William Le Queux (continued 5)

“I am an Englishman,” I answered, quite frankly, but making a strenuous effort to remain calm.

“So I hear by your speech,” the man replied gruffly. “And what are you doing here? The English don’t usually walk about here at this hour?”

“I’ve walked from Palestrina, and lost myself in the darkness. Is that Tivoli down yonder?”

“Yes it is. But what’s your name?” he inquired, as though my quick reply had aroused his suspicions. I regretted my words next instant. I intended to mislead the man, but he evidently did not believe me. I saw that if I was not now perfectly frank I might be arrested on suspicion and detained in the carabineer barracks until morning.

I recognised into what deadly peril my intrepidity had now led me. If they detained me the discovery of the tragedy and robbery at the Villa Verde would certainly be made, and I should find myself implicated with those three assassins. The circumstantial evidence against me would be very strong, and it might be many months before I regained my freedom. In such circumstances I should, alas! lose my Ella for ever!

“My name is Godfrey Leaf, native of London,” was my reply.

“And what brings you here? You certainly haven’t walked from Palestrina. You’d be more dusty than you are.”

“Of course he would,” remarked the man’s companion, shifting his carbine to his other shoulder. “He’s lying.”

“Well,” I said, feigning to be insulted by the fellow’s inquiries, “why should I tell you my business? It is no affair of yours, surely. Do you think I’m an assassin, or on my way to rob some contadini of his poultry?”

“We can never tell a man by his dress. Besides, how are we to know who you are—that you are really the person you say?”

I was silent. His question was an awkward one. But suddenly I recollected.

“Well, perhaps this will convince you that I’m a respectable person, eh?” And taking from my pocket-book my Italian revolver licence I handed it to him. He opened it suspiciously, then said; “Come farther down with us, to that light, and let’s have a good look at you.”

Now an Italian licence to carry a revolver is a very different document from that in England. It is issued only in very rare cases by the police themselves to responsible persons who first have to show that they are in danger of their lives from vendetta or some other cause, and that to carry a weapon is for them personal defence. Upon the licence is the minute police description of the person to whom it is issued, as well as his signature, while the document is also countersigned by the Prefect of the city whence it is issued. It is therefore the best of all identification papers.

Obeying the guards, I walked with them down to the light at the town gateway where they read the official permit, closely scrutinising me as they reached each individual description, colour of hair and eyes, shape of nose, forehead and head, and the dozen other small details, all of which they found tallied with the licence.

“Born in London and domiciled in Milan, I see,” remarked the carabineer.

“I was living in Milan when I applied to the Public Security Department for the permit.”

“Well,” he said, “it’s lucky for you you had it upon you, otherwise you might have spent a day or two in prison for the untruth you told us.” And he handed back the licence to me with a grim smile. “Perhaps you’ll tell me now where you really have been?”

I saw it necessary to alter my tactics, therefore I answered with a laugh:—

“To tell the truth I came out from Rome last night to keep an appointment—a secret one—with a lady—if you really must know.”

“Then you’d better go back again to Rome,” was his answer, apparently well satisfied, and believing that story more probable. “There’s a train in twenty minutes or so, and we’ll see you into it. We are on our way to the station.”

From that moment we grew friendly, for the carabineers are a splendid body of picked men, and are always polite to the foreigner.

“You were coming down from the villa yonder,” explained the man who had interrogated me half apologetically. “Therefore we had to ascertain who you were.”

“What villa do you mean?”

“The Onorovele Nardini’s. He’s absconded, as I daresay you’ve heard.”

“Ah?” I said, “I did read in the English journals something about it. And did he live up there?”

“Yes. At the big villa. You must have passed it. He used to live here a great deal, and every one believed him to be an honest man.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Dio no! He got a million francs of the public money, and no one knows what has become of it.” Was either of these men the son of the old concierge in the Via del Tritone, I wondered? I longed to ask them, but dare not. They, of course, told me nothing regarding the mysterious discovery of a woman’s body in the ex-Minister’s study. Perhaps, indeed, they, like all others outside the confidential branch of the police service, were ignorant of it.

“And doesn’t any one know where he is?” I asked, as we strolled at length upon the dark platform of the railway station.

“Oh! He’s in estero somewhere. We shall never get him, you may be sure. When once a man like that gets over the frontier he’s gone for ever.”

What, I wondered, would these two men think when, on the morrow, the truth of what had occurred at the Villa Verde became revealed! The body of the detective would be found, and another mystery would succeed the one which was being so carefully suppressed.

Both men accepted cigarettes from my case as we idled up and down the platform awaiting the train for Rome. It was their duty to meet all the night trains and note all arrivals and departures, therefore we passed an idle half-hour gossiping pleasantly until the train drew up, and entering a first-class compartment I bade them farewell and breathed freely again as we moved off towards the “Eternal City.”

The instant the train was clear of the station I saw my imminent peril. By ill-fortune these guards had met me, they had read my name, seen my description, and knew me well. As soon as the discovery was made in the Villa Verde—indeed, at any moment—they would telegraph those details all over the country and eagerly seek to arrest me as an accomplice. Whether Miller and his friends were arrested or not, they would naturally connect me with the affair. That was but natural.

Fortunately I had succeeded in impressing upon them that I was a respectable person, but I recognised that if I desired to retain my liberty—my liberty to free my love from that mysterious bond which held her to a scoundrel—I must escape from Italy both immediately and secretly.

Before arrival in Rome I took off the gold pince-nez I habitually wore, discarded my collar and cravat, tied my handkerchief around my neck in attempt at disguise, and so passed the barrier. Afterwards I walked some distance, and then took a cab to the hotel.

At eight o’clock, with a ticket for Florence by way of Pisa, I was in the express for the frontier at Modane. I purposely took a ticket for Florence, and then from Pisa, at two o’clock in the afternoon, I took another ticket to Turin. If my departure had been noted, they would search for me in Florence.

That journey was, perhaps, one of the most exciting in all my life. I travelled third-class, attired in an old suit, old boots, and a handkerchief tied about my neck. In Turin I had four hours to wait, as the express to Paris did not convey third-class passengers, and those four hours passed slowly, for being a constant traveller I was known by sight by the waiters in the buffet and many officials. Therefore I was compelled to avoid them. Besides, was I not still in Italy? The police had no doubt already discovered what had occurred at the Villa Verde, and from Rome my description had probably been telegraphed along every line of railway.

Next morning, however, before it was light, I descended from the omnibus-train that had crawled up the Alpine slopes and through the Mont Cenis tunnel, and found myself upon the long dreary platform at the French frontier, Modane.

I had now to face the pair of scrutinising Italian detectives who I knew stood at the door of the Custom House watching every one who leaves the country.

It was a breathless moment. If I passed them without recognition I should be free. If not—well it would mean disaster, terrible and complete, both for me and to the woman I so dearly loved.

I was risking all, for her sake, because she was mine. I was striving to solve the mystery, and to gain knowledge that would place her beyond the reach of that blackguard who held her so irrevocably in his power.

Summoning all my courage I gripped the bundle which contained a few necessaries—for the remainder of my luggage I had sent direct to Charing Cross and posted the receipt for it to my club—and went forward into the Custom House, displaying my belongings to the French douanier.

They had been viséd, I had tied them up again in the big handkerchief, and was passing out.

Another moment and I should be upon French territory.

Suddenly, however, a heavy hand was placed upon my shoulder, and a voice exclaimed in Italian:—

“One moment! Excuse me. I have a word to say to you!”

Turning with a start I faced a short man in a light tweed suit, while behind him stood the two detectives.

My heart sank within me. I knew that the affair at the Villa Verde had been discovered, and that I was lost!

Chapter Thirty Four.

Love in Fetters.

“Just step in here one moment,” said the man in the grey suit. “I want to ask you a question.” And he conducted me to a small office at the farther end of the platform, the bureau of the Italian police.

“Now who are you?” he asked, fixing me with his keen dark eyes, while the two detectives, who had evidently been expecting my arrival and identified me from the telegraphed description, stood by watching.

“My name is Sampson—Samuel Sampson,” was my prompt reply, for during the whole of the previous day I had gradually concocted a story in readiness for any emergency.

“Oh!” exclaimed the delegato in disbelief. “And what are you?”

“Under-steward on board the Italia of the Anchor Line between Naples and New York. I landed yesterday morning at Leghorn, and am going home on a holiday to London. Why?” I asked, with feigned surprise.

“You left Rome yesterday,” he said, “and your name is Godfrey Leaf,”—he pronounced it “Lif.”

“Oh!” I laughed, “that’s something new. What else? If you doubt me here’s my passport. It’s an English passport with the Italian visé, and I fancy it ought to be good enough for you.”

And I handed him Sammy Sampson’s passport which had been in the writing-book in my suit-case for close upon a year—ever since he and I had taken a short trip to San Sebastian, over the Spanish border.

The police inspector opened the document, glanced at the visa of the Italian Consulate-General in London, and carefully spelt the name of Sampson.

“There is no description or profession,” he remarked dubiously.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose that is not the first English passport you’ve seen, is it? But I don’t think you have ever seen one different, or with fuller detail than that!”

“Then you are not Godfrey ‘Lif’?” he asked, still dubious.

“I’m what I’ve already told you. What do you suspect of me? I’m an Englishman travelling home, I’ve committed no crime or offence against the law, and I don’t see why I should suffer this indignity! But if you desire to be satisfied, you are perfectly at liberty to search me and my belongings.” And I handed him my bundle.

“We’ve already seen it when it was examined in the dogana,” remarked one of the detectives.

My revolver licence, card-case, cigarette-case and other articles that might betray me I had been careful to put in my trunk which was registered through to London. Therefore I had thoroughly assumed my friend’s identity. English passports are so vague and lax that the greatest abuses are often committed with them.

I was quick to notice that my prompt reply to the questions rather nonplussed my interrogator. He took the official telegram from the table, read what it contained very carefully, and then looked long and earnestly at me.

I remained firm and unmoved, well knowing that all my future happiness depended upon my calm indifference. Yet indifference at such a moment was a matter of extreme difficulty.

He began to put other questions to me, in the hope, it appeared, of making me commit myself to a falsehood. But I was now thoroughly on the alert, and gave quick, unhesitating replies.

Had the inspector been an Englishman he would probably have detected by my speech that I was not an under-steward, but being Italian he was thus handicapped. Indeed, so circumstantial an account did I give of getting two months’ leave from my ship to visit my mother in London, and in addition presenting a passport perfectly in order, that just before the train was leaving for France he and his companions, filled with doubt as to whether I was actually the person wanted, allowed me to walk out again upon the platform—a free man!

Five minutes later I had mounted into an empty third-class compartment, but I dare not breathe before the train slowly moved away in the “direction de Paris.”

The terrible anxiety of those moments will surely live with me until my dying day, for I had both love and life at stake; my own love, my well-beloved’s life!

After thirty hours of slow travelling and constant stoppages and shuntings I arrived at the Gare de Lyon, and again resuming the luxury of a collar and cravat I purchased a ready-made suit of blue serge, a hard felt hat and a few necessaries, for no longer I needed the disguise of a workman.

Contrary to my usual custom of going to the Grand, I put up at the Athenée, which is greatly patronised by Americans, and where I had a New York friend staying at that moment. Then, after dinner, I telegraphed to Leghorn to Lucie Miller telling her that I had left Italy, and that if she wished to communicate with me she should write or telegraph. My idea was that if her father had been arrested, as he most probably had been, she would certainly require the assistance of some friend, and might probably prefer me. Of course she would not willingly admit to me her father’s disgrace, yet by her own actions I should be pretty well able to judge what had taken place.

I was eager to be back near Ella, yet before I crossed to England I determined to await a reply to my message to Lucie.

For three days I remained in suspense, idling with my American friend in cafés and restaurants, and showing him Paris in a mild kind of way.

I had searched the French and English newspapers diligently to learn any details of the affair at the Villa Verde, but in vain, until one evening in the reading-room of the hotel I came across a copy of the Corriere della Sera, the journal of Milan, in which was a long telegram from Rome, headed: “The Escape of the Minister Nardini: Mysterious Tragedy at the Villa Verde.”

In breathless eagerness I read how the police, on going in the morning to relieve the guard placed at the villa, found the unfortunate man lying dead with a knife-wound in his heart. Thieves had evidently entered the house by the window of the study which looked out upon the roadway, for the iron bars had been filed through and a space made sufficient to admit a man. Nothing, however, had been taken, as far as could be ascertained. The study was in complete order, and the police theory was that the man in charge, hearing the noise, had entered the room only to be confronted by several men. He then fled across the house intending to get out and raise the alarm, when he was overtaken in the passage and stabbed.

The theory was, of course, quite a natural one.

The thieves had, it seemed, before their escape placed the room in order, closed the secret cupboard, replaced the panel, and put down the carpet as they had found it. The action of reclosing the panel had, of course, released the bolts that held the door, but they had already, by some means or other, cut through the bars. Probably they escaped without knowing that the door had been automatically released.

In any case they were clear away with a sum amounting to many thousands of pounds sterling—probably the greatest haul Miller had made in all his career.

There was, however, a second telegram which stated that two carabineers patrolling the road near the villa had stopped and questioned a mysterious Englishman who was now suspected to be one of the assassins, and after whom the police were in active search.

Miller and his companions were actually scot-free—and with their enormous booty!

No word was published regarding the mysterious discovery previously made in that house. The police were still hushing up the affair that was so shrouded in mystery, yet at the same time they evidently connected the two curious circumstances, and regarded them as a problem altogether beyond solution. Little, however, did they dream that the missing man’s secret hoard had been carried off in its entirety!

Next morning, when the waiter brought my coffee, a telegram lay upon the tray. It was from Lucie, despatched the previous day from the Swiss frontier at Chiasso, announcing that she and her father were on their way to Paris and would arrive that night at the Hôtel de Grand, which proved to be a modest little place in the Rue de la Michodière, near the Boulevard des Italiens.

Miller was escaping with those thick packets of thousand-franc notes which I had seen him secure, though Lucie was, of course, in entire ignorance of what had occurred.

Next morning I anxiously sought her. She came to me in the little salon of the unpretending hotel, a neat figure in her blue serge travelling-dress and smart little toque. Greeting me enthusiastically, she exclaimed:—

“How suddenly you went from Leghorn! I sent down to the Palace Hotel, for I wanted to see you again, but you had gone. I wanted to tell you that I’ve heard from Ella. The tenant of Wichenford has been recalled suddenly to America, and she and Mr Murray are back there for a little while. I thought you would like to know this.”

“Know it? Of course I do. I shall leave Paris to-night,” I said, glad to have news of my well-beloved.

“We also leave to-night. We are on our way back to Studland. Father wired me to meet him in Milan, and I did so. Then he explained that we were going home again, and that we should not return to Italy till the spring.”

He would probably never return to Italy, I thought, though I said nothing, except to congratulate her upon the prospect of spending a few months in Dorsetshire at the old home she loved so well.

At that moment Miller himself entered, surprised to find me there, but shaking my hand warmly said:—“Why, my dear Leaf! who would have thought to find you here? I believed you were in England.”

“Miss Lucie sent me word that you were passing through Paris,” I explained, “so it was my duty to call and pay my compliments.”

“We’ve just been on a flying visit to Italy,” he said. “I had some rather pressing affairs to attend to in Rome. To-night, however, we go back to Studland.”

“Mr Leaf is also crossing with us,” remarked his daughter.

“Oh! excellent!” exclaimed the man whom I had last seen cramming those ill-gotten notes into his pockets, his face flushed with the eager lust for wealth, his voice raised loudly in angry protest against an equal division of the booty. “We’ll meet at the Gare du Nord, eh?”

Calm, grey-faced, distinguished-looking and of gentlemanly bearing, surely no one would have ever dreamed that his character was such as it really had been proved to be. He offered me a cigarette, lit one himself, and all three of us went out for a stroll along the Boulevard and the Rue de la Paix. We lunched together in one of the little restaurants in the Palais Royal, but neither by word nor deed did Miller display any fear of recognition.

I wondered in what direction Gavazzi had fled; and would have given a good deal to know how they had managed to get through those formidable bars which I had believed unbreakable.

Lucie’s father being with us the whole time, I had no opportunity of speaking to her alone. At three o’clock I left them at the hotel, and at nine that evening joined them in the night-mail for Calais and London.

On board the steamer, Miller went below, while I got Lucie a deck-chair, wrapped her in an oilskin borrowed from a seaman, and sat beside her.

The night was a perfect one, with a bright full moon shining over the Channel, and as we sat we watched the flashing light of Calais slowly disappearing at the stern.

“Your father seems to be returning quite unexpectedly to England,” I said presently, after she had been admiring the reflection of the moon upon the glittering waters.

“Yes. I was quite surprised. He gave me no warning. Poor old dad is always so very erratic. He told me to meet him at the Metropole in Milan, and hardly gave me time to get there. I had to leave the house within an hour of receiving his wire.”

“Did he telegraph from Rome?”

“No. From Ancona, on the Adriatic.”

So he had escaped at once to the other side of Italy without returning to Rome.

“What has Ella told you in her letter?”

“Nothing more than what I have already explained. She makes no mention of—of the man whom we need not name.”

“I am now going home to expose him,” I said determinedly. “I have fully considered all the risks, and am prepared to run them.”

“Ah!” she cried, turning to me in quick alarm, “do not do anything rash, I beg of you, Mr Leaf! There is some mystery—a great mystery which I am, as yet, unable to fathom—but to speak at this juncture would assuredly only implicate her. Of that I feel sure from certain information already in my possession.”

“You’ve already told me that. But surely you don’t think I can stand by and see her go headlong to her ruin without stretching forth a hand to save her. It is my duty, not only as her lover but also as a man. The fellow is a thief and a scoundrel.”

When we love much we ourselves are nothing, and what we love is all.

“I only beg of you to be patient and be silent—at least for the present,” she urged.

Was she in fear, I wondered, lest any revelation I made should implicate her father? Was it possible that she had any suspicion that he was at that moment seeking asylum in his comfortable English home?

All the disjointed admissions which she had made regarding her acquaintance with the dead Minister for Justice, her appeal to him to speak the truth and clear her of some mysterious stigma, and her mention of the Villa Verde out at Tivoli crowded upon me. When we suffer very much everything that smiles in the sun seems cruel.

Beneath that beautiful face, pale in the bright moonbeams shining upon it, was mystery—a great unfathomable mystery. Was she not daughter of one of the cleverest thieves in Europe? And, if so, could she not most probably keep a secret if one were entrusted to her?

For some ten minutes or so I was silent. The engines throbbed, the dark waters hissed past, and swiftly we were heading for the lights of Dover.

At any moment Miller, who had gone below to get a whisky and soda with a friend he had met, a gentlemanly-looking Englishman, might return. I wondered whether it were judicious to tell her one fact.

At last I spoke.

“You recollect, Miss Miller, that you once mentioned the Villa Verde, at Tivoli, where, I think, Nardini lived the greater part of the year?”

“Yes,” was her rather mechanical answer. “Why? What causes you to recollect that?”

“Because—well, because the other day I learnt something in confidence concerning it.”

“Concerning the villa!” she gasped, starting and turning to me with a changed expression of fear and apprehension. “What—what were you told? Who told you?”

“Well, probably it is a fact of which you are unaware, for only the police know it, and they have hushed it up,” I said. “After the flight of Nardini the police who went to search the villa and seize his effects made a very startling discovery.”

“Discovery! What did they find?” she inquired eagerly, her face now blanched to the lips.

“The body of a young woman—the young Englishwoman who was your friend!” I said, with my eyes fixed upon her.

She started forward, glaring at me open-mouthed. She tried to speak, but no sound escaped her lips. Her gloved hands were trembling, her dark eyes staring out of her head.

“Then the police have searched!” she gasped at last.

“They know the truth! I—I am—”

And she fell back again into the long deck-chair, rigid and insensible.

Chapter Thirty Five.

An Evening at Hyde Park Gate.

When Miller returned and found his daughter conscious but prostrate, he naturally attributed it to mal-de-mer, and began to poke fun at her for being ill upon such a calm sea.

She looked at me in meaning silence.

Then, when he had left us to walk towards the stern, she said in a low, apologetic voice:—

“Forgive me, Mr Leaf. I—I’m so very foolish. But what you have told me is so amazing. Tell me further—what have the police found at the villa?”

I wondered whether she had seen in any of the Italian papers an account of the second discovery—the man who had been so brutally done to death.

“Well, from what I gather the police found a dead woman locked in Nardini’s study.”

“And has she been identified?” she asked eagerly.

“I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your friend.”

“Ah, yes!” she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the tragedy. “And they know that—do they? Then they will probably endeavour to find me, eh?”

“Most probably.”

“Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then,” she remarked, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder if they will discover me here?”

“I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one.”

“I hope they’ll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least.”

“The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up,” I remarked.

“Yes. But how did you know?”

“A friend told me,” was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been in Rome.

“He told you my name?”

“He was an Italian, therefore could not pronounce it properly. The police evidently do not know, even now, that Nardini is dead.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But—well, what you’ve told me is utterly staggering.”

“Then you were not aware of the mysterious affair?”

“Aware of it! How should I be?”

“Well, you were Nardini’s friend. You were a frequent visitor at the Villa Verde. You told me so yourself, remember.”

She did not reply, but sat staring straight before her at the stream of moonlight upon the rolling waters.

Whether she were really acquainted with the details of the tragic affair or not, I was unable to decide. She, however, offered me no explanation as to who the unknown woman was, and from her attitude I saw that she did not intend to reveal to me anything. Perhaps the mere fact that I had gained secret knowledge caused her to hold me in fear lest I should betray her whereabouts.

The situation was hourly becoming more complicated, but upon one point I felt confident, namely, that she held no knowledge of the second tragedy at the villa—a tragedy in which her father was most certainly implicated.

The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat—the mysterious Mr Miller who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him—returned to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in the train for Charing Cross.

I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep. Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that wild scene of excitement when the dead man’s hoard had been discovered, or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.

“Oh!” he sighed. “After all, it’s good to be back again in England. A spell at home will do Lucie good. She’s growing far too foreign in her ways and ideas. For a long time she’s wanted to spend a year or so in England, and now I’m going to indulge her.”

“Then you won’t be returning abroad for some time?”

“Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough. Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight of the pink always sends a thrill through me.”

“Does Lucie ride?”

“Ride, of course. She’s ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her first pony when she was eight.”

“Then she’ll enjoy it. There’s very good society about Market Harborough, I’ve heard.”

“Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd they are. The Continent’s all very well for many things, but for real good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!” he laughed.

And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush.

When I walked into Sammy’s room at seven o’clock he sat up in bed and stared at me.

“Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, got a bit sick of travelling, you know,” I laughed, “so I simply came back, that’s all. They can give me a room here, I hear, so I’ll stay.”

“You’ll stay here till you go away again, eh?” my friend laughed, for he knew what an erratic wanderer I was.

I sat on the edge of the bed and chatted to him while he shaved and dressed.

While we breakfasted together in his sitting-room he suddenly said:—

“There was a fellow here the other day making inquiries regarding our dead Italian friend.”

“Oh, what was he? A detective?”

“No. I don’t think so. Miss Gilbert referred him to me. He was a thin-faced, clean-shaven chap, and gave his name as Gordon-Wright.”

“Gordon-Wright!” I gasped, starting to my feet. “Has that fellow been here? What did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him nothing that he wanted to know. I didn’t care about him, somehow, so I treated him to a few picturesque fictions,” Sammy laughed.

“You didn’t tell him that the dead man was Nardini?”

“Not likely. You recollect that you urged me to say nothing, as the Italian Embassy did not wish the fact revealed.”

“Ah! That’s fortunate!” I cried, much relieved. “What did you tell him?”

“I said that it was true an Italian gentleman did die here, but he was a very old man named Massari. Before he died his son joined him, and after his death took all his belongings away. Was that right?”

“Excellent.”

“The stranger made very careful inquiries as to the appearance of the man who died, and I gave an entirely wrong description of him. I said that he had white hair and a long white beard, and that he walked rather lame, with the help of a stick. In fact I showed him a stick in the hall which I said belonged to the dead man. He was also very inquisitive regarding the man’s son who I said had taken away all his belongings. I described him as having a short reddish beard, but a man of rather gentlemanly bearing. The fellow Gordon-Wright struck me as an awful bounder, and that’s why I filled him up with lies. Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?”

“Friend!” I echoed. “No, the reverse. I wonder what he wanted to discover. You didn’t mention me, I suppose?”

“No. Why should I?”

“I’m glad of that, for there’s evidently some fresh conspiracy in progress.”

“Probably there is. He’s a shrewd fellow without a doubt.”

“An outsider, my dear Sammy,” I declared. “That fellow’s a thief—a friend of Miller’s.”

“Of Miller’s!” he cried, in his turn surprised. “Is he really one of the gang?”

“Certainly he is. Moreover, I happened to be present when he robbed an American in a hotel at Nervi, near Genoa, and if I said a word to the police he’d ‘do time,’ depend upon it.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because just at the present time it doesn’t suit my purpose,” was my reply. “I want first to find out the reason of his visit here.”

“Wants to establish the death of the fugitive, I suppose. He certainly, however, got nothing out of me. You know me too well, and can trust me not to give away anything that’s a secret.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. He came here alone, but Miss Gilbert says that a lady was waiting for him in a hansom a few doors along the road—a young lady, she thinks.”

Was it my Ella, I wondered? If so, she might be in London staying with her aunt, as she so frequently did in the old days.

“How long ago did all this occur?” I asked.

“On Saturday—that would be four days ago. He came about five in the afternoon. When Miss Gilbert referred him to me he apparently resented it, believing that he could induce her to tell him all he wanted.”

“But even she doesn’t know that it was the notorious Nardini who died up stairs.”

“No, but I don’t fancy she’s such a ready liar as I am, old chap,” laughed Sammy. “He started the haw-haw attitude, and with me that don’t pay—as you know. I did the haw-haw likewise, and led him to believe that I was most delighted to be of any assistance to him in helping him to trace his friend.”

“His friend! Did he say that Nardini was his friend?”

“He didn’t mention his name. He only said that an intimate friend of his, an Italian from Rome, had, he knew, arrived in London and suddenly disappeared. He had prosecuted most diligent search, and having ascertained from the registrar of deaths that an Italian had died there he wondered whether it might not be his friend. Whereupon I at once described a man something like Father Christmas without his muff and holly, and at length he went away quite satisfied that the man who died upstairs was not the person he was in search of.”

“He didn’t say where he was living, or leave any address?”

“He wasn’t likely to if he’s one of Miller’s crowd,” my friend exclaimed. “But I wonder what’s in the wind? He has some distinct object in establishing Nardini’s death.”

“Probably fears some revelation which the fugitive might make if he had fallen into the hands of the police,” I suggested. “The ex-Minister wasn’t a very bright specimen himself from all accounts and from those papers we discovered. He was a blackmailer and a brute, as well as an embezzler.”

“Well,” declared Sammy, “if you really have direct evidence against this fellow Gordon-Wright, I should just tell the truth at Scotland Yard. I’d dearly love to see Miller in the dock, too, for if any one deserves to pick oakum for a few years, he does. But he’s such a cunning knave, and passes so well as a gentleman, that nobody ever suspects.”

“They say he’s dined and slept at half the best country-houses in Dorsetshire and Devonshire, and I believe he’s going to hunt from Market Harborough this coming season.”

“The deuce he is! What infernal audacity! I feel myself like denouncing him.”

“Better not—at least at present, my dear fellow. Besides—for his daughter’s sake.”

“Daughter be hanged! She’s as bad as her father, every bit.”

“No, I disagree with you there,” I protested. “The girl is innocent of it all. She believes implicitly in her father, but beyond that she is in some deadly fear—of what I can’t yet make out.”

“Then you’ve seen her lately, eh?”

“Quite recently,” I replied, though I told him nothing of the exciting events of the past seven or eight days. The knowledge I had gathered I intended to keep to myself, at least for the present.

About four o’clock that afternoon I called upon Ella’s aunt, a widow named Tremayne, who lived in a comfortable house in Porchester Terrace. I was ceremoniously shown into the drawing-room by the grey-headed old butler, and presently Mrs Tremayne, an angular old person in a cap with yellow ribbons, appeared, staring at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles and carrying my card in her hand.

I had met her on one occasion only, in the days when Ella and I used to meet in secret in those squares about Bayswater, and I saw that she did not recollect me.

“I have called,” I said, “to ask if you can tell me whether your brother, Mr Murray, is in London. I heard that he and Miss Ella have gone back to Wichenford, but I think that they may possibly be in town just now. I have only to-day returned from abroad, and do not want to journey down to Worcestershire if they are in London.”

She regarded me for a few moments with a puzzled air, then said in a hard, haughty voice: “Your name is somehow familiar to me. Am I right in thinking that you were the Mr Leaf whom my niece knew two or three years ago?”

“I am,” I replied. “I have met Miss Murray again, and our friendship has been resumed.”

“Then if that is so, sir,” replied the old lady, glaring at me, “I have no information whatever to give you concerning her. I wish you good-afternoon.” And the sour old lady touched the bell.

“Well, madam,” I said, in rising anger, “I believed that I was calling upon a lady, but it seems that I am mistaken. I fail to see any reason for this treatment. You surely can tell me if your brother is in town?”

“I refuse to say anything. My brother’s affairs are no concern of mine, neither are yours. There was quite sufficient unpleasantness on the last occasion when you were running after Ella. It seems you intend to resume your tactics.”

“On the contrary, I hear that your niece is engaged to be married to a gentleman named Gordon-Wright.”

“That is so,” she answered, thawing slightly and readjusting her glasses. “They are to be married very soon, I believe. The wedding was fixed for Thursday week, but it has been postponed for a short time. My brother is much gratified at the engagement. Mr Gordon-Wright is such a nice gentleman, and just fitted to be her husband. He dined here a week ago, but has now gone abroad.”

“And you found him charming?” I asked, though I fear that my voice betrayed my sarcasm.

“Most charming. They appear to be an extremely happy couple.”

“And because you think I have an intention to come between them, Mrs Tremayne, you refuse to answer a simple question!”

“I am not bound to answer any question put to me by a stranger,” was her haughty reply.

“Neither am I bound to return civility for incivility,” I said. “I congratulate this Mr Gordon-Wright upon his choice, and at the same time will say that when we meet again, madam, you will perhaps be a trifle less insulting.”

“Perhaps,” she said; and as the butler was standing at the open door I was compelled to bow coldly and follow him out.

As he opened the front door I halted a moment and said, as though I had forgotten to make inquiry of his mistress:—

“Miss Ella is staying here—is she not?”

“Yes, sir,” was the man’s prompt reply. “She came up from the country yesterday.”

I thanked the man, descended the steps, and walked along Porchester Terrace wondering how best to act. Of love there is very little in the world, but many things take its likeness.

I must see my love at all costs. She had continued to postpone her marriage so as to allow me time to unmask her enemy and free her from the peril which threatened.

Gordon-Wright was abroad. Therefore a secret meeting with Ella was all the easier. Yes, I would keep watch upon that house, as I had done in the days long ago, and see if I could not meet her and make an appointment. To write to her would be unwise. It was best that I should see her and reassure her.

Therefore through all the remainder of the afternoon I waited about in the vicinity, but in vain. Even if she went out to dine, or to the theatre, she certainly would return to her aunt’s to dress, and, sure enough, just before seven, she came along in a hansom in the direction of the Park.

I was about to raise my hat as my dear one passed, when I suddenly discovered that she was not alone. By her side, elegant in silk hat and frock-coat, sat the clean-shaven man who held her enthralled.

He was therefore not abroad, as the snappy old woman had said.

I turned my face quickly to the wall, so that neither should recognise me, and passed on.

For three days in succession I kept almost constant watch along that wide-open thoroughfare. Several times I saw Mr Murray, but hesitated to come forward and greet him. Mrs Tremayne drove out each afternoon in her heavy old landau and pair, but curiously enough I saw nothing further either of Ella or of the man to whom she was betrothed.

The hours of that vigil were never-ending. I wanted my dear one to know that I was awaiting her. Time after time I passed the house in the hope that she would recognise me from the window, but never once did I catch sight of her.

One afternoon I received a telegram from Miller asking me to call at the hotel. I did not know that they were still in London. On arrival I found him with Lucie. There was another caller, a middle-aged American named George Himes, who appeared to be an intimate friend. After some conversation we all four went out together, and subsequently Mr Himes, who seemed a very amusing type of shrewd New Yorker, invited all of us to his rooms to dinner—to take pot-luck, as he called it.

At first I declined, feeling myself an interloper. Miller’s friends were such a mixed lot that one never knew whether they were thieves, like himself, or gentlemen. Himes appeared to be a gentleman. Therefore on being pressed to join the party I consented, and later on we drove to a cosy little flat at Hyde Park Gate, where we dined most excellently, Lucie joining us when we smoked our cigars.

Himes, a rather stout rosy-faced man, seemed a particularly pleasant companion and full of a keen sense of humour, therefore the evening passed quite merrily. Miller and he were old friends, I gathered, and had not met for quite a long time.

“You won’t go for a minute or two, Mr Leaf,” he said, when, soon after eleven o’clock, Miller drained his glass and with Lucie rose to leave. “You’ll get home to Shepherd’s Bush quickly from here.” And thus persuaded, I remained and joined him in a final glass of whisky and soda.

We were alone in the pretty little smoking-room, lounging in the long low cane chairs. My host was lazily blowing rings of smoke towards the ceiling and remarking what a very excellent fellow Miller was, when I raised my whisky to my lips and took a gulp. It tasted curious, yet I did not like to spit it out or to make any remark.

My host, I noticed, had his eyes fixed strangely upon me, as though watching my countenance.

In an instant I grew alarmed. His face had changed. Its good-humour had given place to an expression of hatred and triumph.

At the same moment I felt a strange sensation of nausea creeping over me, a chill feeling ran down my spine, while my throat contracted, and my limbs became suddenly paralysed.

“You scoundrel!” I cried, staggering to my feet and facing him. “I know now! You’ve poisoned me—you devil!”

“Yes,” he laughed, with perfect sangfroid. “You are one of Jimmy Miller’s crowd, and one by one I shall exterminate the lot of you! I owe this to you!”

I swayed forward as I drew my revolver to defend myself, but next instant he had wrenched it from my nerveless grasp.

I saw his grinning exultant face in mine. There was the fire of murder in his eyes.

Then I sank to the floor and knew no more. He had mistaken me for one of Miller’s accomplices, and I was helpless in his revengeful hands.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Two Mysteries.

My first recollections were of endeavouring to see through a blood-red cloud that hid everything from my distorted vision.

The pains in my head and through my spine were excruciating, while my throat burned as though it had been skinned by molten lead poured down it. I tried to speak, but my tongue refused to move. I could articulate no sound.

I felt the presence of persons about me, people who moved and spoke softly as though in fear of awaking me. My eyes were, I believe, wide-open, and yet I could not see.

Some liquid was forced between my teeth by an unseen hand, and I drank it eagerly, for it was deliciously cold and refreshing.

Then I fell asleep again, and I believe I must have remained unconscious for a long time.

When at last I opened my eyes, I found myself in a narrow, hospital bed. A row of men in other beds were before me, and a nurse in uniform was approaching from the opposite side of the ward.

I turned my head, and saw that a rather plain-faced nurse was seated beside me, holding my hand, her finger, I believe, upon my pulse, while on the opposite side sat a bald-headed man in uniform—a police constable.

“Where am I?” I managed to ask the nurse.

“In St. George’s Hospital, and you may congratulate yourself that you’ve had a very narrow escape. Whatever made you do such a thing?”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Take poison.”

“Take poison? What do you mean?”

“Well, sir,” exclaimed the constable, in a not unkind tone, “I found you the night before last on a seat in Kensington Gardens. There was this empty bottle beside you,” and he held up a small dark blue phial.

“Then you think that I attempted suicide!” I exclaimed, amazed.

“I didn’t think you’d only attempted it—I believed you’d done the trick,” was the man’s reply. “You’ve got the ’orspitel people to thank for bringing you round. At first they thought you a dead ’un.”

“And I do thank them,” I said. “And you also, constable. I suppose, however, I’m in custody for attempted suicide, eh?”

“That’s about it, sir. At least that’s why I’m on duty ’ere!”

“Well,” I exclaimed, smiling, “I wonder if you’d like me to make a statement to your inspector. I could tell him something that would interest him.”

“Not now, not now,” protested the nurse. “You’re not strong enough. Go to sleep again. You’ll be better this evening.”

“Well, will you ask the inspector to come and see me this evening?” I urged.

“All right, sir. I’ll see ’im when I go off duty, and tell ’im what you say.”

Then the nurse shook a warning finger at me, and gave me a draught, after which I fell again into a kind of dreamy stupor.

It was evening when I awoke, and I found a grey-bearded inspector at my bedside.

“Well?” he said gruffly. “You want to see me—to say something? What is it?”

“I want to tell you the truth,” I said.

“Oh! yes, you all want to do that. You go and make a fool of yourself, and then try and get out of it without going before the magistrate,” was his reply.

“I have not made a fool of myself,” I declared. “A deliberate attempt was made upon my life by an American named George Himes, who had a flat at Hyde Park Gate. I never went into Kensington Gardens. I must have been taken there.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, rather dubiously. “Do you know what you’re saying? Just tell me your story again.”

I repeated it word for word, adding that I dined at the American’s flat with my friend James Harding Miller and his daughter, who were staying at the Buckingham Palace Hotel.

“I want to see Miss Miller. Will you send word to her that I am here?”

“You say then that she and her father can testify that you dined at Hyde Park Gate. Can they also testify that you were given poison?”

“No. They left previous to Himes giving me the whisky.”

“And why did he do it?”

“I think because he mistook me for another man.”

“Poisoned you accidentally, eh?” he said, in doubt.

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he answered, with some reluctance, “I’ll make inquiries of these people. What’s your name and address?”

I told him, and he wrote it down in his pocket-book. Then he left, and so weak was I that the exertions of speaking had exhausted me.

My one thought was of Ella. I cared nothing for myself, but was filled with chagrin that just at the moment when I ought to be active in rescuing her from the trap into which she had fallen I had been reduced to impotence. Through the whole night I lay awake thinking of her. Twice we were disturbed by the police bringing in “accidents,” and then towards morning, tired out, I at length fell asleep.

My weakness was amazing. I could hardly lift my hand from the coverlet, while my brain was muddled so that all my recollections were hazy.

I was, of course, still in custody, for beside my bed a young constable dozed in his chair, his hands clasped before him and his tunic unloosened at the collar. Just, however, before I dropped off to sleep another constable stole in on tiptoe and called him outside. Whether he came back I don’t know, for I dozed off and did not wake again until the nurse came to take my temperature, and I found it was morning.

I was surprised to see that the constable was no longer there, but supposed that he had gone outside into the corridor to gossip, as he very often did.

At eleven o’clock, however, the inspector came along the ward, followed by two men in plain-clothes, evidently detectives.

“Well,” he commenced, “I’ve made some inquiries, and I must apologise, sir, for doubting your word. Still suicides tell us such strange tales that we grow to disbelieve anything they say. You notice that you’re no longer in custody. I withdrew the man at five this morning as soon as I had ascertained the facts.”

“Have you found that fellow Himes?”

“We haven’t been to look for him yet,” was the inspector’s reply. “But—” And he hesitated.

“But what?” I asked.

“Well, sir, I hardly think you are in a fit state to hear what I think I ought to tell you.”

“Yes. Tell me—tell me everything.”

“Well, I’ll do so if you promise to remain quite calm—if you assure me that you can bear to hear a very extraordinary piece of news.”

“Yes, yes,” I cried impatiently. “What is it? Whom does it concern?”

He hesitated a moment, looking straight into my eyes. “Then I regret to have to give you sad news, concerning your friend.”

“Which friend?”

“Mr Miller. He is dead.”

“Miller dead!” I gasped, starting up in bed and staring at him.

“He died apparently from the effects of something which he partook of at the house of this American.”

“And Lucie, his daughter?”

“She is well, though prostrated by grief. I have seen and questioned her,” was his answer. “She is greatly distressed to hear that you were here.”

“Did you give her my message?”

“Yes. She has promised to come and see you this afternoon. I would not allow her to come before,” the inspector said. “From her statement, it seems that on leaving the house in Hyde Park Gate she and her father walked along Kensington Gore to the cab-rank outside the Albert Hall, and entering a hansom told the man to drive to the Buckingham Palace Hotel. Ten minutes later, when outside the Knightsbridge Barracks, Mr Miller complained of feeling very unwell, and attributed it to something he had eaten not being quite fresh. He told his daughter that he had a strange sensation down his spine, and that in his jaws were tetanic convulsions. She grew alarmed, but he declared that when he reached the hotel he would call a doctor. Five minutes later, however, he was in terrible agony, and the young lady ordered the cab to stop at the next chemist’s. They pulled up before the one close to the corner of Sloane Street, but the gentleman was then in a state of collapse and unable to descend. The chemist saw the gravity of the case and told the man to drive on here—to this hospital. He accompanied the sufferer, who, before his arrival here, had breathed his last. The body was therefore taken to the mortuary, where a post-mortem was held this morning. I’ve just left the doctor’s. They say that he has died of some neurotic poison, in all probability the akazza bean, a poison whose reactions must resemble those of strychnia—in all probability the same as was administered to you.”

“Poor Miller!” I exclaimed, for even though he were a thief he possessed certain good qualities, and was always chivalrous where women were concerned. “Could nothing be done to save him?”

“All was done that could possibly be done. The chemist at Knightsbridge gave him all he could to resuscitate him, but without avail. He had taken such a large dose that he was beyond human aid from the very first. The doctors are only surprised that he could walk so far before feeling the effects of the poison.”

“It was a vendetta—a fierce and terrible revenge,” I said, in wonder who that man Himes might be. That he owed a grudge against Miller and his accomplices was plain, but for what reason was a mystery.

“A vendetta!” exclaimed one of the detectives who had been listening to our conversation. “For what?”

“The reason is an enigma,” I replied, with quick presence of mind. “When I accused him of poisoning me, he merely laughed and said he would serve all Miller’s friends in the same way. It was the more extraordinary, as I had not known the fellow more than four or five hours.”

“And you were not previously acquainted with him?” asked the detective.

“Never saw him before in my life,” I declared.

“Well, you’ve had a jolly narrow squeak of it,” the plain-clothes officer remarked. “Whatever he put into Miller’s drink was carefully measured to produce death within a certain period, while that given to you was perhaps not quite such a strong dose.”

“No. I only took one drink out of my glass. Miller, I remember, swallowed his at one gulp just before leaving. It was his final whisky, and Himes mixed them both with his own hand.”

“He had two objects, you see, in inducing you to stay behind, first to prevent you both being struck down together, and secondly he intended that it should appear that you had committed suicide. Miss Miller does not recollect the number of the house—do you?”

“No. I never saw the number, but would recognise it again. Besides, Hyde Park Gate is not a large place. You could soon discover the house.”

“He probably lived there under another name.”

“He had only recently come over from America, he told us,” I said.

“And in all probability is by this time on his way back there,” laughed the detective. “At any rate we’ll have a look about the neighbourhood of Hyde Park Gate and gather what interesting facts we can. We want him now on charges of wilful murder and of attempted murder.”

“How long will it be before I can get out?” I asked. “Well, the doctor last night said you’d probably be in here another fortnight, at the least.”

“A fortnight!” What might not happen to Ella in that time! Would Miller’s death change the current of events, I wondered?

For poor Lucie I felt a deep sympathy, for she had regarded her father as her dearest friend, and had, I think, never suspected the dishonest manner in which he made his income.

Himes was a clever scoundrel, without a doubt. He had thoroughly misled a shrewd, far-seeing man like Miller, as well as myself, by his suave manner and easy-going American bonhomie.

“And now you’d better rest again,” said the inspector to me. “Don’t worry over the affair any more to-day. Leave it to us. When we find this interesting American, who gives his friends poisoned whisky, we’ll let you know.”

I thanked all three, and they withdrew.

A moment later, however, the detective who had spoken returned to me, and leaning over the bed said in a low, confidential whisper so that none could hear:—

“The dead man—Mr Miller—he bore rather a bad reputation, didn’t he? Was a bit of a mystery, I mean? Now, tell me the truth.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, in feigned surprise.

“Well, you know what we mean when we say that,” he exclaimed, smiling. “I don’t know how intimate you were with him, but the fact is that the body’s been identified as that of a man we’ve wanted for a very long time. He was generally known as Milner, and lived on the Continent a good deal. The French police sent us his photograph and description nearly three years ago. This is it.” And he showed me in secret an unmounted police portrait taken in two positions, full face and side face.

“This surprises me,” I said. “Of course I’ve never had anything to do with his business. Indeed, although I knew his daughter well, I only knew him very slightly.”

“Oh, his daughter’s all right. We have no suspicion of her.”

“Then for her sake I hope you won’t reveal to her the truth concerning her father. If he is wanted she need never know. What use is it to revile the dead?”

“Of course not, Mr Leaf,” replied the officer. “I’ve got a daughter of her age myself, therefore if the truth can possibly be kept from her I’ll keep it. Rely on me. Now,” he added, lowering his voice, “tell me—did you ever suspect Miller of being a thief?”

“Well,” I said hesitatingly, “to tell you the truth I did. Not so much from his actions as from the friends he kept. Besides, a friend of mine once declared to me that he was a black sheep.”

“My dear sir, if our information is true, he was wanted upon twenty different charges, of fraud, forgery, theft, and other things. A report from Italy is that he was chief of a very dangerous international gang. Himes may have been one of his accomplices, and quarrelled with him. In fact that’s my present theory. But we shall see.”

“Remember your promise regarding Miss Lucie,” I urged.

“I’ll not forget, never fear,” was the detective’s answer, and he turned and rejoined the other at the end of the ward.

I had only admitted my suspicions in order to make friends with the officer, and in the hope of preventing him revealing the truth to poor Lucie.

About six o’clock that evening I opened my eyes and found my neat little friend, pale and tearful, standing by my bedside.

She tried to speak, but only burst into a flood of tears.

I took her hand and held it, while the nurse, realising the situation, placed a chair for her.

“You know the terrible blow that has fallen upon me!” she faltered, in a low voice. “My poor father!”

“They have told me,” I answered, in sympathy. “How can I sufficiently express my regret!”

She shook her head in sorrow, and her great dark eyes met mine.

“Blow after blow has fallen upon me,” she sighed. “This is the heaviest!”

“I know, Miss Lucie,” I said. “But you must bear up against the terrible misfortune. We were both victims of an ingenious blackguard. What did you know of the fellow? I was under the impression that he was your friend?”

“Friend!” she echoed. “He always pretended to be—and yet he killed my poor father in secret, and tried also to take your life.”

“He believed me to be a friend of your father’s,” I said, “He told me so when I accused him of having poisoned me—he said his intention was to kill all your father’s friends, one by one.”

“He said that!” she gasped. “He actually told you that!”

“Yes. He admitted that he had poisoned me, and laughed in my face,” I answered. “But who is he? Where did you know him?”

“He was once my father’s most intimate friend.”

And while she bent over my bed, her blanched, haggard face near mine as she spoke, another figure came between myself and the light.

I turned, and saw that it was my friend the detective, while Lucie also recognised and greeted him instantly.

“As I was passing, I thought I’d just drop in and tell you, feeling sure you’d be interested,” he said, addressing me; “the fact is that this afternoon we’ve made a most amazing discovery. Perhaps you will be able to throw some light upon it. At present it is a complete and profound mystery.”

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Needs some Explanation.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“Well,” said the officer, looking meaningly at me, “I would rather speak with you alone.”

“You mean that you want me to go away,” exclaimed Lucie quickly. “Have you discovered anything further regarding my poor father’s death?”

“No, miss. Unfortunately not. I want to consult Mr Leaf in private—only for a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” she said; and, rising, passed along the ward and out into the corridor.

“Well?” I inquired. “What is it?”

“Something that closely concerns yourself, Mr Leaf,” he said, with a curious expression upon his face. “Perhaps you will explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“The reason the Italian people have sent an agent over here to apply for your arrest and extradition upon the charge of murdering a police officer in a villa at Tivoli, near Rome.”

“They’ve done that!” I gasped, recollecting, however, that I had showed my revolver licence to the carabineer, and therefore they knew my proper name and description.

“Yes. And there is a second point which requires clearing up,” he said, rather severely. “You told me that you were only slightly acquainted with this man Miller, whereas it has been established by the Italian police that he was at that villa with you.”

“How established?”

“It appears, as far as we can gather from the police agent sent from Rome, that a young man of very bad character was seen in the vicinity of the villa on the night of the affair, and was afterwards arrested in Rome. He gave the description of one of his accomplices, an Englishman, and it proves to have been the man Miller, whom the Italian police, like ourselves, have wanted for a long time. So you see what a serious charge there is against you.”

“I quite see it,” I answered, utterly amazed that I should find such an allegation against me, after I had congratulated myself upon my clever escape.

“The Italian police ask for the arrest of both yourself and Miller.”

“Well, they won’t arrest him, at any rate,” I said. “And I doubt whether they will arrest me when I tell the whole story. You say they have made only one arrest in Rome?” I added.

“Only one.”

Then Dr Gavazzi was still at liberty. He had decamped and was in some place of safety with those packets of bank-notes with which his pockets had bulged.

It certainly seemed as though I was to be placed under arrest a second time. Formal application had been made to Scotland Yard, and the fact that I had admitted acquaintance with Miller, a known thief, did not allow them any alternative but to obey.

The detective told me that, whereupon I asked to speak with the Italian Agent.

“I’ll bring him to you in an hour’s time, or so,” was the inspector’s answer, and when he had gone Lucie returned to my side.

“You are upset, Mr Leaf. What has he discovered? Anything startling?”

“No,” was my response. “Only a fact that surprises me. Really nothing which has any important bearing upon the affair. Ah!” I sighed, “how I long to be strong enough to leave this place and to see Ella. Will you endeavour to see her? Tell her I am here. I must see her—must, you understand.”

“I’ll go straight to Porchester Terrace,” she promised. “But if you see that man Gordon-Wright say nothing. Do not mention me, remember.”

“I quite understand.” And as the nurse approached, Lucie took my hand, bending for a moment over my bed, and then left me.

An hour later my friend the detective was again at my bedside, accompanied by a short, thick-set, black-bearded little man, typically Italian.

“I hear you have been sent to England to effect my arrest,” I exclaimed in his own language.

“That is so, signore, though I much regret it.”

“You need not regret. You are only doing your duty,” I said. “But I merely wish to assure you that I have no intention of trying to escape you. In fact, I couldn’t walk the length of this room at present to save my life. I’m too weak. But before you place a constable on duty here, I would ask you one favour.”

“What is that?”

“To convey a letter for me to the secretary at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor Square. He will give you instructions regarding me.”

“Then you are known at the Embassy!” the police agent exclaimed, in surprise.

“I think you will find that I am.”

The nurse brought a pen, ink and a sheet of paper, upon which after great difficulty I wrote a note recalling my confidential visit regarding Nardini’s death, and explaining that the police were in error in thinking that I had any hand in the death of the guardian of the Villa Verde. I had been at the villa, I admitted, but out of curiosity, as I had watched the action of Miller and his companions. If any one were sent to me from the Embassy, I said, I would make a confidential statement.

When I had sealed the letter, the police agent took it, and next morning I received a call from the official with whom I had had a chat on the occasion of my visit to the Embassy. To him I explained the whole circumstances in strictest confidence, and described the secret hiding-place in the dead man’s library where were concealed a number of official papers that were evidently of great importance.

He heard me to the end, and afterwards reassured me by saying:—

“We have already given the police commissario instructions not to take any further steps against you, Mr Leaf. We quite accept your explanation, and at the same time thank you for this further information you are able to give us. A search shall be made at the spot you indicate.”

And then I took a piece of paper and pencil, and drew a plan of the concealed cupboard and how to open the panel.

Shortly after the Embassy official had left the police agent again visited me, presented his apologies for having disturbed me, and then throughout the day I remained alone with my own apprehensive thoughts regarding Ella.

She was prevented from coming to me on account of that man in whom she went in such deadly terror. Nothing had yet got into the papers concerning the dastardly attempt upon me, for the police had been very careful to keep it from those inquisitive gentlemen-of-the-press who called at the hospital every few hours to gather news of the latest accidents or tragedies. But if Lucie had told her I knew how alarmed and anxious she would be. She loved me—ah, yes, she loved me. Of that I felt confident.

Yet would she ever be mine? Was it the end—the end of all? Was the old sweet life of that summer beside the sea dead and gone for evermore? Should I never see a red rose, her favourite flower, bloom upon its bush without this sickness of soul upon me? Should I never smell the salt of the sea, or drink the cornfields’ breaths on a moonlit night without this madness of memory that is worse than all death?

Was she lost to me—lost to me for ever?

I forgot that the inquest upon Miller was to be held that afternoon, and that Lucie was the principal witness. The Coroner, a sharp-featured, grey-bearded man, came to my bedside, and with a clerk and the foreman of the jury, put me upon oath and took my evidence—evidence to the effect that I had dined in company with the deceased at the American’s flat. I explained how our host had mixed those final drinks—draughts that he intended should be fatal.

Then when I had concluded by declaring that I had no previous knowledge of Himes, the Coroner made me sign the statement, and returned to where the jury awaited him.

The Coroner’s officer, a police-sergeant in uniform, told me that they were taking precautions to keep the affair out of the papers, as they feared that the publication of the evidence might defeat their efforts to trace Himes.

Shortly after five o’clock Lucie came again, looking pale and agitated after the ordeal of giving evidence. A verdict of “death from poison wilfully administered” had been returned.

The Coroner and jury had questioned her closely regarding her father’s mode of life and his recent movements. Of the latter she was, of course, unaware. She only knew that he had been called unexpectedly to Rome, and had returned direct to England. Of the reason of his flying visit to Italy she was entirely unaware. He seldom, she said, ever told her about his own affairs, being naturally a close man regarding everything that concerned himself.

“They asked me about the man Himes,” she said, as she sat by my bedside, “and I was compelled to tell them how he had once been poor dad’s most intimate friend.”

“Did he ever meet Ella, do you think?” I asked suddenly.

“Never to my knowledge. Why?”

“I was only wondering—that’s all. Perhaps he knew Gordon-Wright.”

“I believe he did. They met one night when we were living in rooms at Fulham, if I recollect aright, and about six months later they went for a holiday together in Germany.”

“Did you ever meet that Italian doctor Gennaro Gavazzi who lived in Rome?”

She looked at me with a quick suspicion that she was unable to disguise.

“Why do you ask that?” she inquired, without reply to my question.

“Because he was a friend of your father’s. You told me so. I once knew him slightly,” I added, in order to reassure her.

“And you didn’t know much good concerning him, eh?” she asked, looking at me apprehensively.

“He was private secretary to Nardini, I believe, was he not?”

“Yes, and his factotum. He did all his dirty work—a scoundrel of the very first water.”

“And yet your father was very friendly with him. He has been staying in Rome with him.”

“I believe he did. But I could never discover why poor dad was so fond of that man’s society. To me, it was always a mystery.” And then she went on, in a low, broken voice, to describe to me all that had occurred at the inquest.

“There was a short, dark-bearded Italian present who asked me quite a number of questions regarding poor old dad. I wonder who he was.”

“One of your father’s Italian friends most probably,” I said, reassuring her, for I did not wish her to learn that the man was a police agent from Rome seeking to establish the dead man’s identity. “But,” I added, suddenly changing the subject because she had grown despairing, “you have told me nothing of Ella. Did you go to Porchester Terrace last night, as you promised?”

“I did, but she has left London with her father. She returned to Wichenford the day before yesterday.”

“Gone! And where is Gordon-Wright?”

“All I’ve been able to find out is that he is absent from London. I called myself at his rooms in Half Moon Street, and his man told me that he was out of town—on the Continent, he believes, but is not certain.”

“Or he may be with my love,” I remarked bitterly, clenching my hands in my fierce antagonism. For me nothing lived or breathed save one life, that of my love; for her alone the sun shone and set.

The days dragged wearily by, for I was still kept in the hospital. The shock my system had suffered had been a terrible one, and according to the doctors it had been little short of a miracle that my life had been saved.

The funeral of Mr Miller, attended by his sister and three other friends, had taken place, and Lucie had accompanied her aunt back to Studland, taking with her all the dead man’s effects.

She had said nothing about the large sum in Italian bank-notes that must have been in his possession, and this somewhat puzzled me. The proceeds of the great theft at the Villa Verde must be concealed somewhere—but where?

As soon as I was able to travel I went down to Worcester, and hiring a dogcart drove out six miles along the Tenbury Road through a picturesque and fertile country glorious in its autumn gold, when of a sudden the groom raised his whip, and pointing to the left across the hedgerow to a church spire on rising ground in the distance said:—

“That’s Wichenford yonder, sir. The Place is a mile and a half farther on.”

I had never been to Ella’s home, and was wondering what kind of house it was.

At about two miles along a road to the left we came to fine lodge-gates that swung open to allow us to pass, and then driving up a long beech avenue there suddenly came into view a splendid old Tudor mansion of grey stone half covered with ivy. It had no doubt gone through some changes in modern times, but the older parts, including the Great Hall and the Tapestry Gallery, certainly were of pure Tudor structure. To me it seemed probable that the original purpose was to erect a manor house of the E form, so common in Tudor times; but if that was the intention it was never carried out, for only one block with the central projection had been completed, and the house must have taken its present form about the time of Charles the First, when two wings had been added in the rear of the then existing building.

In any case I had no idea that Wichenford Place, the home of the Worcestershire Murrays for the past three centuries, was such a magnificent old mansion.

The great oak door was open, therefore, after ringing the bell, I passed through the porch, entered the hall and glanced around, finding it most quaint and interesting, and full of splendid old furniture. Its high flat ceiling was of large size and excellent proportions, the panelling was of oak, rich in character and colouring, with beautiful carving along the top in many places. The fireplace I noticed had fluted pilasters of an early type and a mantel surmounted by arches of wood finely carved with caryatid figures supporting the frieze. The ancient fire-back bore the date 1588, while in the old armorial glass of the long windows could be seen the rose of the Tudors with the Garter and the shield of the Murrays emblazoned with various quarterings. It was a delightful old home, typically English.

Above the panelling hung many time-mellowed old family portraits, while at the far end a fine old long clock in marquetrie case ticked solemnly, and the door was guarded by the figure of a man armed cap-à-pie.

A clean-shaven man-servant in livery came along the hall towards me, and I inquired for Mr Murray.

“Not at home, sir,” was his prompt answer.

“Miss Ella?”

“What name, sir?”

I gave the man a card, and he disappeared through another door.

Three minutes later I heard a bright voice calling me:—

“Godfrey! Is it actually you!” And looking up, I saw my well-beloved standing upon the oak minstrels’ gallery, fresh and sweet in a white serge gown, and little changed from those old well-remembered days when we had met and wandered together beside the sea. Ah! how my heart leapt at sight of her.

She ran swiftly down the stairs, and next moment I held both her soft hands in mine and was looking into those beautiful blue eyes that for years had been ever before me in my day-dreams. Assuredly no woman on earth was fairer than she! Love does not come at will; and of goodness it is not born, nor of gratitude, nor of any right or reason on the earth.

“Fancy!” she cried. “Fancy your coming here. But why have you come?” she asked anxiously. “You don’t know in what peril your presence here places me.”

“Have you seen Lucie?” I asked.

“Not since she went to Italy. Has she returned?”

“Yes. I am here in order to tell you something.”

“Then let’s go into the garden. My father has gone in the car to Bewdley.” And she led me through the old stone-paved corridor and across the quiet ancient courtyard and out into a beautiful rose-garden where the high box-hedges were clipped into fantastic shapes, and the roses climbed everywhere upon their arches.

“What a delightful place!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea that Wichenford was like this.”

“Hadn’t you?” she laughed. Then sighing, she added: “Yes. I love it just as much as dear old dad does. Let us sit here.” And she sank upon an old seat of carved stone, grey and lichen-covered. It was in a spot where we were hidden by the foliage, yet before us spread the beautiful gardens with the long terrace, and beyond the broad undulating park with the great old oaks in all their autumn glory.

There in the quiet tranquillity, the silence only broken by the song of the birds, I briefly told my love of the attempt made upon my life and of the death of Lucie’s father—a story which held her speechless in amazement.

We sat there hand in hand.

“I had no idea that you were ill, otherwise I should have, of course, gone at once to see you,” she said, with the old love-looking in her dear eyes as she looked at me.

“Ah! I knew you would, my darling!” I cried, raising her hand to my lips. “I dare not write for fear that my letter might fall into that man’s hands. I called upon your aunt, and she told me that you are to be married shortly. Is that really so?” I asked huskily.

“Alas! Godfrey, it is,” she murmured. “I have tried and struggled and schemed, but I cannot escape. Ah! if my father only knew the truth concerning him! But I am compelled to wear a mask always—always. It is horrible!” And she covered her face with her hands.

“Yes, horrible!” I echoed. “Why don’t you let me stand before that thief and accuse him?”

“And reveal my secret to my father. Never—never! I would die rather than he should know.” And her face grew pale and hard, and her small hand trembling in mine.

“Ella!” I cried, kissing her passionately on her cold white lips. “How can I save you? How can I gain you for my own? This awful suspense is killing me.”

“Godfrey,” she answered, in a low, distinct voice, “we can never be man and wife—impossible, why therefore let us discuss it further? We love each other with a fond true love, it is true, fonder than man and woman ever loved before, yet both of us are longing for the unattainable,” she sighed. “My future, alas! is not in my own hands.”

“Ah! yes!” I cried in despair. “I see it all! Your fear prevents you from allowing me to unmask this man—you fear that your father should learn your secret!”

“I fear that you, too, should learn it—that instead of loving me,” she said, with a wild look in her splendid eyes, “you would hate me!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Tells the Truth.

In the rich glow of the autumn evening we sat together for some time, our hearts too full of grief for words. The future of both of us was filled with blank despair. My presence there brought back to her all the sweet recollections of those long-past days when she was free, and when to save her father from ruin she had so nobly sacrificed her love.

Presently the whirr of the motor-car announced Mr Murray’s return, and rising we went into the house to greet him. He welcomed me, but none too warmly I noticed. Probably he did not approve of my calling upon Ella now that she was engaged to marry the man who had so firmly established himself in his confidence.

Nevertheless, he asked me to remain to dinner, which I did gladly. He was a slow-speaking gentlemanly man, dark-eyed and dark-bearded, whom I had always liked.

From him I learned that Ella’s marriage was to take place in the village church of Wichenford in the first week in October, and that the honeymoon was to be spent in St. Petersburg. His words cut me like a knife.

“Gordon-Wright is down at his country place just now,” he remarked an hour later, as we all three sat at table in the great old panelled dining-room with the wax candles burning in the antique Sheffield candelabra. “We go to town next week, and he meets us there. He’s a good fellow. Do you know him?”

“I met him quite casually once,” I replied, glancing across at my well-beloved who had now exchanged her white dress for a black lace dinner gown, in the corsage of which was a single red rose—her favourite flower.

Ah! as I looked at her my heart was aflame. I loved her better than my life. Alas! She could never now be mine—never.

I left early and drove back to Worcester through the pelting rain—with her rose that she had slipped into my hand at parting, a silent pledge that spoke volumes to me.

“Good-bye, dear heart!” she whispered. “We shall perhaps meet again in London.”

“Yes,” I said earnestly. “We must meet once again before your marriage. Promise me you will—promise?”

“I’ll try. But you know how very difficult it is to see you when I’m at Porchester Terrace. Aunt Henrietta is such an impossible person.”

“You must,” I whispered. And I would have clasped her to my heart and kissed her in adieu had not the statuesque man-servant stood by to hand me the mackintosh which Murray had lent me.

“Adieu!” she said again, and then touching her hand I mounted into the cart and went forth into the rain and darkness—into the night that was so like my own life.

After my return to Shepherd’s Bush ten weary days passed—each day bringing my love nearer that odious union. One morning I received an unexpected note from Lucie Miller, saying that she and her aunt were in London again, at the Hotel Russell, in order to see her late father’s lawyers.

I called and left a card, for they were out.

Next day, just as I rose from Mrs Gilbert’s luncheon table and was about to enjoy a pipe in Sammy’s den—he being away at the club—visitors were announced.

It was Lucie, flushed and agitated, and with her was Ella, who, the instant the door of the little sitting-room was closed, fell upon my neck, and without a word burst into a passion of tears.

“What does this mean?” I asked of Lucie, utterly taken aback.

“This will explain it.” And she drew out a green evening newspaper, one of those editions published at eleven o’clock in the morning. “Read for yourself,” she added, pointing to a bold headline.

I swiftly scanned the lines, and stood staring at them both.

What was printed there was utterly bewildering. I held my breath. Could it actually be true?

I cried aloud for joy, and pressing my love to my breast covered her pale sweet face with passionate kisses.

“Is this a fact?” I cried. “Is it really true?”

“Yes,” answered Lucie. “I have been to Half Moon Street myself and made inquiries. Mr Gordon-Wright, it appears, returned home late last night after supper at the Savoy. He must have met some friends afterwards, for the hall-porter says he did not return till nearly two o’clock, and then seemed dazed and incoherent in his speech. He frequently saw gentlemen like that, and therefore pretended to take no notice. At eight o’clock this morning, when his valet took him his early tea, he found him half-dressed doubled up on the bed quite dead. Death from poisoning, the doctor has declared. To us the truth is quite plain. He is another victim of Himes’ terrible revenge!”

“And you, my darling, are free—actually free!” I cried, again kissing my dear heart’s face and beside myself with an unexpected joy.

Himes was evidently keeping his vow to exterminate all Miller’s friends—for what reason, however, was still an enigma.

The situation now became utterly bewildering. In an instant I recognised the exact position. My well-beloved was not so enthusiastic as myself. She seemed terrified at the man’s terribly sudden end, and at the same time she held herself aloof from me. She held a secret, one which, as she had frankly told me, she would never divulge—not even to me. How could there be perfect love without perfect confidence? Again another difficulty was presented.

“I saw the report upon the posters in the streets, bought a paper, and learnt the truth,” explained Lucie. “I then took a cab at once to Porchester Terrace in search of Ella, and brought her straight here to you.”

“The fellow has got his deserts,” I said, in triumph. “He richly deserved such an ignominious end.”

“He supped with my father and myself at the Savoy last night, and drove home with us,” Ella said. “He left us about one o’clock, and promised to call and take me shopping in Bond Street at ten this morning, but never came.”

“And he will never trouble you more, darling,” I exclaimed, amazed that Himes should have acted with such daring so quickly after his terrible revenge upon Miller. It showed how unscrupulous and determined he was to carry out the threat that had escaped his lips. “You are mine at last—mine! mine!” I cried, pressing her again to me and covering her lips with kisses.

But she did not return my caresses. She only pushed me forcibly from her, saying huskily:—

“It is true that man is dead, Godfrey—that I have no further fear of him—that my secret is safe. But you must give me time to think, Godfrey.”

“Yes,” urged her friend. “You must allow her time. The news of the fellow’s sudden end has upset her. The release has been so sudden that she cannot yet realise it. Release has also come to me,” she added. “Ah! you do not know the truth, Mr Leaf—it is surely stranger than any fiction ever written.”

“And may I not know it?” I asked quickly. “Remember that you have taken me into your confidence up to a certain point. Is Ella aware of the truth?”

“I think not,” she faltered, with a hard expression on her face. “It is a disgraceful truth. Since my poor father’s death I have made certain startling discoveries that place matters in an entirely new light. I have been examining his private papers, and they have revealed to me facts which, so infamous, cause me to hide my face from you in shame. I—I am not fit to be your associate or friend of Ella,” she added, in a hoarse painful whisper. “I confess to you both, because you have been my friends. I confess everything, even the fact that I learnt only three days ago.”

“What’s that?” I inquired.

“That I am, after all, what the world calls an adventuress—the daughter of an international thief!” was her low answer, her chin sunk upon her breast in an attitude of shame. “My poor father, whom I adored, was only a thief!” and she burst into tears.

For some moments I was silent. The door opened behind us, and Sammy, who had returned, stood upon the threshold, surprised that I had visitors.

I motioned to him to enter and close the door. Then I said:—

“Mr Sampson is my friend; we can speak before him, Miss Miller. Were you entirely unaware of your father’s real profession?”

“I swear that I was. I had no idea of it until three days ago, when I discovered proof positive that he was in association with certain men who were expert thieves.”

“Then your association with the fugitive Nardini was in no way connected with your father’s dishonesty?” I asked. “You have just said that Gordon-Wright’s death has set you at liberty. Will you not now tell us the truth, so that all may be open and straightforward?”

She hesitated, and I saw that she naturally felt disinclined to condemn the man of whom she had all her life been so fond, and in whom she had so implicitly trusted. Many fathers act mysteriously in the eyes of their children. Mr Miller had ever been a mystery, and yet with filial affection she had never once suspected him of leading a double life.

“Yes,” urged Ella, “tell us all. Half an hour ago you told me that you are at last free—that the man who held me so entirely in his power also held you in his unscrupulous hands.”

Sammy said nothing. He had already condemned Lucie, and in his eyes she was but a mere adventuress.

“If I confess, Mr Leaf, I wonder if you and Ella will forgive me?” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice. “I assure you that I, like yourselves, have been merely a victim of circumstances.”

“Explain the truth,” I said, in a voice of sympathy, for I saw by the shame upon her countenance that she had been an innocent victim.

“Well,” she said, “it happened like this. We had been living at Enghien, outside Paris. The man I loved, Manuel Carrera, a young Chilian, had committed suicide because thieves had stolen a large sum of money of which he had accepted the responsibility, and I was broken-hearted and grief-stricken. We had left Paris and were in Brussels when the news reached me; therefore, when my father proposed that we should go on to Salsomaggiore, I welcomed the change. I never wished to place foot in Paris again. We had kept on the little apartment we had in Rome, where we usually spent the winter, but before going there we decided to take the cure. About a week after our arrival at the hotel at Salsomaggiore there came one of Italy’s best known statesmen, the Onorevole Giovanni Nardini, Minister of Justice, accompanied by his private secretary, a doctor named Gavazzi. My father—whom I have since discovered had obtained private information of Nardini’s shady financial transactions—at once cultivated his acquaintance, as well as that of Gavazzi, and while we were taking the cure we became quite intimate friends.

“On our return to Rome His Excellency often invited us to his fine house in the Via Vittorio Emanuele, and several times we went out to luncheon at the Villa Verde at Tivoli. Two years went by and each winter we saw a great deal of His Excellency. Last January a pretty fair-haired English girl named Alice Woodforde, niece of Gavazzi—she being daughter of Gavazzi’s sister who married a civil engineer in London named Woodforde—came out to Rome for the winter, and as Gavazzi was a bachelor we offered her the hospitality of our house. She was a delightful girl, about nine years older than myself, and we soon became inseparable.

“Before very long I discovered the true situation. Nardini had met and fallen violently in love with his secretary’s niece, while Gavazzi himself was contemplating that, by such a marriage, he himself would reap considerable benefit. Though much older than Alice, Nardini was a pleasant companion, and occupying as he did one of the highest positions in the kingdom, it was but natural that she should be flattered by his attentions. I, however, who had watched closely and heard certain facts from my father, knew well that the pleasant exterior only concealed a character that was cruel, dishonest, and utterly unscrupulous. The motive of my father’s friendship with Nardini was, I regret to admit it, no doubt a dishonest one, while he, on his part, with clever cunning intended eventually to make use of my father in certain blackmailing operations which he contemplated. There was no limit to Nardini’s ingenuity or power. Rich and poor alike knew him to be cruel and heartless. He somehow learnt the truth regarding my father, and desired to get me also into his power. There was no charge he could make against me, therefore he resorted to a fiendish conspiracy which was characteristic of the man.