Chapter Five.In which the Mystery Becomes Considerably Increased.That the precious document, or whatever it was, sewn up in the wash-leather which the dead man had so carefully guarded through all those years was now missing was, in itself, a very suspicious circumstance, while Mabel’s vague but distinct apprehensions, which she either would not or could not define, now aroused my suspicions that Burton Blair had been the victim of foul play.Immediately after leaving her I therefore drove to Bedford Row and held another consultation with Leighton, to whom I explained my grave fears.“As I have already explained, Mr Greenwood,” responded the solicitor, leaning back in his padded chair and regarding me gravely through his glasses, “I believe that my client did not die a natural death. There was some mystery in his life, some strange romantic circumstance which, unfortunately, he never thought fit to confide to me. He held a secret, he told me, and by knowledge of that secret, he obtained his vast wealth. Only half an hour ago I made a rough calculation of the present value of his estate, and at the lowest, I believe it will be found to amount to over two and a half millions. The whole of this, I may tell you in confidence, goes unreservedly to his daughter, with the exception of several legacies, which include ten thousand each to Mr Seton and to yourself, two thousand to Mrs Percival, and some small sums to the servants. But,” he added, “there is a clause in the will which is very puzzling, and which closely affects yourself. As we both suspect foul play, I think I may as well at once show it to you without waiting for my unfortunate client’s burial and the formal reading of his will.”Then he rose, and from a big black deed box lettered “Burton Blair, Esquire,” he took out the dead man’s will, and, opening it, showed me a passage which read:—Ten: “I give and bequeath to Gilbert Greenwood of The Cedars, Helpstone, the small bag of chamois leather that will be found upon me at the time of my death, in order that he may profit by what is contained therein, and as recompense for certain valuable services rendered to me. Let him recollect always this rhyme—”‘Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens, He’d, one short of seven—and nine or ten scenes!’“And let him well and truly preserve the secret from every man, just as I have done.”That was all. A strange clause surely! Burton Blair had, after all, actually bequeathed his secret to me, the secret that had brought him his colossal wealth! Yet it was already lost—probably stolen by his enemies.“That’s a curious doggerel,” the solicitor smiled. “But poor Blair possessed but little literary culture, I fear. He knew more about the sea than poetry. Yet, after all, it seems a tantalising situation that you should be left the secret of the source of my client’s enormous fortune, and that it should be stolen from you in this manner.”“We had, I think, better consult the police, and explain our suspicions,” I said, in bitter chagrin that the chamois sachet should have fallen into other hands.“I entirely agree with you, Mr Greenwood. We will go together to Scotland Yard and get them to institute inquiries. If Mr Blair was actually murdered, then his assassination was accomplished in a most secret and remarkable manner, to say the least. But there is one further clause in the will which is somewhat disturbing, and that is with regard to his daughter Mabel. The testator has appointed some person of whom I have never heard—a man called Paolo Melandrini, an Italian, apparently living in Florence, to be her secretary and the manager of her affairs.”“What!” I cried, amazed. “An Italian to be her secretary! Who is he?”“A person with whom I am not acquainted; whose name, indeed, has never been mentioned to me by my client. He merely dictated it to me when I drafted the will.”“But the thing’s absurd!” I exclaimed. “Surely you can’t let an unknown foreigner, who may be an adventurer for all we know, have control of all her money?”“I fear there’s no help for it,” replied Leighton, gravely. “It is written here, and we shall be compelled to give notice to this man, whoever he is, of his appointment at a salary of five thousand pounds a year.”“And will he really have control of her affairs?”“Absolutely. Indeed, the whole estate is left to her on condition that she accepts this fellow as her secretary and confidential adviser.”“Why, Blair must have been mad!” I exclaimed. “Has Mabel any knowledge of this mysterious Italian?”“She has never heard of him.”“Well, in that case, I think that, before he is informed of poor Blair’s death and the good fortune in store for him, we ought at least to find out who and what he is. We can in any case, keep a watchful eye on him, and see that he doesn’t trick Mabel out of her money.”The lawyer sighed, wiped his glasses slowly, and said—“He will have the entire management of everything, therefore it will be difficult to know what goes on, or how much he puts into his own pocket.”“But whatever could possess Blair to insert such a mad clause as that? Didn’t you point out the folly of it?”“I did.”“And what did he say?”“He reflected a few moments over my words, sighed, and then answered, ‘It is imperative, Leighton. I have no other alternative.’ Therefore from that I took it that he was acting under compulsion.”“You believe that this foreigner was in a position to demand it—eh?”The solicitor nodded. He evidently was of opinion that the reason of the introduction of this unknown person into Mabel’s household was a secret one, known only to Burton Blair and to the individual himself. It was curious, I reflected, that Mabel herself had not mentioned it to me. Yet perhaps she had hesitated, because I had told her of my promise to her father, and she did not wish to hurt my feelings. The whole situation became hourly more complicated and more mysterious.I was, however, bent upon accomplishing two things; first, to recover the millionaire’s most precious possession which he had bequeathed to me, together with such an extraordinary injunction to recollect that doggerel couplet which still ran in my head; and secondly, to make private inquiries regarding this unknown foreigner who had so suddenly become introduced into the affair.That same evening at six o’clock, having met Reggie by appointment at Mr Leighton’s office, we all three drove to Scotland Yard, where we had a long consultation with one of the head officials, to whom we explained the circumstances and our suspicions of foul play.“Well,” he replied at length, “of course I will institute inquiries in Manchester and elsewhere, but as the medical evidence has proved so conclusively that the gentleman in question died from natural causes, I cannot hold out very much hope that out Department or the Manchester Detective Department can assist you. The grounds you have for supposing that he met with foul play are very vague, you must admit, and as far as I can see, the only motive at all was the theft of this paper, or whatever it was, which he carried upon him. Yet men are not usually killed in broad daylight in order to commit a theft which any expert pickpocket might effect. Besides, if his enemies or rivals knew what it was and how he was in the habit of carrying it, they could easily have secured it without assassination.”“But he was in possession of some secret,” remarked the solicitor.“Of what character?”“I have unfortunately no idea. Nobody knows. All that we are aware is that its possession raised him from poverty to affluence, and that one person, if not more, was eager to obtain possession of it.”“Naturally,” remarked the grey-haired Assistant-Director of Criminal Investigations. “But who was this person?”“Unfortunately I do not know. My client told me this a year ago, but mentioned no name.”“Then you have no suspicion whatever of any one?”“None. The little bag of wash-leather, inside which the document was sewn, has been stolen, and this fact arouses our suspicion of foul play.” The hide-bound official shook his head very dubiously.“That is not enough upon which to base a suspicion of murder, especially as we have had all the evidence at the inquest, a post-mortem and a unanimous verdict of the coroner’s jury. No, gentlemen,” he added, “I don’t see any ground for really grave suspicion. The document may not have been stolen after all. Mr Blair seems to have been of a somewhat eccentric disposition, like many men who suddenly rise in the world, and he may have hidden it away for safe-keeping somewhere. To me, this seems by far the most likely theory, especially as he had expressed a fear that his enemies sought to gain possession of it.”“But surely, if there is suspicion of murder, it is the duty of the police to investigate it!” I exclaimed resentfully.“Granted. But where is the suspicion? Neither doctors, coroner, local police nor jury entertain the slightest doubt that he died from natural causes,” he argued. “In that case the Manchester police have neither right nor necessity to interfere.”“But there has been a theft.”“What proof have you of it?” he asked, raising his grey eyebrows and tapping the table with his pen. “If you can show me that a theft has been committed, then I will put in motion the various influences at my command. On the contrary, you merely suspect that this something sewn in a bag has been stolen. Yet it may be hidden in some place difficult to find, but nevertheless in safety. As, however, you all three allege that the unfortunate gentleman was assassinated in order to gain possession of this mysterious little packet of which he was so careful, I will communicate with the Manchester City police and ask them to make what inquiries they can. Further than that, gentlemen,” he added suavely, “I fear that my Department cannot assist you.”“Then all I have to reply,” remarked Mr Leighton, bluntly, “is that the public opinion of the futility of this branch of the police in the detection of crime is fully justified, and I shall not fail to see that public attention is called to the matter through the Press. It’s simply a disgrace.”“I’m only acting, sir, upon my instructions, conjointly with what you have yourself told me,” was his answer. “I assure you that if I ordered inquiries to be made in every case in which persons are alleged to have been murdered, I should require a detective force as large as the British Army. Why, not a day passes without I receive dozens of secret callers and anonymous letters all alleging assassination—generally against some person towards whom they entertain a dislike. Eighteen years as head of this Department, however, has, I think, taught me how to distinguish a case for inquiry—which yours is not.”Argument proved futile. The official mind was made up that Burton Blair had not fallen a victim to foul play, therefore we could hope for no assistance. So with our dissatisfaction rather plainly marked, we rose and went out again into Whitehall.“It’s a scandal!” Reggie declared angrily. “Poor Blair has been murdered—everything points to it—and yet the police won’t lift a finger to assist us to reveal the truth, just because a doctor discovered that he had a weak heart. It’s placing a premium on crime,” he added, his fist clenched savagely. “I’ll relate the whole thing to my friend Mills, the Member for West Derbyshire, and get him to ask a question in the House. We’ll see what this new Home Secretary says to it! It’ll be a nasty pill for him, I’ll wager.”“Oh, he’ll have some typewritten official excuse ready, never fear,” laughed Leighton. “If they won’t help us, we must make inquiries for ourselves.”The solicitor parted from us in Trafalgar Square, arranging to meet us at Grosvenor Square after the funeral, when the will would be formally read before the dead man’s daughter and her companion, Mrs Percival.“And then,” he added, “we shall have to take some active steps to discover this mysterious person who is in future to control her fortune.”“I’ll undertake the inquiries,” I said. “Fortunately I speak Italian, therefore, before we give him notice of Blair’s death. I’ll go out to Florence and ascertain who and what he is.” Truth to tell, I had a suspicion that the letter which I had secured from the dead man’s blotting book, and which I had kept secretly to myself, had been written by this unknown individual—Paolo Melandrini. Although it bore neither address nor signature, and was in a heavy and rather uneducated hand, it was evidently the letter of a Tuscan, for I detected in it certain phonetic spelling which was purely Florentine. Translated, the strange communication read as follows:—“Your letter reached me only this morning. The Ceco (blind man) is in Paris, on his way to London. The girl is with him, and they evidently know something. So be very careful. He and his ingenious friends will probably try and trick you.“I am still at my post, but the water has risen three metres on account of the heavy rains. Nevertheless, farming has been good, so I shall expect to meet you at vespers in San Frediano on the evening of the 6th of next month. I have something most important to tell you. Recollect that the Ceco means mischief, and act accordingly.Addio.”Times without number I carefully translated the curious missive word for word. It seemed full of hidden meaning.What seemed most probable was that the person known as the “blind man,” who was Blair’s enemy, had actually been successful in gaining possession of that precious little sachet of chamois leather that was now mine by right, together with the mysterious secret it contained.
That the precious document, or whatever it was, sewn up in the wash-leather which the dead man had so carefully guarded through all those years was now missing was, in itself, a very suspicious circumstance, while Mabel’s vague but distinct apprehensions, which she either would not or could not define, now aroused my suspicions that Burton Blair had been the victim of foul play.
Immediately after leaving her I therefore drove to Bedford Row and held another consultation with Leighton, to whom I explained my grave fears.
“As I have already explained, Mr Greenwood,” responded the solicitor, leaning back in his padded chair and regarding me gravely through his glasses, “I believe that my client did not die a natural death. There was some mystery in his life, some strange romantic circumstance which, unfortunately, he never thought fit to confide to me. He held a secret, he told me, and by knowledge of that secret, he obtained his vast wealth. Only half an hour ago I made a rough calculation of the present value of his estate, and at the lowest, I believe it will be found to amount to over two and a half millions. The whole of this, I may tell you in confidence, goes unreservedly to his daughter, with the exception of several legacies, which include ten thousand each to Mr Seton and to yourself, two thousand to Mrs Percival, and some small sums to the servants. But,” he added, “there is a clause in the will which is very puzzling, and which closely affects yourself. As we both suspect foul play, I think I may as well at once show it to you without waiting for my unfortunate client’s burial and the formal reading of his will.”
Then he rose, and from a big black deed box lettered “Burton Blair, Esquire,” he took out the dead man’s will, and, opening it, showed me a passage which read:—
Ten: “I give and bequeath to Gilbert Greenwood of The Cedars, Helpstone, the small bag of chamois leather that will be found upon me at the time of my death, in order that he may profit by what is contained therein, and as recompense for certain valuable services rendered to me. Let him recollect always this rhyme—
”‘Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens, He’d, one short of seven—and nine or ten scenes!’
“And let him well and truly preserve the secret from every man, just as I have done.”
That was all. A strange clause surely! Burton Blair had, after all, actually bequeathed his secret to me, the secret that had brought him his colossal wealth! Yet it was already lost—probably stolen by his enemies.
“That’s a curious doggerel,” the solicitor smiled. “But poor Blair possessed but little literary culture, I fear. He knew more about the sea than poetry. Yet, after all, it seems a tantalising situation that you should be left the secret of the source of my client’s enormous fortune, and that it should be stolen from you in this manner.”
“We had, I think, better consult the police, and explain our suspicions,” I said, in bitter chagrin that the chamois sachet should have fallen into other hands.
“I entirely agree with you, Mr Greenwood. We will go together to Scotland Yard and get them to institute inquiries. If Mr Blair was actually murdered, then his assassination was accomplished in a most secret and remarkable manner, to say the least. But there is one further clause in the will which is somewhat disturbing, and that is with regard to his daughter Mabel. The testator has appointed some person of whom I have never heard—a man called Paolo Melandrini, an Italian, apparently living in Florence, to be her secretary and the manager of her affairs.”
“What!” I cried, amazed. “An Italian to be her secretary! Who is he?”
“A person with whom I am not acquainted; whose name, indeed, has never been mentioned to me by my client. He merely dictated it to me when I drafted the will.”
“But the thing’s absurd!” I exclaimed. “Surely you can’t let an unknown foreigner, who may be an adventurer for all we know, have control of all her money?”
“I fear there’s no help for it,” replied Leighton, gravely. “It is written here, and we shall be compelled to give notice to this man, whoever he is, of his appointment at a salary of five thousand pounds a year.”
“And will he really have control of her affairs?”
“Absolutely. Indeed, the whole estate is left to her on condition that she accepts this fellow as her secretary and confidential adviser.”
“Why, Blair must have been mad!” I exclaimed. “Has Mabel any knowledge of this mysterious Italian?”
“She has never heard of him.”
“Well, in that case, I think that, before he is informed of poor Blair’s death and the good fortune in store for him, we ought at least to find out who and what he is. We can in any case, keep a watchful eye on him, and see that he doesn’t trick Mabel out of her money.”
The lawyer sighed, wiped his glasses slowly, and said—
“He will have the entire management of everything, therefore it will be difficult to know what goes on, or how much he puts into his own pocket.”
“But whatever could possess Blair to insert such a mad clause as that? Didn’t you point out the folly of it?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“He reflected a few moments over my words, sighed, and then answered, ‘It is imperative, Leighton. I have no other alternative.’ Therefore from that I took it that he was acting under compulsion.”
“You believe that this foreigner was in a position to demand it—eh?”
The solicitor nodded. He evidently was of opinion that the reason of the introduction of this unknown person into Mabel’s household was a secret one, known only to Burton Blair and to the individual himself. It was curious, I reflected, that Mabel herself had not mentioned it to me. Yet perhaps she had hesitated, because I had told her of my promise to her father, and she did not wish to hurt my feelings. The whole situation became hourly more complicated and more mysterious.
I was, however, bent upon accomplishing two things; first, to recover the millionaire’s most precious possession which he had bequeathed to me, together with such an extraordinary injunction to recollect that doggerel couplet which still ran in my head; and secondly, to make private inquiries regarding this unknown foreigner who had so suddenly become introduced into the affair.
That same evening at six o’clock, having met Reggie by appointment at Mr Leighton’s office, we all three drove to Scotland Yard, where we had a long consultation with one of the head officials, to whom we explained the circumstances and our suspicions of foul play.
“Well,” he replied at length, “of course I will institute inquiries in Manchester and elsewhere, but as the medical evidence has proved so conclusively that the gentleman in question died from natural causes, I cannot hold out very much hope that out Department or the Manchester Detective Department can assist you. The grounds you have for supposing that he met with foul play are very vague, you must admit, and as far as I can see, the only motive at all was the theft of this paper, or whatever it was, which he carried upon him. Yet men are not usually killed in broad daylight in order to commit a theft which any expert pickpocket might effect. Besides, if his enemies or rivals knew what it was and how he was in the habit of carrying it, they could easily have secured it without assassination.”
“But he was in possession of some secret,” remarked the solicitor.
“Of what character?”
“I have unfortunately no idea. Nobody knows. All that we are aware is that its possession raised him from poverty to affluence, and that one person, if not more, was eager to obtain possession of it.”
“Naturally,” remarked the grey-haired Assistant-Director of Criminal Investigations. “But who was this person?”
“Unfortunately I do not know. My client told me this a year ago, but mentioned no name.”
“Then you have no suspicion whatever of any one?”
“None. The little bag of wash-leather, inside which the document was sewn, has been stolen, and this fact arouses our suspicion of foul play.” The hide-bound official shook his head very dubiously.
“That is not enough upon which to base a suspicion of murder, especially as we have had all the evidence at the inquest, a post-mortem and a unanimous verdict of the coroner’s jury. No, gentlemen,” he added, “I don’t see any ground for really grave suspicion. The document may not have been stolen after all. Mr Blair seems to have been of a somewhat eccentric disposition, like many men who suddenly rise in the world, and he may have hidden it away for safe-keeping somewhere. To me, this seems by far the most likely theory, especially as he had expressed a fear that his enemies sought to gain possession of it.”
“But surely, if there is suspicion of murder, it is the duty of the police to investigate it!” I exclaimed resentfully.
“Granted. But where is the suspicion? Neither doctors, coroner, local police nor jury entertain the slightest doubt that he died from natural causes,” he argued. “In that case the Manchester police have neither right nor necessity to interfere.”
“But there has been a theft.”
“What proof have you of it?” he asked, raising his grey eyebrows and tapping the table with his pen. “If you can show me that a theft has been committed, then I will put in motion the various influences at my command. On the contrary, you merely suspect that this something sewn in a bag has been stolen. Yet it may be hidden in some place difficult to find, but nevertheless in safety. As, however, you all three allege that the unfortunate gentleman was assassinated in order to gain possession of this mysterious little packet of which he was so careful, I will communicate with the Manchester City police and ask them to make what inquiries they can. Further than that, gentlemen,” he added suavely, “I fear that my Department cannot assist you.”
“Then all I have to reply,” remarked Mr Leighton, bluntly, “is that the public opinion of the futility of this branch of the police in the detection of crime is fully justified, and I shall not fail to see that public attention is called to the matter through the Press. It’s simply a disgrace.”
“I’m only acting, sir, upon my instructions, conjointly with what you have yourself told me,” was his answer. “I assure you that if I ordered inquiries to be made in every case in which persons are alleged to have been murdered, I should require a detective force as large as the British Army. Why, not a day passes without I receive dozens of secret callers and anonymous letters all alleging assassination—generally against some person towards whom they entertain a dislike. Eighteen years as head of this Department, however, has, I think, taught me how to distinguish a case for inquiry—which yours is not.”
Argument proved futile. The official mind was made up that Burton Blair had not fallen a victim to foul play, therefore we could hope for no assistance. So with our dissatisfaction rather plainly marked, we rose and went out again into Whitehall.
“It’s a scandal!” Reggie declared angrily. “Poor Blair has been murdered—everything points to it—and yet the police won’t lift a finger to assist us to reveal the truth, just because a doctor discovered that he had a weak heart. It’s placing a premium on crime,” he added, his fist clenched savagely. “I’ll relate the whole thing to my friend Mills, the Member for West Derbyshire, and get him to ask a question in the House. We’ll see what this new Home Secretary says to it! It’ll be a nasty pill for him, I’ll wager.”
“Oh, he’ll have some typewritten official excuse ready, never fear,” laughed Leighton. “If they won’t help us, we must make inquiries for ourselves.”
The solicitor parted from us in Trafalgar Square, arranging to meet us at Grosvenor Square after the funeral, when the will would be formally read before the dead man’s daughter and her companion, Mrs Percival.
“And then,” he added, “we shall have to take some active steps to discover this mysterious person who is in future to control her fortune.”
“I’ll undertake the inquiries,” I said. “Fortunately I speak Italian, therefore, before we give him notice of Blair’s death. I’ll go out to Florence and ascertain who and what he is.” Truth to tell, I had a suspicion that the letter which I had secured from the dead man’s blotting book, and which I had kept secretly to myself, had been written by this unknown individual—Paolo Melandrini. Although it bore neither address nor signature, and was in a heavy and rather uneducated hand, it was evidently the letter of a Tuscan, for I detected in it certain phonetic spelling which was purely Florentine. Translated, the strange communication read as follows:—
“Your letter reached me only this morning. The Ceco (blind man) is in Paris, on his way to London. The girl is with him, and they evidently know something. So be very careful. He and his ingenious friends will probably try and trick you.
“I am still at my post, but the water has risen three metres on account of the heavy rains. Nevertheless, farming has been good, so I shall expect to meet you at vespers in San Frediano on the evening of the 6th of next month. I have something most important to tell you. Recollect that the Ceco means mischief, and act accordingly.Addio.”
Times without number I carefully translated the curious missive word for word. It seemed full of hidden meaning.
What seemed most probable was that the person known as the “blind man,” who was Blair’s enemy, had actually been successful in gaining possession of that precious little sachet of chamois leather that was now mine by right, together with the mysterious secret it contained.
Chapter Six.Concerns Three Capital A’s.The function in the library at Grosvenor Square on the following afternoon was, as may be supposed, a very sad and painful one.Mabel Blair, dressed in deep mourning, her eyes betraying traces of tears, sat still and silent while the solicitor drily read over the will, clause by clause.She made no comment, even when he repeated the dead man’s appointment of the unknown Italian to be manager of his daughter’s fortune.“But who is he, pray?” demanded Mrs Percival, in her quiet, refined voice. “I have never heard Mr Blair speak of any such person.”“Nor have I,” admitted Leighton, pausing a moment to readjust his glasses, and then continuing to read the document through to the end.We were all thoroughly glad when the formality was over. Afterwards, Mabel whispered to me that she wished to see me alone in the morning-room, and when we had entered together and I had closed the door, she said—“Last night I searched the small safe in my father’s bedroom where he sometimes kept his private papers and things. There were a quantity of my poor mother’s letters, written to him years ago when he was at sea, but nothing else, only this.” And she drew from her pocket a small, soiled and frayed playing-card, an ace of hearts, upon which certain cabalistic capitals had been written in three columns. In order that you shall properly understand the arrangement and position of the letters, it will perhaps be as well if I here reproduce it:—“That’s curious!” I remarked, turning it over anxiously in my hand. “Have you tried to discover what meaning the words convey?”“Yes; but it’s some cipher or other, I think. You will notice that the two upper columns commence with ‘A,’ and the lower column ends with the same letter. The card is the ace of hearts, and in all those points I detect some hidden meaning.”“No doubt,” I said. “But was there an appearance of it being carefully preserved?”“Yes, it was sealed in a linen-lined envelope to itself, and marked in my father’s handwriting, ‘Burton Blair—private.’ I wonder what it means?”“Ah! I wonder,” I exclaimed, pondering deeply, and still gazing upon the three columns of fourteen letters. I tried to decipher it by the usual known methods of the easy cipher, but could make nothing intelligible of it. There were some hidden words there, and being utterly unintelligible, they caused me considerable thought. Why Blair had preserved that card in such secrecy was, to say the least, a mystery. In it I suspected there was some hidden clue to his secret, but of its nature I could not even guess.When we had discussed it for a long time, arriving at no satisfactory conclusion, I suggested that she should go abroad with Mrs Percival for a few weeks so as to change her surroundings and endeavour to forget her sudden bereavement, but she only shook her head, murmuring—“No, I prefer to remain here. The loss of my poor father would be the same to me abroad as it is here.”“But you must endeavour to forget,” I urged with deep sympathy. “We are doing our utmost to solve the mystery surrounding your father’s actions, and the means by which he came by his death. To-night, indeed, I am leaving for Italy in order to make secret inquiries regarding this person who is appointed your secretary.”“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I wonder who he is? I wonder what motive my father could possibly have in placing my affairs in the hands of a stranger?”“He is probably an old friend of your father’s,” I suggested.“No,” she responded, “I knew all his friends. He had only one secret from me—the secret of the source of his wealth. That he always refused point-blank to tell me.”“I shall travel direct to Florence, and discover what I can before the lawyers give this mysterious person notice of your father’s death,” I said. “I may obtain some knowledge which will be of the greatest benefit to us hereafter.”“Ah! it is really very good of you, Mr Greenwood,” she answered, lifting her beautiful eyes to mine with an expression of profound gratitude. “I must admit that the idea of being closely associated with a stranger, and that stranger a foreigner, causes me considerable apprehension.”“But he may be young and good-looking, the veritable Paolo of romance—and you his Francesca,” I suggested, smiling.Her sweet lips relaxed slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she answered—“Please don’t anticipate anything of the kind. I only hope he may be old and very ugly.”“So that he will not arouse my jealousy—eh?” I laughed. “Really, Mabel, if our friendship were not upon such a well-defined basis, I should allow myself to act the part of lover. You know I—”“Now don’t be foolish,” she interrupted, raising her small finger in mock reproval. “Remember what you said yesterday.”“I said what I meant.”“And so did I. To tell you the truth, I like to think of you as my big brother,” she declared. “I suppose I shall never love,” she added, reflectively, gazing into the blazing fire.“No, no; don’t say that, Mabel. You’ll one day meet some man in your own station, love him, marry and be happy,” I said, my hand upon her shoulder. “Recollect that with your wealth you can secure the pick of the matrimonial market.”“Some impoverished young aristocrat, you mean? No, thanks. I’ve already met a good many, but their disguise of affection has always been much too thin. Most of them wanted my money to pay off mortgages on their estates. No, I’d much prefer a poor man—although I shallnevermarry—never.”I was silent for a moment, then I remarked quite bluntly—“I always thought you would marry young Lord Newborough. You both seemed very good friends.”“So we were—until he proposed to me.”And she looked me straight in the face with that clear gaze and those splendid eyes wide open in wonderment, almost like a child’s.Her character was a strangely complex one. As a tall, willowy girl, in those early days of our acquaintance, I knew her to be high-minded and wilful, yet of that sweet affectionate disposition that endeared her to every one with whom she came into contact. Her nature was so calm and so sweet that in her love seemed an unconscious impulse. I had often thought she was surely too soft, too good, too fair to be cast among the briers of the world, and fall and bleed upon the thorns of life. The world is just as cold and pitiless and just as full of pitfalls for the young and unwary in Mayfair as in Mile End. Hence, to fulfil my promise to that man now silent in his grave, it was my duty to protect her from the thousand and one wiles of those who would endeavour to profit by sex and inexperience.Her early privations, her hard life in youth while her father was absent at sea, and those weary months of tramping the turnpikes of England, all had had their effect upon her. With her, love seemed to be scarcely a passion or a sentiment, but a dreamy enchantment, a reverie which a fairy spell dissolved or riveted at pleasure. So exquisitely delicate was her character, just as was her countenance, that it seemed as if a touch would profane it. Like a strain of sad, sweet music which comes floating by on the wings of night and silence, and which we rather feel than hear, like the exhalation of the violet dying even upon the sense it charms, like the snow-flake dissolved in air before it has caught a stain of earth, like the light surf severed from the billow which a breath disperses—such was her nature, so full of that modesty, grace and tenderness without which a woman is no woman.As she stood there before me, a frail, delicate figure in her plain black gown, and her hand in mine, thanking me for the investigation which I was undertaking in her behalf, and wishing mebon voyage, I shuddered to think of her thrown alone amid harsh and adverse destinies, and amid all the corruptions and sharks of society, perhaps without energy to resist, or will to act, or strength to endure. Alone in such a case, the end must inevitably be desolation.I wished her farewell, turning from her with a feeling that, loving her as I admit I did, I was nevertheless unworthy of her. Yet surely I was playing a dangerous game!I had entertained a strong and increasing affection for her ever since that winter’s night down at Helpstone. Still, now that she was possessor of vast wealth, I felt that the difference in our ages and the fact that I was a poor man were both barriers to our marriage. Indeed, she had never exerted any of the feminine wiles of flirtation towards me; she had never once allowed me to think that I had captivated her. She had spoken the truth. She regarded me as an elder brother—that was all.That same night, as I paced the deck of the Channel steamer in the teeth of a wintry gale, watching the revolving light of Calais harbour growing more and more distinct, my thoughts were full of her. Love is the teacher, grief the tamer, and time the healer of the human heart. While the engines throbbed, the wind howled and the dark seas swirled past, I paced up and down puzzling over the playing-card in my pocket and reflecting upon all that had occurred. The rich fancies of unbowed youth, the visions of long-perished hopes, the shadows of unborn joys, the gay colourings of the dawn of existence—what ever my memory had treasured up, came before me in review, but lived no longer within my heart.I recollected that truism of Rochefoucauld’s: “Il est difficile de definer l’amour: ce qu’on en peut dire est que, dans l’ame, c’est un passion de regner; dans les esprits, c’est une sympathie; et dans le corps, ce n’est qu’une envie cachée et delicate de posséder ce que l’on aime, après beaucoup de mystères.” Yes, I loved her with all my heart, with all my soul, but to me I recognised that it was not permitted. My duty, the duty I had promised to fulfil to that dying man whose life-story had been a secret romance, was to act as Mabel’s protector, and not to become her lover and thus profit by her wealth. Blair had left his secret to me, in order, no doubt, to place me beyond the necessity of fortune-hunting, and as it had been lost it was my duty to him and to myself to spare no effort to recover it.With these sentiments firmly established within my heart I entered thewagon-litat Calais, and started on the first stage of my journey across Europe from the Channel to the Mediterranean.Three days later I was strolling up the Via Tornabuoni, in Florence, that thoroughfare of mediaeval palaces, banks, consulates and chemists’ shops that had been so familiar to me each winter, until I had taken to hunting in England in preference to the sunshine of the Lung’ Arno and the Cascine. Indeed, some of my early years had been spent in Italy, and I had grown to love it, as every Englishman does. In that bright February morning as I passed up the long, crooked street, filled by the nonchalant Florentines and the wealthy foreigners out for an airing, I passed many men and women of my acquaintance. Doney’s and Giacosa’s, the favourite lounges of the men, were agog with rich idlers sipping cocktails or that seductivepetit verreknown in the Via Tornabuoni as apiccolo, the baskets of the flower-sellers gave a welcome touch of colour to the grim grey of the colossal Palace of the Strozzi, while from the consulates the flags of various nations, most conspicuous of all being that of the ever-popular “Major,” reminded me that it was thefestàof Santa Margherita.In the old days, when I used to liveen pensionwith a couple of Italian artillery officers and a Dutch art-student in the top floor of one of those great old palaces in the Via dei Banchi, the Via Tornabuoni used to be my morning walk, for there one meets everybody, the ladies shopping or going to the libraries, and the men gossiping on the kerb—a habit quickly acquired by every Englishman who takes up his abode in Italy.It was astonishing, too, what a crowd of well-known faces I passed that morning—English peers and peeresses, Members of Parliament, financial magnates, City sharks, manufacturers, and tourists of every grade and of every nation.His Highness the Count of Turin, returning from drill, rode by laughing with his aide-de-camp and saluting those he knew. The women mostly wore their smartest toilettes with fur, because a cold wind came up from the Arno, the scent of flowers was in the air, bright laughter and incessant chatter sounded everywhere, and the red-roofed old Lily City was alive with gaiety. Perhaps no city in all the world is so full of charm nor so full of contrasts as quaint old Florence, with her wonderful cathedral, her antique bridge with rows of jewellers’ shops upon it, her magnificent churches, her ponderous palaces, and her dark, silent, mediaeval streets, little changed, some of them, since the days when they were trodden by Giotto and by Dante. Time has laid his hand lightly indeed upon the City of Flowers, but whenever he has done so he has altered it out of all recognition, and the garish modernity of certain streets and piazzas surely grates to-day upon those who, like myself, knew the old city before the Piazza Vittorio—always the Piazza Vittorio, synonym of vandalism—had been constructed, and the old Ghetto, picturesque if unclean, was still in existence.Two men, both of them Italian, stopped to salute me as I walked, and to wish meben tornato. One was an advocate whose wife was accredited one of the prettiest women in that city where, strangely enough, the most striking type of beauty is fair-haired. The other was the Cavaliere Alinari, secretary to the British Consul-General, or the “Major,” as everybody speaks of him.I had only arrived in Florence two hours before, and, after a wash at theSavoy, had gone forth with the object of cashing a cheque at French’s, prior to commencing my inquiries.Meeting Alinari, however, caused me to halt for a moment, and after he had expressed pleasure at my return, I asked—“Do you, by any chance, happen to know any one by the name of Melandrini—Paolo Melandrini? His address is given me as Via San Cristofano, number eight.”He looked at me rather strangely with his sharp eyes, stroked his dark beard a moment, and replied in English, with a slight accent—“The address does not sound very inviting, Mr Greenwood. I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, but the Via San Cristofano is one of the poorest and worst streets in Florence, just behind Santa Croce from the Via Ghibellina. I should not advise you to enter that quarter at night. There are some very bad characters there.”“Well,” I explained, “the fact is I have come down here expressly to ascertain some facts concerning this person.”“Then don’t do it yourself,” was my friend’s strong advice. “Employ some one who is a Florentine. If it is a case of confidential inquiries, he will certainly be much more successful than you can ever be. The moment you set foot in that street it would be known in every tenement that an Inglese was asking questions. And,” he added with a meaning smile, “they resent questions being asked in the Via San Cristofano.”
The function in the library at Grosvenor Square on the following afternoon was, as may be supposed, a very sad and painful one.
Mabel Blair, dressed in deep mourning, her eyes betraying traces of tears, sat still and silent while the solicitor drily read over the will, clause by clause.
She made no comment, even when he repeated the dead man’s appointment of the unknown Italian to be manager of his daughter’s fortune.
“But who is he, pray?” demanded Mrs Percival, in her quiet, refined voice. “I have never heard Mr Blair speak of any such person.”
“Nor have I,” admitted Leighton, pausing a moment to readjust his glasses, and then continuing to read the document through to the end.
We were all thoroughly glad when the formality was over. Afterwards, Mabel whispered to me that she wished to see me alone in the morning-room, and when we had entered together and I had closed the door, she said—
“Last night I searched the small safe in my father’s bedroom where he sometimes kept his private papers and things. There were a quantity of my poor mother’s letters, written to him years ago when he was at sea, but nothing else, only this.” And she drew from her pocket a small, soiled and frayed playing-card, an ace of hearts, upon which certain cabalistic capitals had been written in three columns. In order that you shall properly understand the arrangement and position of the letters, it will perhaps be as well if I here reproduce it:—
“That’s curious!” I remarked, turning it over anxiously in my hand. “Have you tried to discover what meaning the words convey?”
“Yes; but it’s some cipher or other, I think. You will notice that the two upper columns commence with ‘A,’ and the lower column ends with the same letter. The card is the ace of hearts, and in all those points I detect some hidden meaning.”
“No doubt,” I said. “But was there an appearance of it being carefully preserved?”
“Yes, it was sealed in a linen-lined envelope to itself, and marked in my father’s handwriting, ‘Burton Blair—private.’ I wonder what it means?”
“Ah! I wonder,” I exclaimed, pondering deeply, and still gazing upon the three columns of fourteen letters. I tried to decipher it by the usual known methods of the easy cipher, but could make nothing intelligible of it. There were some hidden words there, and being utterly unintelligible, they caused me considerable thought. Why Blair had preserved that card in such secrecy was, to say the least, a mystery. In it I suspected there was some hidden clue to his secret, but of its nature I could not even guess.
When we had discussed it for a long time, arriving at no satisfactory conclusion, I suggested that she should go abroad with Mrs Percival for a few weeks so as to change her surroundings and endeavour to forget her sudden bereavement, but she only shook her head, murmuring—
“No, I prefer to remain here. The loss of my poor father would be the same to me abroad as it is here.”
“But you must endeavour to forget,” I urged with deep sympathy. “We are doing our utmost to solve the mystery surrounding your father’s actions, and the means by which he came by his death. To-night, indeed, I am leaving for Italy in order to make secret inquiries regarding this person who is appointed your secretary.”
“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I wonder who he is? I wonder what motive my father could possibly have in placing my affairs in the hands of a stranger?”
“He is probably an old friend of your father’s,” I suggested.
“No,” she responded, “I knew all his friends. He had only one secret from me—the secret of the source of his wealth. That he always refused point-blank to tell me.”
“I shall travel direct to Florence, and discover what I can before the lawyers give this mysterious person notice of your father’s death,” I said. “I may obtain some knowledge which will be of the greatest benefit to us hereafter.”
“Ah! it is really very good of you, Mr Greenwood,” she answered, lifting her beautiful eyes to mine with an expression of profound gratitude. “I must admit that the idea of being closely associated with a stranger, and that stranger a foreigner, causes me considerable apprehension.”
“But he may be young and good-looking, the veritable Paolo of romance—and you his Francesca,” I suggested, smiling.
Her sweet lips relaxed slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she answered—
“Please don’t anticipate anything of the kind. I only hope he may be old and very ugly.”
“So that he will not arouse my jealousy—eh?” I laughed. “Really, Mabel, if our friendship were not upon such a well-defined basis, I should allow myself to act the part of lover. You know I—”
“Now don’t be foolish,” she interrupted, raising her small finger in mock reproval. “Remember what you said yesterday.”
“I said what I meant.”
“And so did I. To tell you the truth, I like to think of you as my big brother,” she declared. “I suppose I shall never love,” she added, reflectively, gazing into the blazing fire.
“No, no; don’t say that, Mabel. You’ll one day meet some man in your own station, love him, marry and be happy,” I said, my hand upon her shoulder. “Recollect that with your wealth you can secure the pick of the matrimonial market.”
“Some impoverished young aristocrat, you mean? No, thanks. I’ve already met a good many, but their disguise of affection has always been much too thin. Most of them wanted my money to pay off mortgages on their estates. No, I’d much prefer a poor man—although I shallnevermarry—never.”
I was silent for a moment, then I remarked quite bluntly—
“I always thought you would marry young Lord Newborough. You both seemed very good friends.”
“So we were—until he proposed to me.”
And she looked me straight in the face with that clear gaze and those splendid eyes wide open in wonderment, almost like a child’s.
Her character was a strangely complex one. As a tall, willowy girl, in those early days of our acquaintance, I knew her to be high-minded and wilful, yet of that sweet affectionate disposition that endeared her to every one with whom she came into contact. Her nature was so calm and so sweet that in her love seemed an unconscious impulse. I had often thought she was surely too soft, too good, too fair to be cast among the briers of the world, and fall and bleed upon the thorns of life. The world is just as cold and pitiless and just as full of pitfalls for the young and unwary in Mayfair as in Mile End. Hence, to fulfil my promise to that man now silent in his grave, it was my duty to protect her from the thousand and one wiles of those who would endeavour to profit by sex and inexperience.
Her early privations, her hard life in youth while her father was absent at sea, and those weary months of tramping the turnpikes of England, all had had their effect upon her. With her, love seemed to be scarcely a passion or a sentiment, but a dreamy enchantment, a reverie which a fairy spell dissolved or riveted at pleasure. So exquisitely delicate was her character, just as was her countenance, that it seemed as if a touch would profane it. Like a strain of sad, sweet music which comes floating by on the wings of night and silence, and which we rather feel than hear, like the exhalation of the violet dying even upon the sense it charms, like the snow-flake dissolved in air before it has caught a stain of earth, like the light surf severed from the billow which a breath disperses—such was her nature, so full of that modesty, grace and tenderness without which a woman is no woman.
As she stood there before me, a frail, delicate figure in her plain black gown, and her hand in mine, thanking me for the investigation which I was undertaking in her behalf, and wishing mebon voyage, I shuddered to think of her thrown alone amid harsh and adverse destinies, and amid all the corruptions and sharks of society, perhaps without energy to resist, or will to act, or strength to endure. Alone in such a case, the end must inevitably be desolation.
I wished her farewell, turning from her with a feeling that, loving her as I admit I did, I was nevertheless unworthy of her. Yet surely I was playing a dangerous game!
I had entertained a strong and increasing affection for her ever since that winter’s night down at Helpstone. Still, now that she was possessor of vast wealth, I felt that the difference in our ages and the fact that I was a poor man were both barriers to our marriage. Indeed, she had never exerted any of the feminine wiles of flirtation towards me; she had never once allowed me to think that I had captivated her. She had spoken the truth. She regarded me as an elder brother—that was all.
That same night, as I paced the deck of the Channel steamer in the teeth of a wintry gale, watching the revolving light of Calais harbour growing more and more distinct, my thoughts were full of her. Love is the teacher, grief the tamer, and time the healer of the human heart. While the engines throbbed, the wind howled and the dark seas swirled past, I paced up and down puzzling over the playing-card in my pocket and reflecting upon all that had occurred. The rich fancies of unbowed youth, the visions of long-perished hopes, the shadows of unborn joys, the gay colourings of the dawn of existence—what ever my memory had treasured up, came before me in review, but lived no longer within my heart.
I recollected that truism of Rochefoucauld’s: “Il est difficile de definer l’amour: ce qu’on en peut dire est que, dans l’ame, c’est un passion de regner; dans les esprits, c’est une sympathie; et dans le corps, ce n’est qu’une envie cachée et delicate de posséder ce que l’on aime, après beaucoup de mystères.” Yes, I loved her with all my heart, with all my soul, but to me I recognised that it was not permitted. My duty, the duty I had promised to fulfil to that dying man whose life-story had been a secret romance, was to act as Mabel’s protector, and not to become her lover and thus profit by her wealth. Blair had left his secret to me, in order, no doubt, to place me beyond the necessity of fortune-hunting, and as it had been lost it was my duty to him and to myself to spare no effort to recover it.
With these sentiments firmly established within my heart I entered thewagon-litat Calais, and started on the first stage of my journey across Europe from the Channel to the Mediterranean.
Three days later I was strolling up the Via Tornabuoni, in Florence, that thoroughfare of mediaeval palaces, banks, consulates and chemists’ shops that had been so familiar to me each winter, until I had taken to hunting in England in preference to the sunshine of the Lung’ Arno and the Cascine. Indeed, some of my early years had been spent in Italy, and I had grown to love it, as every Englishman does. In that bright February morning as I passed up the long, crooked street, filled by the nonchalant Florentines and the wealthy foreigners out for an airing, I passed many men and women of my acquaintance. Doney’s and Giacosa’s, the favourite lounges of the men, were agog with rich idlers sipping cocktails or that seductivepetit verreknown in the Via Tornabuoni as apiccolo, the baskets of the flower-sellers gave a welcome touch of colour to the grim grey of the colossal Palace of the Strozzi, while from the consulates the flags of various nations, most conspicuous of all being that of the ever-popular “Major,” reminded me that it was thefestàof Santa Margherita.
In the old days, when I used to liveen pensionwith a couple of Italian artillery officers and a Dutch art-student in the top floor of one of those great old palaces in the Via dei Banchi, the Via Tornabuoni used to be my morning walk, for there one meets everybody, the ladies shopping or going to the libraries, and the men gossiping on the kerb—a habit quickly acquired by every Englishman who takes up his abode in Italy.
It was astonishing, too, what a crowd of well-known faces I passed that morning—English peers and peeresses, Members of Parliament, financial magnates, City sharks, manufacturers, and tourists of every grade and of every nation.
His Highness the Count of Turin, returning from drill, rode by laughing with his aide-de-camp and saluting those he knew. The women mostly wore their smartest toilettes with fur, because a cold wind came up from the Arno, the scent of flowers was in the air, bright laughter and incessant chatter sounded everywhere, and the red-roofed old Lily City was alive with gaiety. Perhaps no city in all the world is so full of charm nor so full of contrasts as quaint old Florence, with her wonderful cathedral, her antique bridge with rows of jewellers’ shops upon it, her magnificent churches, her ponderous palaces, and her dark, silent, mediaeval streets, little changed, some of them, since the days when they were trodden by Giotto and by Dante. Time has laid his hand lightly indeed upon the City of Flowers, but whenever he has done so he has altered it out of all recognition, and the garish modernity of certain streets and piazzas surely grates to-day upon those who, like myself, knew the old city before the Piazza Vittorio—always the Piazza Vittorio, synonym of vandalism—had been constructed, and the old Ghetto, picturesque if unclean, was still in existence.
Two men, both of them Italian, stopped to salute me as I walked, and to wish meben tornato. One was an advocate whose wife was accredited one of the prettiest women in that city where, strangely enough, the most striking type of beauty is fair-haired. The other was the Cavaliere Alinari, secretary to the British Consul-General, or the “Major,” as everybody speaks of him.
I had only arrived in Florence two hours before, and, after a wash at theSavoy, had gone forth with the object of cashing a cheque at French’s, prior to commencing my inquiries.
Meeting Alinari, however, caused me to halt for a moment, and after he had expressed pleasure at my return, I asked—
“Do you, by any chance, happen to know any one by the name of Melandrini—Paolo Melandrini? His address is given me as Via San Cristofano, number eight.”
He looked at me rather strangely with his sharp eyes, stroked his dark beard a moment, and replied in English, with a slight accent—
“The address does not sound very inviting, Mr Greenwood. I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, but the Via San Cristofano is one of the poorest and worst streets in Florence, just behind Santa Croce from the Via Ghibellina. I should not advise you to enter that quarter at night. There are some very bad characters there.”
“Well,” I explained, “the fact is I have come down here expressly to ascertain some facts concerning this person.”
“Then don’t do it yourself,” was my friend’s strong advice. “Employ some one who is a Florentine. If it is a case of confidential inquiries, he will certainly be much more successful than you can ever be. The moment you set foot in that street it would be known in every tenement that an Inglese was asking questions. And,” he added with a meaning smile, “they resent questions being asked in the Via San Cristofano.”
Chapter Seven.The Mysterious Foreigner.I felt that his advice was good, and in further conversation over apiccoloat Giacosa’s he suggested that I should employ a very shrewd but ugly little old man named Carlini, who sometimes made confidential inquiries on behalf of the Consulate.An hour later the old man called at theSavoy, a bent, shuffling, white-headed old fellow, shabbily dressed, with a grey soft felt rather greasy hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head—a typical Florentine of the people. They called him “Babbo Carlini” in the markets, I afterwards learned, and cooks and servant-girls were fond of playing pranks upon him. Believed by every one to be a little childish, he fostered the idea because it gave him greater facilities in his secret inquiries, for he was regularly employed by the police in serious cases, and through his shrewdness many a criminal had been brought to justice.In the privacy of my bedroom I explained in Italian the mission I wished him to execute for me.“Si, signore,” was all he responded, and this at every pause I made.His boots were sadly cracked and down at heel, and he was badly in want of clean linen, but from his handkerchief pocket there arose a small row of “toscani,” those long, thin, penny cigars so dear to the Italian palate.“Recollect,” I impressed upon the old fellow, “you must, if possible, find a way of striking up an acquaintance with this individual, Paolo Melandrini, obtain from him all you can about himself, and arrange so that I have, as soon as possible, an opportunity of seeing him without being myself observed. This matter,” I added, “is strictly confidential, and I engage you for one week in my service at a wage of two hundred and fifty lire. Here are one hundred to pay your current expenses.”He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hand, and with a muttered “Tanti grazie, signore,” transferred it to the inner pocket of his shabby jacket.“You must on no account allow the man to suspect that any inquiry is being made concerning him. Mind that he knows nothing of any Englishman in Florence asking about him, or it will arouse his suspicions at once. Be very careful in all that you say and do, and report to me to-night. At what time shall I meet you?”“Late,” the old fellow grunted. “He may be a working-man, and if so I shall not be able to see anything of him till evening. I’ll call here at eleven o’clock to-night,” and then he shuffled out, leaving an odour of stale garlic and strong tobacco.I began to wonder what the hotel people would think of me entertaining such a visitor, for theSavoyis one of the smartest in Florence, but my apprehensions were quickly dispelled, for as we passed out I heard the uniformed hall-porter exclaim in Italian—“Hulloa, Babbo! Got a fresh job?”To which the old fellow only grinned in satisfaction, and with another grunt passed out into the sunshine.That day passed long and anxiously. I idled on the Ponte Vecchio and in the dim religious gloom of the Santissima Anunziata, in the afternoon making several calls upon friends I had known, and in the evening dining at Doney’s in preference to the crowdedtable-d’hôteof English and Americans at theSavoy.At eleven I awaited old Carlini in the hall of the hotel, and on his arrival took him anxiously in the lift up to my room.“Well,” he commenced, speaking in his slightly-lisping Florentine tongue, “I have been pursuing inquiries all day, but have discovered very little. The individual you require appears to be a mystery.”“I expected so,” was my reply. “What have you discovered regarding him?”“They know him in Via San Cristofano. He has a small apartment on the third floor of number eight, which he only visits occasionally. The place is looked after by an old woman of eighty, whom I managed to question. Discovering that this Melandrini was absent and that a cloth was hanging from the window to dry, I presented myself as an agent of police to explain that the hanging out of a cloth was a contravention of the law and liable to a fine of two francs. I then obtained from her a few facts concerning herpadrone. She told me all she knew, which did not amount to much. He had a habit of arriving suddenly, generally at evening, and staying there for one or two days, never emerging in the daytime. Where he lived at other times she did not know. Letters often came for him bearing an English stamp, and she kept them. Indeed, she showed me one that arrived ten days ago and is now awaiting him.”Could it be from Blair, I wondered?“What was the character of the handwriting on the envelope?” I inquired.“An English hand—thick and heavy. Signore was spelt wrongly, I noticed.”Blair’s hand was thick, for he generally wrote with a quill. I longed to examine it for myself.“Then this old serving-woman has no idea of the individual’s address?”“None whatever. He told her that if any one ever called for him to say that his movements are uncertain, and that any message must be left in writing.”“What is the place like?”“Poorly furnished, and very dirty and neglected. The old woman is nearly blind and very feeble.”“Does she describe him as a gentleman?”“I could not ask her for his description, but from inquiries in other quarters I learned that he was in all probability a person who was in trouble with the police, or something of that sort. A man who kept a wine-shop at the end of the street told me in confidence that about six months before, two men, evidently agents of police, had been very active in their inquiries concerning him. They had set a watch upon the house for a month, but he had not returned. He described him as, a middle-aged man with a beard, who was very reticent, who wore glasses, spoke with just a slight foreign accent, and who seldom entered any wine-shop and who scarcely ever passed the time of day with his neighbours. Yet he was evidently well off, for on several occasions, on hearing of distress among the families living in that street, he had surreptitiously visited them and dispensed charity to a no mean degree. Apparently it is this which has inspired respect, while, in addition, he seems to have purposely surrounded his identity by mystery.”“With some object, no doubt,” I remarked.“Certainly,” was the queer old man’s response. “All my inquiries tend to show he is a man of secrecy and that he is concealing his real identity.”“It may be that he keeps those rooms merely as an address for letters,” I suggested.“Do you know, signore, that is my own opinion?” he said. “He may live in another part of Florence for aught we know.”“We must find out. Before I leave here it is imperative that I should know all about him, therefore I will assist you to watch for his return.”Babbo shook his head and fingered his long cigar, which he was longing to smoke.“No, signore. You must not appear in the Via San Cristofana. They would note your presence instantly. Leave all to me. I will employ an assistant, and we shall, I hope, before long be shadowing this mysterious individual.”Recollecting that strange letter in Italian which I had secured from the dead man’s effects, I asked the old fellow if he knew any place called San Frediano—the place appointed for the meeting between the man now dead and the writer of the letter.“Certainly,” was his reply. “There is the market of San Frediano behind the Carmine. And, of course, there is the Church of San Frediano in Lucca.”“In Lucca!” I echoed. “Ah, but it is not Florence.”Nevertheless, now I recollected, the letter distinctly appointed the hour of meeting “at vespers.” The place arranged was therefore most certainly a church.“Do you know of any other Church of San Frediano?” I inquired.“Only the one in Lucca.”It was evident, then, that the meeting was to take place there on the 6th of March. If I did not ascertain any further facts concerning Paolo Melandrini in the meantime, I resolved to keep the appointment and watch who should be present.I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, seated in a low easy-chair, the old fellow soon filled my room with the strong fumes of his cheap cigar, at the same time relating to me in narrow details all that he had gathered in that Florentine slum.The secret connexion between Burton Blair and this mysterious Italian was a problem I could not solve. There was evidently some strong motive why he should appoint him controller of Mabel’s fortune, yet it was all an utter enigma, just as much as the mysterious source from which the millionaire had obtained his vast wealth.Whatever we discovered I knew that it must be some strange revelation. From the first moment I had met the wayfarer and his daughter, they had been surrounded by striking romance, which had now deepened, and become more inexplicable by the death of that bluff, hearty man with a secret.I could not help strongly suspecting that the man Melandrini, whose movements were so mysterious and suspicious, had had some hand in filching from Blair that curious little possession of his which he had, in his will, bequeathed to my keeping. This was a strange fancy of mine, and one which, try how I would, I could not put aside. So erratic seemed the man’s movements that, for aught I knew, he might have been in England at the time of Blair’s death—if so, then the suspicion against him was gravely increased.I was feverishly anxious to return to London, but unable yet to do so ere my inquiries were completed. A whole week went by, and Carlini, employing his son-in-law, a dark-haired young man of low class, as his assistant, kept vigilant watch upon the house both night and day, but to no avail. Paolo Melandrini did not appear to claim the letter from England that was awaiting him.One evening by judiciously bribing the old servant with twenty francs, Carlini obtained the letter in question, and brought it for me to see. In the privacy of my room we boiled a kettle, steamed the flap of the envelope, and took out the sheet of notepaper it contained.It was from Blair. Dated from Grosvenor Square eighteen days before, it was in English, and read as follows:—“I will meet you if you really wish it. I will bring out the papers with me and trust in you to employ persons who know how to keep their mouths shut. My address in reply will be Mr John Marshall, Grand Hotel, Birmingham.“B.B.”The mystery increased. Why did Blair wish for the employment of persons who would remain silent? What was the nature of the work that was so very confidential?Evidently Blair took every precaution in receiving communications from the Italian, causing him to address his letters in various names to various hotels whither he went to stay a night, and thus claim them.Mabel had often told me of her father’s frequent absences from home, he sometimes being away a week or fortnight, or even three weeks, without leaving his address behind. His erratic movements were now accounted for.Consumed by anxiety I waited day after day, spending hours on that maddening cipher on the playing-card, until, on the morning of the 6th of March, Carlini having been unsuccessful in Florence, I took him with me up to the old city of Lucca, which, travelling by way of Pistoja, we reached about two o’clock in the afternoon.At theUniversoI was given that enormous bedroom with the wonderful frescoes which was for so long occupied by Ruskin, and just before the Ave Maria clanged away over the hills and plains, I parted from Babbo and strolled tourist-wise into the magnificent old mediaeval church, the darkness of which was illuminated only by the candles burning at the side altars and the cluster before the statue of Our Lady.Vespers were in progress, and the deathlike stillness of the great interior was only broken by the low murmuring of the bowed priest.Only about a dozen persons were present, all of them being women—all save one, a man who, standing back in the shadow behind one of the huge circular columns, was waiting there in patience, while of the others all were kneeling.Turning suddenly on hearing my light footstep upon the marble flags, I met him next second face to face.I drew a quick breath, then stood rooted to the spot in blank and utter amazement.The mystery was far greater than even I had imagined it to be. The truth that dawned upon me was staggering and utterly bewildering.
I felt that his advice was good, and in further conversation over apiccoloat Giacosa’s he suggested that I should employ a very shrewd but ugly little old man named Carlini, who sometimes made confidential inquiries on behalf of the Consulate.
An hour later the old man called at theSavoy, a bent, shuffling, white-headed old fellow, shabbily dressed, with a grey soft felt rather greasy hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head—a typical Florentine of the people. They called him “Babbo Carlini” in the markets, I afterwards learned, and cooks and servant-girls were fond of playing pranks upon him. Believed by every one to be a little childish, he fostered the idea because it gave him greater facilities in his secret inquiries, for he was regularly employed by the police in serious cases, and through his shrewdness many a criminal had been brought to justice.
In the privacy of my bedroom I explained in Italian the mission I wished him to execute for me.
“Si, signore,” was all he responded, and this at every pause I made.
His boots were sadly cracked and down at heel, and he was badly in want of clean linen, but from his handkerchief pocket there arose a small row of “toscani,” those long, thin, penny cigars so dear to the Italian palate.
“Recollect,” I impressed upon the old fellow, “you must, if possible, find a way of striking up an acquaintance with this individual, Paolo Melandrini, obtain from him all you can about himself, and arrange so that I have, as soon as possible, an opportunity of seeing him without being myself observed. This matter,” I added, “is strictly confidential, and I engage you for one week in my service at a wage of two hundred and fifty lire. Here are one hundred to pay your current expenses.”
He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hand, and with a muttered “Tanti grazie, signore,” transferred it to the inner pocket of his shabby jacket.
“You must on no account allow the man to suspect that any inquiry is being made concerning him. Mind that he knows nothing of any Englishman in Florence asking about him, or it will arouse his suspicions at once. Be very careful in all that you say and do, and report to me to-night. At what time shall I meet you?”
“Late,” the old fellow grunted. “He may be a working-man, and if so I shall not be able to see anything of him till evening. I’ll call here at eleven o’clock to-night,” and then he shuffled out, leaving an odour of stale garlic and strong tobacco.
I began to wonder what the hotel people would think of me entertaining such a visitor, for theSavoyis one of the smartest in Florence, but my apprehensions were quickly dispelled, for as we passed out I heard the uniformed hall-porter exclaim in Italian—
“Hulloa, Babbo! Got a fresh job?”
To which the old fellow only grinned in satisfaction, and with another grunt passed out into the sunshine.
That day passed long and anxiously. I idled on the Ponte Vecchio and in the dim religious gloom of the Santissima Anunziata, in the afternoon making several calls upon friends I had known, and in the evening dining at Doney’s in preference to the crowdedtable-d’hôteof English and Americans at theSavoy.
At eleven I awaited old Carlini in the hall of the hotel, and on his arrival took him anxiously in the lift up to my room.
“Well,” he commenced, speaking in his slightly-lisping Florentine tongue, “I have been pursuing inquiries all day, but have discovered very little. The individual you require appears to be a mystery.”
“I expected so,” was my reply. “What have you discovered regarding him?”
“They know him in Via San Cristofano. He has a small apartment on the third floor of number eight, which he only visits occasionally. The place is looked after by an old woman of eighty, whom I managed to question. Discovering that this Melandrini was absent and that a cloth was hanging from the window to dry, I presented myself as an agent of police to explain that the hanging out of a cloth was a contravention of the law and liable to a fine of two francs. I then obtained from her a few facts concerning herpadrone. She told me all she knew, which did not amount to much. He had a habit of arriving suddenly, generally at evening, and staying there for one or two days, never emerging in the daytime. Where he lived at other times she did not know. Letters often came for him bearing an English stamp, and she kept them. Indeed, she showed me one that arrived ten days ago and is now awaiting him.”
Could it be from Blair, I wondered?
“What was the character of the handwriting on the envelope?” I inquired.
“An English hand—thick and heavy. Signore was spelt wrongly, I noticed.”
Blair’s hand was thick, for he generally wrote with a quill. I longed to examine it for myself.
“Then this old serving-woman has no idea of the individual’s address?”
“None whatever. He told her that if any one ever called for him to say that his movements are uncertain, and that any message must be left in writing.”
“What is the place like?”
“Poorly furnished, and very dirty and neglected. The old woman is nearly blind and very feeble.”
“Does she describe him as a gentleman?”
“I could not ask her for his description, but from inquiries in other quarters I learned that he was in all probability a person who was in trouble with the police, or something of that sort. A man who kept a wine-shop at the end of the street told me in confidence that about six months before, two men, evidently agents of police, had been very active in their inquiries concerning him. They had set a watch upon the house for a month, but he had not returned. He described him as, a middle-aged man with a beard, who was very reticent, who wore glasses, spoke with just a slight foreign accent, and who seldom entered any wine-shop and who scarcely ever passed the time of day with his neighbours. Yet he was evidently well off, for on several occasions, on hearing of distress among the families living in that street, he had surreptitiously visited them and dispensed charity to a no mean degree. Apparently it is this which has inspired respect, while, in addition, he seems to have purposely surrounded his identity by mystery.”
“With some object, no doubt,” I remarked.
“Certainly,” was the queer old man’s response. “All my inquiries tend to show he is a man of secrecy and that he is concealing his real identity.”
“It may be that he keeps those rooms merely as an address for letters,” I suggested.
“Do you know, signore, that is my own opinion?” he said. “He may live in another part of Florence for aught we know.”
“We must find out. Before I leave here it is imperative that I should know all about him, therefore I will assist you to watch for his return.”
Babbo shook his head and fingered his long cigar, which he was longing to smoke.
“No, signore. You must not appear in the Via San Cristofana. They would note your presence instantly. Leave all to me. I will employ an assistant, and we shall, I hope, before long be shadowing this mysterious individual.”
Recollecting that strange letter in Italian which I had secured from the dead man’s effects, I asked the old fellow if he knew any place called San Frediano—the place appointed for the meeting between the man now dead and the writer of the letter.
“Certainly,” was his reply. “There is the market of San Frediano behind the Carmine. And, of course, there is the Church of San Frediano in Lucca.”
“In Lucca!” I echoed. “Ah, but it is not Florence.”
Nevertheless, now I recollected, the letter distinctly appointed the hour of meeting “at vespers.” The place arranged was therefore most certainly a church.
“Do you know of any other Church of San Frediano?” I inquired.
“Only the one in Lucca.”
It was evident, then, that the meeting was to take place there on the 6th of March. If I did not ascertain any further facts concerning Paolo Melandrini in the meantime, I resolved to keep the appointment and watch who should be present.
I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, seated in a low easy-chair, the old fellow soon filled my room with the strong fumes of his cheap cigar, at the same time relating to me in narrow details all that he had gathered in that Florentine slum.
The secret connexion between Burton Blair and this mysterious Italian was a problem I could not solve. There was evidently some strong motive why he should appoint him controller of Mabel’s fortune, yet it was all an utter enigma, just as much as the mysterious source from which the millionaire had obtained his vast wealth.
Whatever we discovered I knew that it must be some strange revelation. From the first moment I had met the wayfarer and his daughter, they had been surrounded by striking romance, which had now deepened, and become more inexplicable by the death of that bluff, hearty man with a secret.
I could not help strongly suspecting that the man Melandrini, whose movements were so mysterious and suspicious, had had some hand in filching from Blair that curious little possession of his which he had, in his will, bequeathed to my keeping. This was a strange fancy of mine, and one which, try how I would, I could not put aside. So erratic seemed the man’s movements that, for aught I knew, he might have been in England at the time of Blair’s death—if so, then the suspicion against him was gravely increased.
I was feverishly anxious to return to London, but unable yet to do so ere my inquiries were completed. A whole week went by, and Carlini, employing his son-in-law, a dark-haired young man of low class, as his assistant, kept vigilant watch upon the house both night and day, but to no avail. Paolo Melandrini did not appear to claim the letter from England that was awaiting him.
One evening by judiciously bribing the old servant with twenty francs, Carlini obtained the letter in question, and brought it for me to see. In the privacy of my room we boiled a kettle, steamed the flap of the envelope, and took out the sheet of notepaper it contained.
It was from Blair. Dated from Grosvenor Square eighteen days before, it was in English, and read as follows:—
“I will meet you if you really wish it. I will bring out the papers with me and trust in you to employ persons who know how to keep their mouths shut. My address in reply will be Mr John Marshall, Grand Hotel, Birmingham.
“B.B.”
The mystery increased. Why did Blair wish for the employment of persons who would remain silent? What was the nature of the work that was so very confidential?
Evidently Blair took every precaution in receiving communications from the Italian, causing him to address his letters in various names to various hotels whither he went to stay a night, and thus claim them.
Mabel had often told me of her father’s frequent absences from home, he sometimes being away a week or fortnight, or even three weeks, without leaving his address behind. His erratic movements were now accounted for.
Consumed by anxiety I waited day after day, spending hours on that maddening cipher on the playing-card, until, on the morning of the 6th of March, Carlini having been unsuccessful in Florence, I took him with me up to the old city of Lucca, which, travelling by way of Pistoja, we reached about two o’clock in the afternoon.
At theUniversoI was given that enormous bedroom with the wonderful frescoes which was for so long occupied by Ruskin, and just before the Ave Maria clanged away over the hills and plains, I parted from Babbo and strolled tourist-wise into the magnificent old mediaeval church, the darkness of which was illuminated only by the candles burning at the side altars and the cluster before the statue of Our Lady.
Vespers were in progress, and the deathlike stillness of the great interior was only broken by the low murmuring of the bowed priest.
Only about a dozen persons were present, all of them being women—all save one, a man who, standing back in the shadow behind one of the huge circular columns, was waiting there in patience, while of the others all were kneeling.
Turning suddenly on hearing my light footstep upon the marble flags, I met him next second face to face.
I drew a quick breath, then stood rooted to the spot in blank and utter amazement.
The mystery was far greater than even I had imagined it to be. The truth that dawned upon me was staggering and utterly bewildering.
Chapter Eight.In which the Truth is Spoken.The fine old church, with its heavy gildings, its tawdry altars and its magnificent frescoes, was in such gloom that at first, on entering from the street, I could distinguish nothing plainly, but as soon as my eyes became accustomed to the light I saw within a few yards of me a countenance that was distinctly familiar, a face that caused me to pause in anxious breathlessness.Standing there, behind those scattered kneeling women, with the faint, flickering light of the altar candles illuminating his face just sufficiently, the man’s head was bowed in reverence and yet his dark, beady eyes seemed darting everywhere. By his features—those hard, rather sinister features and greyish scraggy beard that I had once before seen—I knew that he was the man who had made the secret appointment with Burton Blair, yet, contrary to my expectations, he was attired in the rough brown habit and rope girdle of a Capuchin lay brother, a silent, mournful figure as he stood with folded arms while the priest in his gorgeous vestments mumbled the prayers.In that twilight a sepulchral chill fell upon my shoulders; the sweet smell of the incense in the darkness seemed to increase with that world of incredible magnificence, of solitude gloomily enchanted, of wealth strangely incongruous with the squalor and poverty in the piazza outside. Beyond that silent monk whose piercing mysterious eyes were fixed upon me so inquiringly were dark receding distances, traversed here and there by rainbow beams that fell from some great window, while far off a dim red light was suspended from the high, vaulted roof.Those columns beside which I was standing rose straight to the roof, close and thick like high forest trees, testifying to the patient work of a whole generation of men all carved in living stone, all infinitely durable in spite of such rare delicacy and already transmitted to us from afar through the long-past centuries.The monk, that man whose bearded face I had seen once before in England, had thrown himself upon his knees, and was mumbling to himself and fingering the huge rosary suspended from his girdle.A woman dressed in black with the blacksantuzzaof the Lucchesi over her head had entered noiselessly, and was prostrated a few feet from me. She held a miserable baby at her breast, a child but a few months old, in whose shrivelled little face there was already the stamp of death. She was praying ardently for him, as the tapers gradually diminished, the penny tapers she had placed before the humble picture of Sant’ Antonio, this sorrowing creature. The contrast between the prodigious wealth around and the rags of the humble supplicant was overwhelming and cruel; between the persistent durability of those many thousand Saints draped in gold, and the frailty of that little being with no to-morrow.The woman was still kneeling, her lips moving in obstinate and vain repetitions. She looked at me, her eyes full of desolation, divining a pity no doubt in mine; then she turned her gaze upon the hooded Capuchin, the hard-faced, bearded man who held the key to the secret of Burton Blair.I stood behind the ponderous column, bowed but watchful. The poor woman, after a quick glance at the splendour around, turned her eyes more anxiously upon me—a stranger. Did I really think they would listen to her, those magnificent divinities?Ah! I did not know if they would listen. In her place I would rather have carried the child to one of those wayside shrines where the Virgin of thecontadinireigns. The Madonnas and Saints of Ghirlandajo and Civitali and Della Querica who inhabited that magnificent old church seemed somehow to be creatures of ceremony, hardened by secular pomp. Strange as it may seem, I could not imagine that they would occupy themselves with a poor old woman from the olive mill or with her deformed and dying child.Vespers ended. The dark, murmuring figures rose, shuffling away over the marble floor towards the door, and as the lights were quickly extinguished, the woman and her child became swallowed up in the gloom.I loitered, desiring that the Capuchin should pass me, in order that I could obtain a further view of him. Should I address him, or should I remain silent and set Babbo to watch him?He approached me slowly, his big hands hidden in the ample sleeves of his snuff-coloured habit, the garment which men of his order have new only once in ten years, and which they wear always, waking or sleeping.I had halted before the ancient tomb of Santa Zita, that patroness of Lucca whom Dante mentions in hisInferno. In the little chapel a single light was burning in the great antique lantern of gold, which the proud Lucchese placed there ages ago when the black plague was feared. As I turned, I saw that, although watching me narrowly, he still seemed to be awaiting the appearance of the man who was now, alas! no more. Yes, now that in a better light I could see his features, I had no hesitation in pronouncing him to be the same man I had met a year ago at Burton’s table in Grosvenor Square.I recollected the occasion well. It was in June, in the height of the London season, and Blair had invited me to dine with several bachelor friends and go to the Empire afterwards. The man now in a religious habit, shuffling along in his worn-out sandals, had presented the very different figure of the easy-going prosperous man-of-the-world, with a fine diamond in his shirt-front and a particularly well-cut dinner jacket. Burton had introduced him to us as Signor Salvi, the celebrated engineer, and he had sat at table opposite me and chatted in excellent English. He struck me as a man who had travelled very widely, especially in the Far East, and from certain expressions he let drop I concluded that, like Burton Blair, he had been to sea, and that he was a friend of the old days before the great secret became so profitable.The other men present on that occasion were all acquaintances of mine, two of them financiers in the City whose names were well known on the Stock Exchange, a third the heir to an earldom to which he had since succeeded, and the fourth Sir Charles Webb, a smart young Guardsman of the modern type. After a dinner of that exquisite character of which Burton Blair’s Frenchchefwas famous, we all drove to the Empire, and afterwards spent a couple of hours at the Grosvenor Club, concluding the evening at the Bachelors, of which Sir Charles was a member.Now as I stood within the hushed gloom of that grand old church, watching the dark mysterious figure pacing the aisle in patience and awaiting the person who would never come, I recollected what had, on that evening long ago, aroused within me a curious feeling of resentment against him. It was this. Having left the Empire, we were standing outside on the pavement in Leicester Square calling cabs, when I overheard the Italian exclaim in his own language to Blair, “I do not like that friend of yours—Greenwood. He is far too inquisitive.” At this my friend laughed, saying, “Ah,caro mio, you don’t know him. He is my very best friend.” The Italian grunted, replying, “He has been putting leading questions to me all the evening, and I have had to lie to him.” Again Blair laughed. “It is not the first time you’ve committed that sin,” was his answer. “No,” the other responded in a low voice, intending that I should not overhear him, “but if you introduce me to your friends be careful that they are not quite so astute or so inquisitive as this man Greenwood. He may be a good fellow, but even if he is he surely must not know our secret, if he did, it might mean ruin to us, remember!”And then, before Blair could make response, he mounted into a hansom which at that moment had pulled up at the kerb.From that moment I had entertained a distinct dislike of the man who had been introduced to me as Salvi, not that I hold every foreigner in suspicion as some insular Englishmen so foolishly do, but because he had endeavoured to poison Blair’s mind against me. Yet after a week the incident had entirely slipped my memory and I had never recollected it until that strange and unexpected re-encounter.Was it possible that this monk with the sun-bronzed, bearded face was the same man who rented that apartment in the Florence slum, and whose visits there were so surreptitious and mysterious? Perhaps so, because all the secrecy of his habitation would be accounted for by the fact that a Capuchin is not allowed to possess any property outside his monastery. Those infrequent visits to Florence might be made at times when, being a lay brother, he would no doubt be sent out into the country to collect from thecontadinialms and presents in kind for the poor in the city. Everywhere throughout Tuscany, in peasant’s hut as in prince’s palace, the humble, patient and charitable Capuchin is welcomed; a flask of wine and a crust is ready for him at the house of everycontadino, and in the villas and palaces of the rich there is always a place for him in the servants’ hall. How many of the Italian poor are saved annually from sheer starvation by the soup and bread dispensed daily at the door of every Capuchin monastery, it would be impossible to estimate. Suffice it to say that the Order in their snuff-coloured habits and their black skull-caps is the greatest and truest friend the starving poor possesses.Babbo Carlini was no doubt idling outside upon the steps of the church awaiting my reappearance. Would he, I wondered, recognise in this monk the description he had obtained of Paolo Melandrini, the unknown man who was to be Mabel Blair’s secretary and adviser?The last loiterers in the antique Chapel of the Holy Sacrament had left, their footsteps echoing away across the flags to the exit, and I found myself alone with the silent, almost statuesque, man beside whom I had, only one year before stood in the Grand Circle at the Empire watching and criticising a ballet.Should I address him and claim acquaintance? His openly-expressed disapproval of myself caused me to hesitate. It was quite apparent that he had held me in apprehension on that night at Grosvenor Square, therefore in the present circumstances his suspicion would undoubtedly become increased. Should I boldly address him and thus show my fearlessness, as well as my acquaintance with his subterfuges? or should I withdraw and watch his subsequent movements?I at length decided on the former course—for two reasons. The first was that I felt confident he had recognised me as Burton’s friend; and the second because in dealing with such a man the open declaration of knowledge is always the more advantageous in the end than the careful concealment of such facts as I already knew. If I set a watch upon him his suspicions would become heightened, whereas if I acted openly I might succeed in disarming him.Therefore, turning upon my heel, I strolled straight towards where he had halted as though he were patiently awaiting Blair’s arrival.“Pardon me, signore,” I exclaimed in Italian, “but if I mistake not we have met before—in London, a year ago—was it not?”“Ah,” he exclaimed, his face relaxing into a pleasant smile as he extended his big, hard hand, “I have been wondering all this time, Signor Greenwood, if you would recognise me is this dress. I am very pleased to resume our acquaintance—very.” And he emphasised his words, meant or feigned, by a strong, close grip.I expressed surprise at finding the erratic traveller and man-of-the-world to be, in reality, an inhabitant of the cloister, to which in a low voice, in reverence that we were within that sacred place, he responded—“I will tell you all about it later. It is not so remarkable as it no doubt strikes you. As a Capuchin I assure you my quiet, reflective life is far preferable to that of the man who, like yourself, mixes with the world and is compelled to live the fevered life of to-day, wherein fortunate unscrupulousness is accounted meritorious and the greatest of sins is that of one’s evil living being found out.”“Yes, I quite understand,” I replied, surprised nevertheless at his assertion and wondering whether, after all, he was merely attempting to mislead me. “The life of the cloister must be one of a sweet and infinite calm. But if I mistake not,” I added, “you are here by appointment to meet our mutual friend, Burton Blair.”He raised his dark eyebrows slightly, and I could have sworn that my words caused him to start. Yet so cleverly did he conceal any surprise I had caused him that he replied in a quiet, natural tone—“That is so. I am here to see him.”“Then I regret to tell you that you will never see him again,” I said in a low, earnest voice.“Why?” he gasped, his black eyes wide open in surprise.“Because,” I answered, “because poor Burton Blair is dead—and his secret has been stolen.”“What!” he cried, with a look of abject terror and in a voice so loud that his exclamation echoed along the high, vaulted roof. “Blair dead—and the secret stolen!Dio! impossible—impossible!”
The fine old church, with its heavy gildings, its tawdry altars and its magnificent frescoes, was in such gloom that at first, on entering from the street, I could distinguish nothing plainly, but as soon as my eyes became accustomed to the light I saw within a few yards of me a countenance that was distinctly familiar, a face that caused me to pause in anxious breathlessness.
Standing there, behind those scattered kneeling women, with the faint, flickering light of the altar candles illuminating his face just sufficiently, the man’s head was bowed in reverence and yet his dark, beady eyes seemed darting everywhere. By his features—those hard, rather sinister features and greyish scraggy beard that I had once before seen—I knew that he was the man who had made the secret appointment with Burton Blair, yet, contrary to my expectations, he was attired in the rough brown habit and rope girdle of a Capuchin lay brother, a silent, mournful figure as he stood with folded arms while the priest in his gorgeous vestments mumbled the prayers.
In that twilight a sepulchral chill fell upon my shoulders; the sweet smell of the incense in the darkness seemed to increase with that world of incredible magnificence, of solitude gloomily enchanted, of wealth strangely incongruous with the squalor and poverty in the piazza outside. Beyond that silent monk whose piercing mysterious eyes were fixed upon me so inquiringly were dark receding distances, traversed here and there by rainbow beams that fell from some great window, while far off a dim red light was suspended from the high, vaulted roof.
Those columns beside which I was standing rose straight to the roof, close and thick like high forest trees, testifying to the patient work of a whole generation of men all carved in living stone, all infinitely durable in spite of such rare delicacy and already transmitted to us from afar through the long-past centuries.
The monk, that man whose bearded face I had seen once before in England, had thrown himself upon his knees, and was mumbling to himself and fingering the huge rosary suspended from his girdle.
A woman dressed in black with the blacksantuzzaof the Lucchesi over her head had entered noiselessly, and was prostrated a few feet from me. She held a miserable baby at her breast, a child but a few months old, in whose shrivelled little face there was already the stamp of death. She was praying ardently for him, as the tapers gradually diminished, the penny tapers she had placed before the humble picture of Sant’ Antonio, this sorrowing creature. The contrast between the prodigious wealth around and the rags of the humble supplicant was overwhelming and cruel; between the persistent durability of those many thousand Saints draped in gold, and the frailty of that little being with no to-morrow.
The woman was still kneeling, her lips moving in obstinate and vain repetitions. She looked at me, her eyes full of desolation, divining a pity no doubt in mine; then she turned her gaze upon the hooded Capuchin, the hard-faced, bearded man who held the key to the secret of Burton Blair.
I stood behind the ponderous column, bowed but watchful. The poor woman, after a quick glance at the splendour around, turned her eyes more anxiously upon me—a stranger. Did I really think they would listen to her, those magnificent divinities?
Ah! I did not know if they would listen. In her place I would rather have carried the child to one of those wayside shrines where the Virgin of thecontadinireigns. The Madonnas and Saints of Ghirlandajo and Civitali and Della Querica who inhabited that magnificent old church seemed somehow to be creatures of ceremony, hardened by secular pomp. Strange as it may seem, I could not imagine that they would occupy themselves with a poor old woman from the olive mill or with her deformed and dying child.
Vespers ended. The dark, murmuring figures rose, shuffling away over the marble floor towards the door, and as the lights were quickly extinguished, the woman and her child became swallowed up in the gloom.
I loitered, desiring that the Capuchin should pass me, in order that I could obtain a further view of him. Should I address him, or should I remain silent and set Babbo to watch him?
He approached me slowly, his big hands hidden in the ample sleeves of his snuff-coloured habit, the garment which men of his order have new only once in ten years, and which they wear always, waking or sleeping.
I had halted before the ancient tomb of Santa Zita, that patroness of Lucca whom Dante mentions in hisInferno. In the little chapel a single light was burning in the great antique lantern of gold, which the proud Lucchese placed there ages ago when the black plague was feared. As I turned, I saw that, although watching me narrowly, he still seemed to be awaiting the appearance of the man who was now, alas! no more. Yes, now that in a better light I could see his features, I had no hesitation in pronouncing him to be the same man I had met a year ago at Burton’s table in Grosvenor Square.
I recollected the occasion well. It was in June, in the height of the London season, and Blair had invited me to dine with several bachelor friends and go to the Empire afterwards. The man now in a religious habit, shuffling along in his worn-out sandals, had presented the very different figure of the easy-going prosperous man-of-the-world, with a fine diamond in his shirt-front and a particularly well-cut dinner jacket. Burton had introduced him to us as Signor Salvi, the celebrated engineer, and he had sat at table opposite me and chatted in excellent English. He struck me as a man who had travelled very widely, especially in the Far East, and from certain expressions he let drop I concluded that, like Burton Blair, he had been to sea, and that he was a friend of the old days before the great secret became so profitable.
The other men present on that occasion were all acquaintances of mine, two of them financiers in the City whose names were well known on the Stock Exchange, a third the heir to an earldom to which he had since succeeded, and the fourth Sir Charles Webb, a smart young Guardsman of the modern type. After a dinner of that exquisite character of which Burton Blair’s Frenchchefwas famous, we all drove to the Empire, and afterwards spent a couple of hours at the Grosvenor Club, concluding the evening at the Bachelors, of which Sir Charles was a member.
Now as I stood within the hushed gloom of that grand old church, watching the dark mysterious figure pacing the aisle in patience and awaiting the person who would never come, I recollected what had, on that evening long ago, aroused within me a curious feeling of resentment against him. It was this. Having left the Empire, we were standing outside on the pavement in Leicester Square calling cabs, when I overheard the Italian exclaim in his own language to Blair, “I do not like that friend of yours—Greenwood. He is far too inquisitive.” At this my friend laughed, saying, “Ah,caro mio, you don’t know him. He is my very best friend.” The Italian grunted, replying, “He has been putting leading questions to me all the evening, and I have had to lie to him.” Again Blair laughed. “It is not the first time you’ve committed that sin,” was his answer. “No,” the other responded in a low voice, intending that I should not overhear him, “but if you introduce me to your friends be careful that they are not quite so astute or so inquisitive as this man Greenwood. He may be a good fellow, but even if he is he surely must not know our secret, if he did, it might mean ruin to us, remember!”
And then, before Blair could make response, he mounted into a hansom which at that moment had pulled up at the kerb.
From that moment I had entertained a distinct dislike of the man who had been introduced to me as Salvi, not that I hold every foreigner in suspicion as some insular Englishmen so foolishly do, but because he had endeavoured to poison Blair’s mind against me. Yet after a week the incident had entirely slipped my memory and I had never recollected it until that strange and unexpected re-encounter.
Was it possible that this monk with the sun-bronzed, bearded face was the same man who rented that apartment in the Florence slum, and whose visits there were so surreptitious and mysterious? Perhaps so, because all the secrecy of his habitation would be accounted for by the fact that a Capuchin is not allowed to possess any property outside his monastery. Those infrequent visits to Florence might be made at times when, being a lay brother, he would no doubt be sent out into the country to collect from thecontadinialms and presents in kind for the poor in the city. Everywhere throughout Tuscany, in peasant’s hut as in prince’s palace, the humble, patient and charitable Capuchin is welcomed; a flask of wine and a crust is ready for him at the house of everycontadino, and in the villas and palaces of the rich there is always a place for him in the servants’ hall. How many of the Italian poor are saved annually from sheer starvation by the soup and bread dispensed daily at the door of every Capuchin monastery, it would be impossible to estimate. Suffice it to say that the Order in their snuff-coloured habits and their black skull-caps is the greatest and truest friend the starving poor possesses.
Babbo Carlini was no doubt idling outside upon the steps of the church awaiting my reappearance. Would he, I wondered, recognise in this monk the description he had obtained of Paolo Melandrini, the unknown man who was to be Mabel Blair’s secretary and adviser?
The last loiterers in the antique Chapel of the Holy Sacrament had left, their footsteps echoing away across the flags to the exit, and I found myself alone with the silent, almost statuesque, man beside whom I had, only one year before stood in the Grand Circle at the Empire watching and criticising a ballet.
Should I address him and claim acquaintance? His openly-expressed disapproval of myself caused me to hesitate. It was quite apparent that he had held me in apprehension on that night at Grosvenor Square, therefore in the present circumstances his suspicion would undoubtedly become increased. Should I boldly address him and thus show my fearlessness, as well as my acquaintance with his subterfuges? or should I withdraw and watch his subsequent movements?
I at length decided on the former course—for two reasons. The first was that I felt confident he had recognised me as Burton’s friend; and the second because in dealing with such a man the open declaration of knowledge is always the more advantageous in the end than the careful concealment of such facts as I already knew. If I set a watch upon him his suspicions would become heightened, whereas if I acted openly I might succeed in disarming him.
Therefore, turning upon my heel, I strolled straight towards where he had halted as though he were patiently awaiting Blair’s arrival.
“Pardon me, signore,” I exclaimed in Italian, “but if I mistake not we have met before—in London, a year ago—was it not?”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, his face relaxing into a pleasant smile as he extended his big, hard hand, “I have been wondering all this time, Signor Greenwood, if you would recognise me is this dress. I am very pleased to resume our acquaintance—very.” And he emphasised his words, meant or feigned, by a strong, close grip.
I expressed surprise at finding the erratic traveller and man-of-the-world to be, in reality, an inhabitant of the cloister, to which in a low voice, in reverence that we were within that sacred place, he responded—
“I will tell you all about it later. It is not so remarkable as it no doubt strikes you. As a Capuchin I assure you my quiet, reflective life is far preferable to that of the man who, like yourself, mixes with the world and is compelled to live the fevered life of to-day, wherein fortunate unscrupulousness is accounted meritorious and the greatest of sins is that of one’s evil living being found out.”
“Yes, I quite understand,” I replied, surprised nevertheless at his assertion and wondering whether, after all, he was merely attempting to mislead me. “The life of the cloister must be one of a sweet and infinite calm. But if I mistake not,” I added, “you are here by appointment to meet our mutual friend, Burton Blair.”
He raised his dark eyebrows slightly, and I could have sworn that my words caused him to start. Yet so cleverly did he conceal any surprise I had caused him that he replied in a quiet, natural tone—
“That is so. I am here to see him.”
“Then I regret to tell you that you will never see him again,” I said in a low, earnest voice.
“Why?” he gasped, his black eyes wide open in surprise.
“Because,” I answered, “because poor Burton Blair is dead—and his secret has been stolen.”
“What!” he cried, with a look of abject terror and in a voice so loud that his exclamation echoed along the high, vaulted roof. “Blair dead—and the secret stolen!Dio! impossible—impossible!”