture of a dog’s head with the words beneath, “Toujours Fidèle.” The chain and its pendant were simple and old-fashioned, the one remaining link of her girlhood days at the Convent of San Paolo della Croce.

She held out her hand in silence, and the young man placed both chain and medallion in her palm. Then, with her great, pain-darkened eyes fixed upon him, she kissed the chain reverently, afterwards slipping both into her glove, and sighing.

“Gemma,” continued Romanelli, bending beside her chair, “what does this mean? Tell me. Why have you come to London?”

She shook her head.

“This man can’t speak Italian,” he explained, glancing at Smayle, who stood beside wondering. “We can talk quite freely. Come, tell me what has happened.”

“Nothing,” she assured him.

“But why are you in London? Were you not afraid?”

“Afraid?” she echoed. “Why should I be? I am just as safe here in England, as I was in Florence or Livorno.”

“Vittorina died within the first hour she set foot in London,” he observed with a grave, meaning look.

“You loved her,” she said. “You have all my sympathy, Arnoldo. Some day we shall know the truth; then those responsible for her death shall receive no mercy at our hands.”

“That chapter of my life has closed,” the young Italian said, with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “She has been murdered, but by whom we cannot yet tell.” He paused, then added, “What object had you, Gemma, in leaving Italy? And why have you come here? Surely you know that you have enemies in London—enemies as cruel, as unrelenting, as cunning as those who killed poor Vittorina.”

“I am well aware of that,” she answered, stirring uneasily in her chair, and putting up her hand to her bruised throat. “I know I have enemies. To one person, at least, my death would be welcome,” she added, remembering the fierce struggle in that room an hour before.

“Then why have you risked everything and come here? You were safer in Italy,” he said.

“I was not safer there. I am safe nowhere,” she replied. “The police have discovered some of the facts, and—”

“The police!” he gasped in alarm. “Our secret is out, then?”

“Not entirely. I was warned to leave Livorno within twenty-four hours, and advised to leave Italy altogether. Then—well, I came here.”

“With your lover, eh?”

She nodded.

“And you will marry him?” the young Italian observed slowly. “You do not fear the exposure which afterwards must come? These English are fond of looking closely into the woman’s past, you know.”

She shrugged her shoulders, answering: “My past is secret. Fortunately the one person who knows the truth dares not speak.”

“Then what I know is of no account?” he said, somewhat surprised.

She laughed.

“If you and I have ever flirted, or even exchanged foolish letters, it was long ago, when we had not the experience of the world we now have. I do not dread exposure of your knowledge of my past.”

“But this lover of yours, this Englishman—why does he believe in you so blindly?” Romanelli inquired. “Is he so utterly infatuated that he thinks you absolutely innocent of the world and its ways?”

“My affairs of the heart are of no concern to you now, Arnoldo,” she answered a trifle coquettishly.

“But if I come here to a man’s rooms, and find you in his sitting-room in a half-conscious state, trembling and afraid, with every sign of a desperate struggle in your dress and in the room, and therefore I, once your boy-lover, seek an explanation,” he said. “True, the affection between us is dead long, long ago, but remember that you and I both have interests in common, and that by uniting we may effect the overthrow of our enemies. If we do not—well, you know the fate that awaits us.”

“Yes,” she answered in a voice that sounded low and distant. “I know, alas! too well—too well!”

Chapter Eighteen.

What Lady Marshfield Knew.

Some days passed. Charles Armytage had not called again at the hotel, having resolved to end the acquaintance. He regretted deeply that he had brought Gemma to London; yet when he pondered over it in the silence of his own rooms in Ebury Street, he told himself that he still loved her, that she was chic, beautiful, and even this mystery surrounding her might one day be elucidated.

The action of the authorities in Leghorn puzzled him. Gemma’s secret was, without doubt, of a character which would not bear the light of day. Still, as days went on and he heard nothing of her, he began to wonder whether she was at the hotel, or whether she had carried out her intention of returning to Italy.

He loved her. This brief parting had increased his affection to such an extent that he thought of her hourly, remembering her sweet, musical voice, her pretty broken English, her happy smiles whenever he was at her side. Her face, as it rose before him in his day-dreams, was not that of an adventuress, but of a sweet, loving woman who existed in mortal terror of some terrible catastrophe; its childlike innocence was not assumed; her blue eyes had the genuine clearness of those of an honest woman.

Thoughts such as these filled his mind daily. He passed the hours at the rooms of friends, at the club, at the theatres, anywhere where he could obtain distraction, but in all he saw the same face, with the same calm look of reproach, those same eyes glistening with tears as had been before him in the hall of the Victoria on that well-remembered evening when they parted.

At last, one morning, he could bear the suspense no longer. Bitterly reproaching himself for having acted so harshly as to leave her alone in a country where she was strange and did not know the language, he took a cab and drove down to Northumberland Avenue.

He inquired at the bureau of the hotel, and was informed that the Signorina Fanetti had left three days ago, and that she had given no address to which letters might be forwarded. He thanked the clerk, turned, and went blindly down the steps into the street, crushed, grief-stricken, the sun of his existence blotted out.

He remembered his protestations in Livorno; he remembered all that had passed between them, and saw that he had acted as a coward and a cad. That she loved him he had no doubt, and it was also plain to him that she had left London heart-broken.

Armytage was very well known in London, and as soon as his friends knew he was back again, the usual flow of invitations poured in upon him. In his endeavour to divert his thoughts, he accepted all and sundry, and one evening went to Lady Marshfield’s, whose receptions were always a feature of London life.

The eccentric old lady had long been his friend. Like so many other young and good-looking men, he had been “taken up” by her ladyship, flattered, petted, and fêted, utterly unconscious that by allowing this to be done he was making himself the laughingstock of the whole set in which he moved. But the ugly old woman’s attentions had at last nauseated him, as they had done every other young man, and his absence abroad had for a time prevented him calling at Sussex Square.

But to the card for this particular evening was added, in her ladyship’s own antiquated handwriting, a few words expressing pleasure at his return to London, and a hope that he would call and see her.

Lady Marshfield’s junketings were distinctly brilliant on account of the large number of the diplomatic corps which she always gathered about her and this evening there was a particularly noteworthy crowd. There were many young attachés, many pretty girls, a few elderly diplomats, a fair sprinkling of members of Parliament, and a large gathering of the exclusive set in which her ladyship moved. The rooms were well-lit, the electricity bringing joy to every feminine heart, as it always does, because it shows their jewels to perfection; the flowers were choice and abundant, and the music was by one of the most popular orchestras in London. But it was always so.

When Charles Armytage shook the old lady’s hand at the head of the stairs, her thin blue lips parted in what she considered her sweetest smile, and she said: “You have quite deserted me, Charles. I hear you’ve been in London a whole fortnight, and yet this is your first visit!”

“I’ve been busy,” he answered. “I was away so long that I found such lots of things wanting my attention when I came back.”

“Ah! no excuses, no excuses,” the old lady croaked. “You young men are always full of excellent reasons for not calling. Well, go in; you’re sure to find some people you know. When I can, I want to have a serious chat with you, so don’t leave before I’ve seen you again. Promise me?”

“Certainly,” he said, as he passed on into the apartment filled to overflowing with its distinguished crowd.

Careless of all about him, he wandered on through the great salons until he met several people he knew, and then the evening passed quite gaily.

At last, an hour past midnight, he found himself again at Lady Marshfield’s side.

“Well,” she said as they passed into one of the small rooms then unoccupied, for the guests were already departing—“well, why have you been so long away?”

“I had no incentive to stay in England,” he said. “I find life much more amusing on the Continent, and I’m a bit of a Bohemian, you know.”

“When you are in love—eh?” she laughed.

Her words stabbed him, and he frowned.

“If I want a wife, I suppose I can find one in London,” he snapped, rather annoyed.

“But it was love which kept you in Tuscany so long,” she observed with sarcasm. “Because you love Gemma Fanetti.”

He started in surprise.

“How did you know?” he inquired.

“News of that sort travels quickly,” the old lady answered, glancing at him craftily. “It is to be regretted.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman of her character could never become your wife, Charles,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Take my advice; think no more of her.” Strange, he pondered, how every one agreed that her past would not bear investigation, yet all seemed to conspire against him to preserve the secret.

“We have already parted,” he said in a low voice. On many previous occasions they had spoken together confidentially.

At that moment a man-servant entered, glanced quickly across the room, and noticing with whom his mistress was conversing, turned and rapidly made his exit. Armytage was seated with his back to the door, therefore did not notice that the eminently respectable servant was none other than the man in whose company he had shot down in Berkshire—the jovial Malvano. That evening the movements of the village doctor of Lyddington had been somewhat mysterious. He had arrived about dinner-time as an extra hand, and had served refreshments in the shape of champagne-cup, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits to the hungry ones—and it is astonishing how hungry and thirsty people always are at other people’s houses, even if they have only finished dinner half an hour before. His face was imperturbable, his manner stiff, and the style in which he handled plates and glasses perfect.

One incident, at least, would have struck the onlooker as curious. While standing behind the improvised buffet serving champagne, Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador, a tall, striking figure with his dozen or so orders strung upon a tiny golden chain in his lapel, approached and demanded some wine. Malvano opened a fresh bottle, and while pouring it out His Excellency exclaimed in a low half-whisper in Italian—

“To-morrow at twelve, at the Embassy.”

“Si, signore,” the other answered without raising his head, apparently still engrossed in pouring out the wine.

“You’re still on the alert?” asked the Ambassador in an undertone.

“Si, signore.”

“Good! To-morrow I must have a consultation with you,” answered His Excellency, tossing off the wine.

By the secret confidences thus exchanged, it was evident that Count Castellani and Doctor Malvano thoroughly understood each other; and, further, it was plain that upon some person in that assembly Filippo, head-waiter at the Bonciani, was keeping careful observation. Yet he apparently attended to his work as a well-trained servant should; and even when he discovered Armytage with her ladyship, he was in no way confused, but retreated quietly without attracting the young man’s attention.

“Why have you parted from Gemma?” her ladyship asked.

“Well,” answered Armytage, hesitating, “have you not said that she’s an impossible person?”

“Of course. But when a man’s in love—”

“He alters his mind sometimes,” he interrupted, determined not to tell this woman the truth.

“So you’ve altered your mind?” she said. “You ought really to congratulate yourself that you’ve been able to do so.”

“Why?”

Lady Marshfield regarded her visitor gravely, fanned herself slowly in silence for some moments, then answered—

“Because it is not wise for a man to take as wife a woman of such an evil reputation.”

“Evil reputation?” he echoed. “What do you mean by evil?”

“Her reputation is wide enough in Italy. I wonder you did not hear of her long ago,” her ladyship answered. “You speak as if she were notorious.”

“Ask any one in Turin, in Milan, or Florence. They will tell you the truth,” she replied. “Your idol is, without doubt, the most notorious person in the whole of Italy.”

“The most notorious?” he cried. “You speak in enigmas. I won’t have Gemma maligned in this way,” he added fiercely.

She smiled. It was a smile of triumph. She was happy that they were already parted, and she sought now to embitter him against her, in order that he should not return to her.

“Have you never heard of the Countess Funaro?” she asked in a calm voice.

“The Countess Funaro!” he cried. “Of course I have. Her escapades have lately been the talk of society in Rome and Florence. Only a couple of months ago a duel took place at Empoli, the outcome of a quarrel which she is said to have instigated, and the young advocate Cassuto was shot dead.”

“He was her friend,” her ladyship observed.

“Well?”

“Well,” said Lady Marshfield, “don’t you think you were rather foolish to fall in love with a woman of her reputation?”

“Good Heavens!” he cried, starting up. “No, that can’t be the truth! Gemma cannot be the notorious Contessa Funaro!”

“If you doubt me, go out to Italy again and make inquiries,” the eccentric old lady answered calmly.

“But the Countess Funaro has the most unenviable reputation of any person in Italy. I’ve heard hundreds of extraordinary stories regarding her.”

“And the latest is your own interesting experience—eh!”

“I—I really can’t believe it,” Armytage said, dumbfounded.

“No; I don’t expect you do. She’s so amazingly clever that she can cause her dupes to believe in her absolutely. Her face is so innocent that one would never believe her capable of such heartless actions as are attributed to her.”

“But what experience have you personally had of her?” he inquired, still dubious. He knew that this elderly woman of the world was utterly unscrupulous.

“I met her in Venice last year,” her ladyship said. “All Venice was acquainted with her deliciously original countenance. Her notoriety was due to her pretty air of astonishment, the purity of her blue eyes, and the expression of chaste innocence which she can assume when it so pleases her—an expression which contrasts powerfully with her true nature, shameless creature that she is.”

“And are you absolutely positive that the woman I love as Gemma Fanetti is none other than the Contessa Funaro, the owner of the great historic Funaro palace in Florence, and the Villa Funaro at Ardenza?”

“I have already told you all I know.”

“But you have given me no proof.”

“I merely express satisfaction that you have been wise enough to relinquish all thought of marrying her.”

“I really can’t believe that this is the truth. How did you know she was in London?”

“I was told so by one who knows her. She has been staying at the Victoria,” her ladyship answered.

“I don’t believe what you say,” he cried wildly. “No, I won’t believe it. There is some mistake.”

“She has left the hotel,” Lady Marshfield said, fixing her cold eyes on him. “Follow her, and charge her with the deception.”

“It is useless. I am confident that Gemma is not this notorious Contessa.”

Her ladyship made a gesture of impatience, saying—“I have no object in deceiving you, Charles. I merely think it right that you should be made aware of the truth, hideous as it is.”

“But is it the truth?” he demanded fiercely. “There is absolutely no proof. I certainly never knew her address in Florence, but at Livorno she lived in a little flat on the Passeggio. If she were the Contessa, she would certainly have lived in her own beautiful villa at Ardenza, only a mile away.”

“She may have let it for the season,” his hostess quickly observed.

“The Countess Funaro is certainly wealthy enough, if reports be true, without seeking to obtain a paltry two or three thousand lire for her villa,” he said.

“She no doubt had some object in living quietly as she did, especially as she was hiding her identity from you.”

“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he declared, as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him for some ulterior object. “Until I have proof of Gemma’s perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word against her,” he declared decisively.

“You desire proof?” the old woman said, her wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again met his. “Well, you shall have it at once;” and, rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. “Read the words upon this,” she said, with an evil gleam in her vengeful gaze.

He took the picture with trembling hands, and read the following, written boldly across the base:—

“T’invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sarà sempre presente la mia efige, che ti obbligherà a ricordarmi. Tua aff.—Gemma Luisa Funaro.”

The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from the same negative as the one at that moment upon the table in his chambers. The handwriting was undoubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life.

Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. Indeed, it was a hideous truth.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Secret Despatch.

At noon next day Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador to the Court of St. James, stood at the window of his private room gazing out upon cabs and carriages passing and repassing around Grosvenor Square.

In his hand was a secret and highly important despatch which had only ten minutes before arrived from Rome by special messenger. His brows were knit, and he was pondering deeply over it. He stroked his grey beard and sighed, murmuring to himself—

“Extraordinary! Most extraordinary! If I had suspected such a complication as this, I should have never accepted this Embassy. True, this is the highest office in our diplomatic service—an office which I have coveted ever since I was a young attaché at Brussels. And now that I have fame in my own country, and honour among these English, I am unable to enjoy it. Ah! the fruits of life are always bitter—always!”

Then he drew another heavy sigh, and remained silent, gazing moodily out, his dark eyes fixed blankly upon the handsome square. No sound reached that well-furnished room with its double windows and hangings of dark-red velvet, the chamber in which the greatest of English statesmen had often sat discussing the future of the European situation and the probabilities of war; the room in which on one memorable day a defensive alliance had been arranged between Italy and England, the culminating master-stroke of diplomacy which had obviated a great and disastrous European war. And it was the tall, handsome, grey-bearded man, at that moment standing at his window plunged in melancholy, who had thus successfully saved his own country, Italy, by concluding the treaty whereby the fine Italian Navy would, in the event of war, unite with the British fleet against all enemies—the alliance whereby England would be strengthened against all the machinations of the Powers, and bankrupt Italy would still preserve her dignity among nations. It had been a truly clever piece of diplomacy. By careful observation and cunning ingenuity, Count Castellani had obtained knowledge of the projected action of France, of Germany, and of Russia, while the British Foreign Office had remained in utter ignorance. Then one day he had invited Lord Felixtowe, His Majesty’s principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and in that room he had plainly told the story of the conspiracy in progress against England. The Foreign Minister was so surprised that at first he could not credit that the Powers implicated could have the audacity to contemplate the invasion of our island; but when His Excellency brought forward certain undeniable proofs, he was compelled to admit the truth of his assertion.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the subject of a defensive alliance was mooted. United with the magnificent vessels of the Italian Navy, the battleships of Britain could hold the seas against all comers. There was no time to be lost, for Russian diplomacy was shrewdly at work in Rome with the object of contracting an alliance between the Government of the Czar and that of King Humbert. Therefore, without consulting the Cabinet, Lord Felixtowe had accepted the Ambassador’s proposals, and within twenty-four hours a treaty was signed, which has ever since been Europe’s safeguard against war. It was a short document, its draft only covering half a sheet of foolscap; but it was a bond between two friendly nations, which, it is to be hoped, will never be severed.

Yet the life of an Ambassador is by no means enviable. Even when promoted to the first rank, he obtains but little thanks from his chief, and less from his own compatriots at home. In this instance, Count Castellani, through whose ingenuity and far-sightedness England, and perhaps the whole of Europe, had been saved from an encounter of so fierce, sanguinary, and frightful a nature as the world has never yet witnessed, obtained not a word of thanks from the Italian people. Indeed, beyond a private autograph note from his sovereign and a long and formal despatch from the Marquis Montelupo, his master-stroke had passed by unnoticed and unknown save to those who had for years been plotting the down fall of the British Empire. The result was that in this, as in nearly every case where clever diplomacy is needed, the result of the negotiations remained hidden from the public. In this case, as in so many others, the alliance was entirely secret, and only after some months was its existence allowed to leak out, and only then in order that the enemies of England should hesitate before embarking upon any desperate step.

Sometimes, in his fits of melancholy, Count Castellani, like all other men, could not help feeling discontented. He was but human. When he reflected upon the glory which the German and French Ambassadors were accorded in their own countries each time they carried through some paltry, unimportant little piece of diplomacy, his heart grew weary within him. It was in this mood, unhappy and discontented, that he stood at the window with the secret despatch in his white, nervous hand. What he had read there brought back to him a recollection of days bygone—a recollection that was painful and bitter now that he had risen to be chief of the service in which he had spent the greater part of his life.

Yet it held him stupefied.

Again he sighed. His daughter Carmenilla, a slim, dark-haired girl of twenty, entered softly and, seeing her father silent and pensive, moved noiselessly across the room. He was wifeless, and all his love was bestowed upon his daughter, who held her father in absolute reverence. Carmenilla was not beautiful, but she was her father’s companion, helpmate, and friend. She stood behind him, and heard him exclaim, in a low voice only just audible—

“If what I suspect is true, then the secret is out. I must obtain leave of absence and go to Rome. Perhaps even now my letters of recall are on their way! Nevertheless, it is too strange to believe. No; at present I must wait. I can’t—I won’t believe it!”

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and as Carmenilla slipped out noiselessly, the liveried Italian servant announced that Dr Malvano had called.

“Show him in here,” His Excellency answered, crossing instantly to his writing-table, unlocking one of the drawers, and placing the secret despatch therein.

When Malvano entered, rosy, buxom, and smiling, well dressed in frock-coat, and carrying his silk hat and stick with that air adopted by members of the medical profession, the Count shook him by the hand and greeted him cordially. Without invitation, His Excellency’s visitor tossed his hat and stick upon the sofa, sank into the nearest chair, and stretched out his legs, apparently quite at home.

The Ambassador, first raising the heavy velvet portière, and slipping the small brass bolt of the door into its socket, took a seat at his table, and fixing his eyes upon the man who had served him with wine the night before, said, with a sigh—

“Well, Filippo. A crisis appears imminent.”

“You have heard from Rome?” Malvano exclaimed quickly. “I met Varesi, the messenger, in the hall.”

“Yes,” His Excellency said. “I’ve received certain instructions from the Minister, but it is impossible to act upon them.”

“Why?”

“For the prestige of Italy, for our own reputations, for the personal safety of the one to whom we owe our knowledge, it is impossible to act,” the Count answered gravely. “My hands are tied absolutely.”

“And you will stand by and see murder committed without seeking to bring pressure to bear against those who seek our ruin? This is not like you, Castellani.”

“No, Filippo,” the other said, in a tone of confidence quite unusual to him, for he was a stern, rather harsh, diplomat, who never allowed any personal interest to interfere with his duties as Ambassador. “Not a word of reproach from you, of all men. You alone know that I have secretly done my best in this affair; that I have more than once risked my appointment in order to successfully accomplish the work which you and I have in hand.”

“And I, too, have done my utmost,” Malvano observed. “Up to the present, however, our enemies have been far too wary to be caught napping.”

“Yes,” the Ambassador said. “In this matter I have relied absolutely upon your patriotism. Like myself, you have run great risks; but I fear that all is to no purpose.”

“Why?”

“Because we have not yet fathomed the mystery of the death of the girl Vittorina Rinaldo. If we could do that it would give us a clue to the whole affair.”

“Exactly,” Malvano answered. “In that matter we are no nearer the truth than we were on the first day we commenced our investigation. And why? Because of one thing—we fear ‘La Gemma.’”

“Where is she now?”

“Ah! Unfortunately she quarrelled with young Armytage, left the Hotel Victoria suddenly, and—”

“And her whereabouts are unknown,” His Excellency gasped. “Dio mio!” he cried. “Then she may actually have gone back to Italy and betrayed everything!”

“I think that very probable,” Malvano said gravely. “For the past fortnight I’ve been daily at the Bonciani, and have kept my ears open. There is something secret in progress.”

“What’s its nature?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you ought to know,” His Excellency cried petulantly. “You must find out. Remember, you are the secret agent of this Embassy, and it is your duty to keep me well informed.”

Malvano smiled. The expression upon his round ruddy face at that moment was the same as when, on the night Romanelli dined with him at Lyddington, he had urged his young friend to travel to Livorno, and make a declaration of love to the unfortunate Vittorina. It was a covert glance of cunning and double dealing. “I always report to you all I know,” he answered. “Yes, yes,” His Excellency said hastily, in a more conciliatory tone. “I withdraw those words, Filippo. Forgive me, because to-day I’m much worried over a matter of delicate diplomacy. In this affair our interests are entirely mutual. You and I love our country, our beloved Italia, and have taken an oath to our Sovereign to act always in his interests. It therefore now becomes our duty to elucidate this mystery. In you Italy has a fearless man of marvellous resource and activity—a man who has, in the past, obtained knowledge of secrets in a manner which has almost passed credence. Surely you will not desert us now and relinquish all hope of obtaining the key to this extraordinary enigma. What have you heard at Lady Marshfield’s?”

“I sent in my daily report this morning,” the Doctor answered rather coldly. “You have, I suppose, read it?”

“I have,” His Excellency said, leaning both his arms upon the table. “I cannot, however, believe that your surmise has any foundation. It’s really too extraordinary.”

“Why?”

“Such a thing seems not only improbable, but absolutely impossible,” the Count replied.

There was a pause, brief and painful. The men looked at one another deeply in earnest. At last Malvano spoke.

“I know well the conflicting interests in this matter. If we do our best for Italy, we do the worst for ourselves—eh?”

The Ambassador nodded. “My political enemies in Rome have, I fear, ingeniously plotted my downfall,” the Count replied in a low tone, as he pressed the other’s hand. “A single spark is only required to fire the mine. Then the Ministry will be overthrown, and the country must inevitably fall into the hand of the Socialists. Look what they have already done in Venice and in Milan. At the latter city they’ve closed La Scala, one of the finest theatres in the world; they’ve dissolved the dancing-school, and have done their worst in every direction. Venice has been revolutionised and now at every local election one reads, written with black paint upon the walls, ‘Down with the King and the robbers! Long live the Revolution!’ I’m a staunch supporter of law and order, a firm upholder of country and of King, therefore my days of office are numbered.”

“Not if we successfully solve this enigma.”

“Why? By doing so I shall defeat the plots of my enemies, and thus embitter them against me far more than before.”

“You fear La Gemma?”

His Excellency nodded.

“Why?”

“She knows too much.”

“So did Vittorina. She was silenced.”

“What do you mean, Malvano?” the Ambassador cried, pale and agitated. “That she should share the same fate?”

“No,” the other answered gravely. “As far as I can see no life need be taken if we act with cunning and discretion. Can you trust me?”

“I do so implicitly,” His Excellency answered, seeing that the secret agent was now entirely in earnest. “More than once you have obtained knowledge by means little short of miraculous.”

“Briefly, I’m an excellent spy—eh?” the Doctor laughed. “Well, I didn’t spend ten years at the Questura in Firenze, and practise as a doctor at the same time, without obtaining a little wholesome experience. If you’ll give this affair entirely into my hands, I’ll promise to do my level best, and to assist you out of your dilemma. Your position at this moment is, I know, one of the most extreme peril; but by playing a desperate game we may succeed in discovering what is necessary, thereby placing ourselves and our country in a position of absolute security.”

“You are an extremely good friend, Filippo,” the Count answered quickly. “In this country, surrounded as I am by traitors and spies, you are the only one in whom I can absolutely trust—except Carmenilla.”

“Your daughter must know nothing,” the Doctor exclaimed quickly. “This is no woman’s affair. If life must be sacrificed, then she might inadvertently expose us—women are such strange creatures, you know.”

“Whose life, then, do you fear may be taken?” His Excellency eagerly asked.

The Doctor raised his shoulders with a gesture expressive of profound ignorance.

“Not Gemma’s?”

“Why not Gemma’s?” Malvano inquired, in an intense voice. “In this affair we must speak plainly. Is she not your enemy?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, if a life must be taken, why not hers?”

There was a silence, broken only by the low rumble of carriages and cabs outside.

“No,” His Excellency answered. “Before I give you perfect freedom in this matter you shall promise me that she shall be spared. I have reasons—strong ones.”

“Certainly, if you desire it,” the secret agent replied. The thought at that moment flashed across his mind that, if for the preservation of their secret her lips must necessarily be closed, there were others beside himself who would compass her death. The life of a man or woman can always be taken for a sovereign in London, if one knows where to look for men ready to accomplish such work.

“Then you give me your promise?” the Count asked eagerly.

“On one condition only,” Malvano replied in a firm voice, while his eyes fixed themselves upon those of the Ambassador.

“What is your condition?” His Excellency inquired.

“There must be no secret between you and me, for in order to successfully accomplish this stroke of diplomacy we must act deliberately, with forethought, and yet boldly face the facts, risking everything—even our lives,” he answered. Then, gazing straight into the other’s face, he added, “I shall not act unless you allow me to read the despatch you received to-day from Rome.” The Ambassador’s brows instantly contracted, and he held his breath. For the first time, he became seized with a suspicion that this man, whose deep cunning as a secret agent was almost miraculous, was now playing him false.

“No,” he answered, “that is impossible. My oath to the King prevents me showing any one a despatch marked as confidential.”

“Then your oath to the King prevents you from acting in the interests of Italy and the Crown; it prevents me from forging a weapon wherewith to fight the enemies of our beloved country.”

“The despatch is entirely of a private character, and concerns myself alone,” His Excellency protested.

“In other words, you can’t trust me—eh?” the Doctor said, with a hard look of dissatisfaction. “I therefore refuse to act further in this affair, and shall leave you to do as you think fit. I must be in possession of all the known facts before I embark upon the perilous course before us; and as you decline absolutely, I am not prepared to take any steps in the dark. The risks are far too great.”

The Ambassador was silent for a few moments, his eyes riveted upon those of the secret agent. Then, in a deep, intense voice, he said—

“Malvano, I dare not show you that despatch.”

Chapter Twenty.

“The Gobbo.”

Saturday night in South London is a particularly busy time for the wives of the working classes. The chief thoroughfares in that great district lying between Waterloo Bridge and Camberwell Green are rendered bright by the flare of the naphtha-lamps of hoarse-voiced costermongers, whose strident cries call attention to their rather unwholesome-looking wares, and the crowds of honest housewives with ponderous baskets on their arms are marketing in couples and threes, taking their weekly outing, which is never to be missed. In the Walworth Road on a Saturday evening one can perhaps obtain a better glimpse of London lower-class life than in any other thoroughfare. The great broad road extending from that junction of thoroughfares, the Elephant and Castle, straight away to the site of old Camberwell Gate, and thence to the once rural but now sadly deteriorated Camberwell Green, is ablaze with gas and petroleum, and agog with movement. The honest, hard-working costermongers, with their barrows drawn into the gutters, vie with the shops in prices and quality; hawkers of all sorts importune passers-by on the congested pavements; the hatless and oleaginous butchers implore the crowd to “Buy, buy, buy,” and the whole thoroughfare presents a scene of animation unequalled in the whole metropolis—a striking panorama of poverty, pinched faces, shabby clothes, and enforced economy. The district between the Elephant and Camberwell Green has fallen upon evil days. Those who knew the Walworth Road twenty years ago, and know it now, will have marked its decadence with regret; how the lower life of East Street, known locally as Eas’ Lane, has overflowed; how fine old houses, once tenanted by merchants and people of independent means, are now let out in tenements; how model “flats” have reared their ugly heads; how the jerry-builder has swallowed up Walworth Common, across which Dickens once loved to wander; how all has changed, and Walworth has become the Whitechapel of the south.

Life in Walworth is the lower life of modern Cockneydom. There are streets in the district which, highly respectable thoroughfares twenty years ago, now harbour some of the worst characters in London; streets which, although a stone’s throw from the noisy, squalid bustle of the Walworth Road, a policeman hardly cares to venture down without a companion; sunless streets where poverty and crime are hand in hand, where filth has bred disease, and where stunted, pale-faced children wallow in the gutter mire. The wreckage of London life now no longer drifts towards the east, as it used to do, but crosses the Thames, and, after struggling in Lambeth, is swallowed in the debasing vortex of wretched, wonderful Walworth.

Those who pass up the great broad thoroughfare from Camberwell citywards see little of Walworth life. Only when one turns into one or other of its hundred side-streets, which spread out like arms towards the Kennington or Kent Road, can one observe how the poor exist. Among these many streets, one which has perhaps not deteriorated to such an extent as its neighbours, is the Boyson Road. The long thoroughfare of smoke-begrimed, jerry-built houses of monotonous exactness in architecture, two stories, and deep areas, is indeed a very depressing place of residence; but there is not a shop in the whole of it, and it is therefore quiet and secluded from the eternal turmoil of Camberwell Gate.

Halfway down this street, in one of the drab, mournful-looking houses, lived a man and his wife who held themselves aloof from all their neighbours. The man was an Italian, whose vocation was that of waiter in a restaurant in Moorgate Street, and he had taken up his residence in Boyson Road only a few months before. His name was Lionello Nenci, the man who had earned such unenviable reputation among the hucksters’ shops in Hammersmith, and whom Gemma, on her arrival in London, had tried vainly to find.

An air of poverty pervaded the interior of the house. The hall floor was devoid of any covering save for a sack flung down in place of a mat; the sitting-room was furnished in the cheapest manner possible; and, by the hollow sound which rang through the place, it was apparent that few of the other ten or twelve rooms contained any furniture at all.

Before the fire in the rusted grate of the sitting-room, on this cold, damp Saturday night early in December, Nenci himself, a dark-faced, surly-looking man with scrubby black beard, aged about thirty-five, was seated smoking a cheap cigar, while near him was a younger man, ugly, hump-backed, pale-faced, also an Italian. They were speaking in Tuscan.

“Yes,” Nenci said. “I had to clear out of Hammersmith suddenly and come down here, because I thought the Embassy knew too much. She only discovered me a fortnight ago.”

“And she is actually living here?”

“Certainly. This house is the safest place. She lies quite low, and never goes out. Here she comes.”

And at that moment the door opened, and Gemma entered. She was dressed in shabby black; her fair hair was twisted carelessly, and her small white hands bore no rings, yet, even slatternly and unkempt, she looked strikingly beautiful.

“So you are hiding with us?” the hump-backed man exclaimed, after he had greeted her.

“Yes,” she laughed.

“Where is your lover, Armytage?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He may be abroad again, for all I know. I’ve neither seen nor heard from him since we parted nearly a month ago,” she said, drawing a chair close to the fire and seating herself, her feet placed coquettishly on the rusted fender.

“He knows nothing, I suppose?” Nenci growled, still smoking.

“Not a word. I’m not a fool, even though I may be in love.”

Both men laughed. They knew well the character of this beautiful woman before them, and placed the most implicit confidence in her.

“You really love him—eh?” Nenci inquired.

“I’ve already told you so a dozen times,” she answered impatiently.

“But you won’t desert us?” the younger man—whom they addressed as “The Gobbo,” Italian for hunchback—said earnestly.

“I am still with you,” she answered. “It is impossible for me to serve two masters. What time is the consultation to-night?”

“At ten,” answered Nenci, glancing up at the cheap metal timepiece on the mantel. “Arnoldo should be here in five minutes.”

The door again opened, and Nenci’s wife, a dark-haired Tuscan woman of about thirty, entered. The nasal twang of her speech stamped her at once as Livornese. She was good-looking, and, although ill-dressed, her drab skirt hung well, and her carriage had all the grace and suppleness of the South. For a moment she stood chatting to her husband, her visitor, and their companion, then turning down the smoking lamp, placed several chairs around the plain deal-topped table.

“Gemma hasn’t yet got used to London,” she laughed, as she busied herself preparing for the mysterious consultation which had been arranged. “She pines for her lover, and thinks this place a trifle poor after the big hotel at Charing Cross.”

“No, no,” Gemma protested. “I don’t complain. I’m quite safe here. And I can wait.”

“For your lover?” the Gobbo laughed, in a dry, supercilious tone. “It is a new sensation for you to love. L’amore è la gioia, il reposo la félicita—eh?”

Her clear eyes flashed upon him for an instant, but she did not reply. His words cut her to the quick. In that instant she thought of the man she adored, the man who was held aloof from her by reason of her secret.

Presently, after some further conversation, the door-bell rang, and Nenci’s wife, who promptly answered the summons, admitted two well-dressed men, Romanelli and Malvano.

The appearance of the latter was the signal for congratulations, Gemma alone holding aloof from them. She exchanged a glance with the Doctor, but he in an instant noticed its swift maliciousness, and remained silent.

After some conventional chatter, in which the Gobbo cracked many grim jokes, all six took seats around the table. Nenci had previously assured himself that the shutters were closed, and that the doors both back and front were securely barred, when Malvano was the first to speak.

“There are two of us absent,” he observed. “I received a telegram from one an hour ago. He is in Berlin, and could not be back in time. He apologises.”

“It is accepted,” they all exclaimed.

“And the other cannot come for reasons you all know.”

Then Nenci, a stern, striking figure, rather wild-looking, with his black, bushy hair slightly curled, bent forward earnestly, and said—

“Since last we held a consultation in Livorno some months ago, much has occurred, and it is necessary for us once again to review the situation. Most of us have had severe trials; more than one has fallen beneath the vengeance of our enemies; and more than one is now in penal servitude on Gorgona, that rocky island which lies within sight of the land we all of us love. Well, our ranks are thinner, indeed. Of our twenty-one brothers and sisters who met for the first time in Livorno three years ago only eight now remain. Yet we may accomplish much, for not one of us knows fear; all have been already tried and found staunch and true.”

“Are you sure there is no traitor among us?” Gemma asked, in a clear intense voice, her pointed chin resting upon her white palm as she listened to his speech.

“Whom do you suspect?” Nenci demanded, darting a quick look at her.

“I suspect no one,” she answered. “But in this desperate crisis we must, if we would successfully accomplish our object, have perfect faith in one another.”

“So we have,” Malvano said. “Here in London we are in absolute security. We have sacrificed enough, Heaven knows! Thirteen of us are already either in prison, or dead.”

Gemma sighed. She herself had been compelled to sacrifice a man’s passionate love, her own happiness and all that made life worth living, because of her connexion with this mysterious band which had its headquarters among the working class in London, and whose ramifications were felt in every part of Italy. She lifted her beautiful face once again. She was pale and desperate.

“Thirteen is an unlucky number,” remarked the Gobbo grimly.

“For the dead, yes. But eight of us are still living,” Malvano said.

“By the holy Virgin! it’s a desperate game we are playing,” Nenci’s wife exclaimed.

“Shut your mouth,” growled her husband roughly. “When your opinion is required, we’ll ask for it.” She was a slim, fragile woman, with a pale face full of romance, black eyes that flashed like gems, and a profusion of dark, frizzy hair, worn with those three thin spiral curls falling over the brow, in the manner of all the Livornesi. Even though she existed in squalid Walworth, she still preserved in the mode of dressing her hair the fashion she had been used to since a child. In that drab, mournful street, she sighed often for her own home in gay, happy, far-off Livorno, with its great Piazza, where she loved to gossip; its fine old cathedral, where she had so often knelt to the Madonna; its leafy Passeggio where, with her friends, she would stroll and watch the summer sun sinking into the Mediterranean behind the grey distant islands. When her husband spoke thus roughly she exchanged glances across the table with Gemma, and her dark, sad eyes became filled with tears.

“No,” protested Malvano quickly, “that’s scarcely the language to use towards one who has risked all that your wife has risked. I entirely agree with her that the game’s desperate enough. We must allow no discord.”

“Exactly,” Nenci admitted. “The reason why I have summoned you here is because the time is past for mere words. We must now act swiftly and with precision. There is only one person we have to fear.”

“What is his name?” they all cried, almost with one accord.

“The man whom Gemma loves—Charles Armytage,” the black-haired man answered, his eyes still fixed maliciously upon the woman before him.

In an instant Gemma sprang up, her tiny hands clenched, an unnatural fire in her eyes.

“You would denounce him?” she cried wildly. “You who have held me bound and silent for so long, now seek to destroy the one single hope to which I cling; to snatch from me for ever all chance of peace and happiness!” The eyes of the five persons at the table were upon her as she, strikingly beautiful, stood erect and statuesque before them. They all saw how deeply in earnest and how desperate she was.

But Nenci laughed. The sound of his harsh voice stung her. She turned upon him fiercely, with a dangerous glint in her clear blue eyes, a look that none of that assembly had ever before witnessed.

“In the past,” she said, “I have served you. I have been your catspaw. I have risked love, life, everything, for the one object so near my heart: the desire for a vengeance complete and terrible. Because of my association with you”—and she gazed around at them as she spoke—“I have been debarred marriage with the man I love. In order that he should leave me, that his daily presence should no longer fill me with regret and vain longing for happiness, I was compelled to resort to self-accusation, and to denounce myself as an adventuress.”

“Then you actually spoke the truth for once in your life!” Nenci observed superciliously, a fierce expression in his black eyes.

“Enough!” Malvano protested. “We didn’t come here to discuss Gemma’s love affairs.”

“But this man, who for the last three years has sought my ruin, has made a false denunciation against the young Englishman. I know only too well what passes in his mind. He declares to you that the only person we need fear is Charles Armytage, and the natural conclusion occurs that he must be silenced. I know full well that at this moment our position is one of desperation. Well, you know my past full well, each one of you, and have, I think, recognised that I’m not a woman to be trifled with. You may stir up the past and cast its mud into my face. Good! But, however wrongly I’ve acted, it is because this man has held me within his merciless grip, and I have been compelled to do his bidding blindly, without daring to protest. You may tell me that I am an adventuress,” she cried vehemently; “that my reputation is evil and unenviable; that my friends in Italian society have cast me adrift because of the libellous stories you have so ingeniously circulated about me; but I tell you that I love Charles Armytage, and I swear on the tomb of my dead mother he shall never suffer because of his true, honest love for me.”

She had used the oath which the Italian always holds most sacred, and then a dead silence followed. Except the dark wild-looking visage of Nenci, every face betrayed surprise at this fierce and unexpected outburst.

But Nenci again laughed, stroking his scrubby beard with his thin sallow hand.

“I suppose you wish to desert us, eh?” he asked meaningly.

“While you keep faith with me I am, against my will, still your tool. Break faith with me, and the bond which has held me to you will at once be severed.”

“How?” inquired Malvano seriously; for he saw that at this crisis-time Gemma held their future in her hands. Nenci’s wild words had, alas! been ill-timed, and could not now be retracted.

“Simply this,” she answered. “I love; for the first time in my life, honestly and passionately. Through my association with you, my life is wrecked, and my lover lost to me. Yet I still have hope; and if you destroy that hope, then all desire for life will leave me. I care absolutely nothing for the future.”

“Well?” the Doctor observed mechanically.

“Cannot you understand?” she cried, turning upon him fiercely. “This man Lionello, has suggested that my lover’s life should be taken; that he should be silenced merely because he fears that my love may lead me to desert you, or turn traitor. I know well how easily such suggestions can be carried out; but remember, if a hand is lifted against him it is to me, the woman who loves him, that you shall answer; to me you shall beg for mercy, and, by the Virgin, I will give you none!” And her panting breast heaved and fell violently as she clutched the back of her chair for support.

For a few minutes there was again silence, deep and complete. Then Nenci laughed the same harsh supercilious laugh as before.

“Bah?” he cried, with curling lip. “Your foolish infatuation is of no account to us. Your lover holds knowledge which can ruin us. He must therefore be silenced!” Then glancing swiftly around the table with his black eyes, he asked, “Is that agreed?”

With one accord there was a bold, clear response. All gave an answer in the affirmative.

Chapter Twenty One.

At Lyddington.

Outside it was a dry, crisp, frosty night, but in Doctor Malvano’s drawing-room at Lyddington a great wood fire threw forth a welcome glow, the skins spread upon the floor were soft and warm, and the fine, old-fashioned room, furnished with that taste and elegance which a doctor of independent means could afford, was extremely comfortable and cosy. “Ben,” the Doctor’s faithful old black dog, lay stretched out lazily before the fire, a pet cat had curled itself in the easiest of easy chairs, and with her white fingers rambling over the keys of the grand piano sat a slim, graceful woman. It was Gemma.

With Mrs Nenci as companion, she had been visiting at Lyddington for about a fortnight, and, truth to tell, found life in that rural village much more pleasant than in the unwholesome side street off the Walworth Road. They had both left Boyson Road suddenly late one night, after receiving a note from Nenci, who had been absent a couple of days. This note was one of warning, telling them to fly, and giving them directions to go straight to Lyddington. This they had done, receiving a cordial welcome from the Doctor, who had apparently received word by telegraph, and understood the situation perfectly. So they had installed themselves in the Doctor’s house, and led a quiet, tranquil life of severe respectability. Gemma dressed well, as befitted the Doctor’s visitor, for she had received one of her trunks which, after leaving the Hotel Victoria, she had deposited in the cloakroom at Charing Cross Station, and her costumes were always tasteful and elegant. She had obtained a cycle from Uppingham, and the weather being dry and frosty, she rode daily alone over the hilly Rutlandshire roads, to old-world Gretton, to long, straggling Rockingham, with its castle high up among the leafless trees, to Seaton Station, or even as far afield as the tiny hamlet of Blatherwycke. The honest country folk looked askance at her, be it said, for her natural chic she could not suppress, and her cycling skirt was just a trifle too short, when judged from an English standpoint. Her dress was dark blue serge, confined at the waist by a narrow, white silk ribbon, its smartness having been much admired when she had spun along the level roads of the Cascine. But English and Italian ideas differ very considerably, and she was often surprised when the country people stood and gaped at her. Yet it was only natural. When she dismounted she could only speak half a dozen words of English, and Rutland folk are always suspicious of the foreigner—especially a woman.