William Le Queux (continued 6)

“Late one afternoon last April I was crossing the Piazza di Spagna in Rome when I was stopped by two police agents who asked me to accompany them to the Questura, where, to my speechless amazement, a cruel and wicked charge was made against me. I was accused of robbing a commercial traveller of Milan of a portfolio containing eighteen thousand francs! At first I laughed in the Commissary’s face, but when, an hour later, the Italian, a man whom I had never before seen in my life, was brought and identified me, I was stupefied. The charge was infamous. It was against my honour! The man, a loudly dressed person of Hebrew type, stated that on the previous evening he was in the Café Colonna and spoke to me. He afterwards invited me to dinner at Bordoni’s, in the Via Nazionale, and after we parted he found that his portfolio had been stolen. A waiter at Bordoni’s also identified me, and an agent of police also declared that I was known to them. The whole charge was false, and I stood speechless when I heard their disgraceful accusations. I had never been in either the Colonna or in Bordoni’s in all my life. Yet there was still something more extraordinary to follow. The detectives went to our apartments, and, having searched, found the empty portfolio concealed at the bottom of a drawer in my room. I saw at once that it was the work of some secret enemy. Yet who had done it was, to me, a complete enigma.

“I at once wrote a line of appeal to His Excellency explaining that the police had made a terrible mistake. At first he regretted that he could not assist me, but after a second appeal he sent a line to the Questore, or chief of police, giving me my liberty until my trial, which is to take place at the assizes next November. I at once went to Nardini and asked him to speak the truth—namely, that on the evening in question I was at the Villa Verde at Tivoli, where I had gone on a message to him from my father and had found him there alone. But he refused to make this statement, ostensibly because he did not wish the fact known that he had received a lady visitor alone, but in reality because he himself had trumped up the whole of the infamous charge against me.

“To my chagrin, also, I found that Lieutenant Shacklock—as Gordon-Wright was known in Rome—knew of the charge. He was an intimate friend of my father’s, but a man utterly without principle. I had to beg him not to tell my father. For Nardini, who had so many creatures in his pay, such an allegation was so very easy. As I afterwards established, the portfolio was placed in my drawer by a man who entered on pretence of examining the electric light. Nardini’s object was to hold me in his power, to compel me to do his bidding, and assist in certain schemes he was contemplating before his fall. Surely it was the gravest charge that could have been made against a woman. It touched my honour, and that is the reason why when he fled I followed post-haste here to beg of him to say the word which must put an end to the proceedings pending against me. But, although I was successful in tracing him here, alas! I was too late. He died without clearing my honour, and on the third of November the charge against me will be heard by the Tribunal. How, now, can I hope to escape an unjust condemnation?”

“Why didn’t you make this explanation before?” I asked. “I might have assisted you to clear yourself.”

“How could I while Gordon-Wright lived? He was present in our apartment when the police found the portfolio, and even though Nardini might have caused the accusation to have been withdrawn he would have still been a witness against me.”

“But you knew who and what he was?”

“Not at that time. I only knew that he was a great friend of my father’s and lived at the Grand Hotel. But in looking through my father’s private letters I have learned the ghastly truth—that he and Himes who were such constant visitors to our flat, both in Rome, Leghorn, or in fact anywhere where we took up our abode, were expert thieves working under my father’s directions. True, I held both of them in dislike, but I never dreamed that living apart, Shacklock at the Grand and Himes at the Quirinale, they were in such active accord.”

“Then this charge against you will be made in Rome in November?” Sammy said, addressing her for the first time.

“Yes,” she sighed despairingly. “I shall be condemned in my absence, for how can I now hope to prove that I am innocent—that I was not even in Rome on that evening?”

“Nardini was a blackguard!” Sammy cried. “If I had known that I’d have rung the truth out of him before he died—by Jove, I would! A man who plots against a woman’s honour like that is the worst cad conceivable.”

“Ah, yes!” cried the unhappy girl. “It is that—it is my honour that is at stake. The man alleges that he found me alone in a common café—and—and—”

She burst into tears.

I had listened to Lucie’s extraordinary statement like a man in a dream.

Ella tried to comfort her, but with very little avail. She had utterly broken down.

“I am surely the most unhappy of girls!” she sobbed. “They have killed my poor father, and now they will take from me my honour as a woman!” Then, after a pause, she added:—

“You remember what I told you regarding the woman Hardwick? Nardini knew of that scandal long ago in Pisa, when you accidentally met Ina’s married sister travelling, and were forced into the Divorce Court by her husband to give evidence against her. As Minister of Justice, he knew well all the secrets of hushed-up scandals, and often turned them to his own profit.”

“Miss Miller,” Sammy exclaimed, in a soft tone now full of sympathy for the poor suffering girl, “you mentioned just now the unfortunate death of my friend Manuel Carrera, in Paris. You recollect that I—”

“Manuel Carrera!” cried Ella, suddenly releasing Lucie and facing Sammy. “Was he your friend? Then let me also tell you the truth! Hear my confession, Godfrey, and then you shall judge me!”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Unites Two Hearts.

The revelations amazed me. I held my breath and faced her. There was a terrible eloquence in the silence of that room.

“Listen,” exclaimed my well-beloved, her pale, desperate, but beautiful countenance turned full towards me. “Listen, and I’ll tell you everything, just as it occurred.

“About three years ago, very soon after I parted from you on that memorable night in Bayswater, my father and I were staying at the Hotel Continental in Paris, and received a call from Mr Miller and Lucie. I was of course delighted to see my old schoolfellow again, but only once was your name mentioned—with regret—for I was already engaged to marry Mr Blumenthal. Mr Miller asked us down to his house at Enghien, and we went several times, generally finding there a young Chilian, Manuel Carrera, for a great affection had sprung up between Lucie and him. The young fellow chanced to be staying at the same hotel as ourselves in Paris, and sometimes we returned by the same train together. At Mr Miller’s we also met Himes, in whom I must say I was much mistaken. I believed him to be an American gentleman, but I now know that he was what is known as a ‘sharp.’ One night my father and I dined at the Villa du Lac, Carrera being also invited. He left rather early, for some reason or other, and when we went an hour or so later Lucie asked me to deliver to him a secret message which she had forgotten—a request that he would meet her at the Gare du Nord at eleven o’clock next morning, as she was going shopping and would be alone.

“On arrival at the hotel just after midnight, I saw my father into his room, and then slipped along to the farther end of the corridor and tapped at the young man’s door. There was no reply. Again I tapped, but without response. Then, intending to leave a note for him, I turned the handle and entered. Judge my horror when I saw him standing before the mirror in a frenzy of despair with a revolver in his hand. I dashed in, for I saw his intention was to commit suicide. I grasped his wrist and tried to wrench the weapon from his grasp. For several moments we struggled desperately, but, alas! he was the stronger, and with an imprecation he placed the barrel of the weapon in his mouth and fired. Ah! it was awful!

“I twisted the revolver from his hand, but, alas! too late. He fell to the floor in a helpless heap, and I stood dazed and horrified at the awful tragedy. A moment later I heard a movement behind me, and started to see a stranger standing there—an Englishman. He had closed the door behind him, and we were alone with the dead man. ‘I charge you with the murder of my friend,’ he said gravely. ‘I saw you fire. You did this out of jealousy. You met at Nice eighteen months ago. Manuel is the lover of the girl who lives at Enghien, and is your friend! I saw you together yesterday in the Rue Rivoli!’

“I fell back and stared at him utterly speechless. Then I protested that he had committed suicide, but he pointed out that I still held the revolver. ‘No,’ he added, ‘I saw you fire! I am witness that you murdered poor Manuel, who met you on the Riviera and fell violently in love with you.’ I asked the stranger if he really meant what he alleged, but he only smiled mysteriously and said:—‘As no one seems to have been awakened, perhaps it will save you much trouble if you place the revolver near the body and allow the authorities to believe in your theory of suicide. I am English, like yourself, and in our country no gentleman betrays a woman.’ ‘Then you withdraw this allegation?’ I asked. But he urged me to fly quickly, while there was time, and taking the weapon he placed it on the floor close to the dead man’s right hand. Because I allowed him to do this, I committed myself, and was lost. But at that moment I was so upset that I knew not what I did. I slipped out of the door and down the corridor, and from that instant I never saw the mysterious stranger again until—until about four months ago.”

“And who was he?” I asked eagerly. “What was his name?”

“He proved to be Gordon-Wright alias Lieutenant Shacklock, and many other names. He called upon me in Ireland and claimed acquaintance. Then, judge my astonishment when, a week later, he told me that I must marry him or he would denounce me to Lucie as the murderess of her lover!”

“The scoundrel!” I cried. “Then he actually held both of you enthralled?”

“Yes, Godfrey,” she exclaimed, in that soft sweet voice that always charmed me so. “It was true that I had previously met Manuel Carrera in Nice, but he certainly was never my lover, as he alleged. But now I have told you the truth you can easily see why I dare not speak while he lived, for he would have brought against me a cruel charge of jealous murder which he might easily have substantiated.”

Our eyes met, and her gaze wavered.

“Why—how could he?” inquired Sammy.

“Because early next morning I found out the number of his room and most foolishly wrote to him urging him to keep the secret that I had been in the dead man’s room. This letter, combined with his testimony, would have been, no doubt, sufficient to condemn me. Again, the night you met me at Studland he followed me out and found me almost the moment after we parted. He taunted me with that letter, and we struggled for its possession.”

“I recollect!” Sammy exclaimed. “It was I who was one of the first to enter poor Carrera’s room, and I remember the revolver lay in a position that much puzzled the police. They questioned the servants if it had been moved. That fellow Shacklock, who was living in the hotel, evidently stole the contents of the poor fellow’s despatch-box and handed them to Himes, who came that evening to call upon him. It is an old trick of hotel thieves: the man who commits the theft remains in the hotel and expresses the greatest indignation and sympathy with the victim, while his accomplice gets safely away across the frontier with the booty.”

“And this is the actual truth!” I cried, staring at her amazed.

“The truth, Godfrey—the whole truth!” declared Ella, in a faltering tone, her cheeks flushed with shame. “You must have mistrusted me, but though bound to that blackguard by a secret my love for you has, I swear, ever been unwavering. Surely you must have seen what I have suffered,” she cried. “That man who has now met with such an untimely end wished to marry me for my position, and because—”

“Because you are beautiful, my sweetheart!” I said, holding her in my arms and kissing her fondly. “I know. I see it all now.”

“And—and you really forgive me, Godfrey?” she asked seriously.

“For what?”

“For refusing to tell you this.”

“You were silent, darling, because you were that man’s victim. You feared to speak. But his own enemy has fortunately released you. The thieves have quarrelled among themselves—and fatally. We can now afford to watch in silence.”

Our hands clasped, our lips met, and our hearts beat in unison—hearts that were true to each other with a love that was real love.

“Lucie,” I said at last, turning to the despairing girl, who now knew, for the first time, her father’s shameful secret, “there is one point which is still a mystery. Have you any explanation to offer? At the Villa Verde, after Nardini’s flight, a young lady, said to be a friend of yours, was found dead in his study. Who was she?”

“It was Alice Woodforde,” she replied promptly. “Nardini had fallen deeply in love with her, and knowing that revelations and downfall were imminent, and that he would be compelled to fly, he gave her in secret this address in London. He begged her to return to England where they would marry, and she, still in ignorance of his true character, gave her promise. She showed me the address he had written down, asking me if I knew in what part of London it was, and thinking it strange I made a mental note of it. I saw that His Excellency was playing a double game, and suspected that he contemplated flight. In addition to this, one evening, when her uncle the doctor was dining with my father and myself she related, with her natural innocence, how one afternoon, when a guest at the Villa Verde, she had entered the study unexpectedly and had discovered His Excellency with a secret cupboard in the wainscot opened, into which he was in the act of placing a packet of bank-notes.

“Now, Gavazzi, who had narrowly watched the situation, daily expected His Excellency to fly from Italy. He knew that his enemies had gained the ascendency, and that revelations to King Humbert were only a matter of hours. Therefore the moment his master had left Rome he went out to Tivoli and discharged all the servants at the villa, paying them all off handsomely. On the following day, as I understand from a letter I have found among my father’s papers, he went out there on the pretext of a necessity of obtaining certain important documents, taking Alice with him. He entered the villa with his key, and when in the study suddenly demanded that she should reveal the spot where the notes had been concealed. Being loyal to Nardini, whom she had promised to marry, she refused. They were alone in the great house, and she, in defiance of him, declared that she would tell the man who was to be her husband. A violent scene then ensued. He threatened her and she grew furious, when of a sudden she fell back in a dead faint. He laughed, and awaited her recovery, still hoping to obtain from her the secret of the Minister’s hoard. He waited until, in alarm, he saw a sudden change in her. She grew white and rigid. She suffered from a weak heart from her birth, and died of syncope. Poor Alice! the excitement had proved fatal!”

“But I can’t understand this fellow Himes. Why is he so full of a fierce revenge?” asked Sammy, whose manner towards Lucie was now entirely changed. He saw that she had been the victim of a scoundrel, just as my dear love had been.

“Well, I think I can also explain that,” she said. “My father, in order that nothing compromising might be found if the police ever searched our apartments abroad, kept all his private papers in an old bureau at Studland. For several days I have been going through them, and they throw light upon many things which have hitherto been to me mysteries. The reason of his rapid journeys hither and thither, the motives of his friendships and the causes of his hatreds are explained.

“Last winter, while we were in Rome, Lieutenant Shacklock, as he called himself, lived in style at the Grand, while Himes had a room at the Quirinale. To every one they appeared as strangers to each other, and only met at our house. They both had committed a number of clever robberies of jewels and money, when Shacklock managed to ingratiate himself with a wealthy American widow, a Mrs Clay Hamilton, and after giving several little dinner-parties and escorting her here and there he succeeded, by a clever piece of trickery, in passing over her jewel-case full of valuable gems to Himes. The theft was quickly discovered, but no suspicion ever rested upon him. Indeed he actually went himself to the Questura with Mrs Clay Hamilton and reported the theft to the police! The jewel-case was, however, already at our house when, on the following night, the two men met.

“I was out at the theatre with Dr Gavazzi and Alice, but I can only suppose there must have been a violent quarrel over the distribution of the booty. At any rate, Himes declared that he would have nothing further to do with either my father or Shacklock, and next day left Rome for Paris. My father and Shacklock suspected that, out of spite, he meant to expose them to Nardini or to the Rome police, therefore, knowing with what object he had gone to Paris, Shacklock followed him and gave certain secret information at the Prefecture. The result of this was that Himes was arrested red-handed while committing an audacious robbery at Asnières, and sent to prison. He, of course, suspected that the friends with whom he had quarrelled had given information, yet he could not absolutely prove it. His first impulse was to retaliate by revealing all he knew regarding his late associates, but this was not enough for a man of his criminal instincts.

“In his heart there rankled through those long months of his confinement a murderous revenge. He swore that he would kill the men who betrayed him—and he has kept his vow!”

“Yes,” I said. “And he evidently believed that, being on such intimate terms with your father and yourself, I, too, was the latest recruit.”

“Ah! Your escape, dear, was a most fortunate one!” declared Ella, gazing up into my eyes with that love-look that told me volumes.

“I wonder where Himes is now?” queried Sammy. “He certainly seems absolutely fearless in his revenge.”

“What matters?” I said. “Let us remain silent. If he is captured, well and good. If not, we at least know the truth.”

“He killed my father—recollect,” Lucie remarked, in a hard voice.

“And was it not through your father—whose memory we should bury from to-day—that my poor friend and your lover, Manuel Carrera, died?” asked Sammy gravely.

Then a silence fell between all four of us. I was looking into the clear blue eyes of my well-beloved. All of us were preoccupied by our own thoughts. From out the dark tragedy had at last shone the light of truth.

After those years of grief and bitterness, of loneliness and yearning, Ella, my dear one, had been given back to me once more. She no longer wore the iron mask that she had borne so staunchly.

Our lips met again. She gazed into my eyes, and then she burst into tears—tears of joy. The fetters that bound her to the man she hated had been broken, and she stood there, sweet, pure, innocent and free—free to be mine—mine for ever.

“My love,” I said, heedless that we were not alone, “this affection of ours is greater than death, great as eternity itself; a love that shall leave earth with us when our souls leave our bodies and reach its uttermost perfection in other lives, in other worlds; a love that time cannot chill, nor any woe appal, nor any man unsever. God Himself has united us, and none can now place us asunder.”

Chapter Forty.

Conclusion.

To-day I am seated in the long old library at Wichenford where, at the big writing-table set in the deep window, I have spent so many hours putting down in black and white this curious chronicle of the evil that men do. The last blank folios lie before me.

What more need I tell you?

To describe the perfect happiness that now is mine would require still another volume. Ella—my own sweet Ella who was so nearly lost to me—became my wife a little over a year ago. She is seated in a long wicker chair at my side, while the summer sunset falling through the high old diamond-panes shines upon her fresh open countenance and tints her beautiful hair with gold.

It is the evening of a calm day, and a similar tranquillity seems to have fallen upon our lives, for a great peace has come to us in this stately old place that everywhere speaks mutely of the dignity of the Murrays.

Delightful indeed it is to be back again in England and no longer a wanderer, for Mr Murray has given over Wichenford to us for our home, and he in his turn is travelling in the Far East.

Of Dr Gavazzi we heard news not long ago. He is in Vienna, living, we suppose, upon his share of that money taken from his master’s secret hiding-place, while Himes, having returned to America, was, we saw in the papers, two months ago sentenced in New York to three years with hard labour for stealing a dressing-bag from a lady while travelling on the “Chicago Limited.”

A week after the death of Gordon-Wright and that eventful meeting at Granville Gardens when the enigma was solved, Lucie discovered in an old kit-bag of her father’s, at Studland, the packets of bank-notes obtained from the Villa Verde, and, suspecting them to be the proceeds of some robbery, she brought them to me. I suggested that as the money was not hers she should devote the whole of it to charity in Italy. Although fearing to put her foot on Italian soil again owing to the false and infamous charge against her, she at once adopted my suggestion, with the result that an orphan home at Poggio Imperiale, outside Florence, which she founded and endowed, now bears her name.

And the end? Well, I think you will agree that it is as it should be.

About three months after our return from our honeymoon in Norway Sammy came to me and made an announcement which caused me to clap him heartily on the back and grip his hand. He had discovered that he had misjudged poor Lucie, that he loved her, and they were now already engaged.

To-day as I pen this final page they have been man and wife already three whole months. Not long, it is true, but sufficient to show us how happy they are in each other’s love. They have taken “The Cedars,” a charming old ivy-covered house a mile from Melton Mowbray, for both are passionately fond of hunting, and both are looking forward to good runs this next season.

The summer sun is sinking lower. Over everywhere is a faint ethereal golden mist that rises from the water and the woods; the colour deepens; the scent of the blossoms grows stronger. The charm of perfect freedom and perfect faith are ours. This modern world sneers at the isolation and absorption of passion as an egotism, but surely it is its highest sublimity. Love that remembers aught save the one beloved may be affection, but it certainly is not love.

And while Ella and I are leading a life of peace undisturbed and of love infinite—a God-given love that surpasses any that man has known within his heart—Italian police agents in various parts of the world are still in active search of Giovanni Nardini, and Scotland Yard is still sorely puzzled over the antecedents and tragic end of the Mysterious Mr Miller.

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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Chapter 31

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Chapter 32

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Chapter 33

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Chapter 34

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Chapter 35

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Chapter 36

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Chapter 37

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Chapter 38

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Chapter 39

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Chapter 40

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