The beautiful little Russian church was filled to the very doors for the solemn and stately ceremonial of Paula Rawson’s funeral service. Many representatives of royalty were there, Lord Warrington and several of his staff, cabinet ministers, ambassadors, peers—everyone who was “anyone” in the innermost circle of London society seemed to be present, except Sir Robert Rawson himself.
And yet to Austin Starr’s acutely sympathetic and impressionable mind it seemed that there were no mourners there; that all these distinguished people had assembled as a mere conventional duty, an expression of conventional respect and sympathy for the bereaved husband; that they cared nothing for the dead woman lying there in her coffin, under the magnificent purple pall. She was even lonelier in death than she had been in life.
The impression was confirmed when at last the service was over, and the congregation emerged into the gloom and mud of the streets, for it was a damp, dark, dreary morning.
Crowds of sightseers thronged the pavements outside, waiting and watching, palpably animated by their curiosity to witness one of the acts in thissensational drama of real life that had already proved so thrilling, and that had yet to be played out.
There were more crowds outside the cemetery gates, through which only members of the funeral party were admitted; and open expressions of surprise and disappointment were exchanged at the smallness of the cortège: only a couple of motor-cars and some half-dozen taxicabs followed the flower-laden hearse.
“She doesn’t seem to have had any personal friends,” remarked Bowden, one of the reporters who had shared Austin’s taxi. “I should have thought some of the big pots—or of Sir Robert’s relatives—would have had the decency to come on. There’s Twining, the lawyer—who’s the old man beside him?”
“Sir Robert’s valet—sort of confidential attendant. His name’s Thomson,” said Austin.
Thomson, decorous and unperturbed as usual, appeared in fact to be acting as a sort of major-domo, and was giving low-voiced instructions to the undertaker’s men as they deftly removed the masses of flowers that covered the coffin. One of them handed him a large heart fashioned of purple blossoms, which he carried carefully in both hands, as he moved to a position close to the open grave, and to the priests in their imposing vestments.
“Who are the others?” whispered Starr’s companion. “Servants too? They look like foreigners. Didn’t see ’em at the church.”
He indicated two groups that had assembled each side the grave, from which the reporters stood a little apart.
“Don’t know,” Austin returned curtly, with a gesture imposing silence.
That was not entirely true; for with the group on the right, some eight or nine poorly clad men and women, with white, earnest, grief-stricken faces, was Boris Melikoff, holding in his right hand a single branch of beautiful crimson lilies.
“Russian refugees, and they are the real mourners,” Austin said to himself, and scanned each face in turn searchingly. Did any one of them know the grim secret he was determined to discover? Could any one of them, man or woman, be the actual murderer? It seemed unlikely—even impossible—as he noted their sorrow, restrained, indeed, with touching dignity, and therefore apparently the more deep and sincere.
He turned his gaze on the other group—three persons only, a man and two women. The man was Cacciola, a stately, impressive figure, his fine head bared, his long, grey locks stirred by the chill, damp breeze. His dark eyes were fixed anxiously on his beloved Boris, but he showed no other sign of emotion.
The short woman who clung weeping to his arm, her face concealed by an enormous black-bordered handkerchief, was undoubtedly his housekeeper, old Giulia.
And the third? Austin caught his breath quickly as he looked at her, just managing to check the involuntary exclamation that rose to his lips.
She was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen, quite young, probably not more than seventeen, Italian certainly; no other country couldproduce that vivid, passionate type, that exquisite contour of cheek and throat, that delicate olive skin, birthright of daughters of the sun, those wonderful, tawny eyes shadowed by the long, black lashes.
She was dressed in deep mourning, with a voluminous black veil flung back from her face and falling nearly to the hem of her skirt, but that sombre garb was the only sign of grief about her; it seemed to enhance rather than dim her radiant youth.
There was something triumphant, almost insolent, about her, on such a scene. She stood erect, her graceful head thrown back a little, her full, curved lips slightly parted, her eyes, like those of Cacciola, fixed on Boris Melikoff with an ardent, passionate, self-revealing gaze. She seemed utterly oblivious of every one and everything else, and as he watched her Austin Starr was momentarily oblivious of every one but her.
He was only vaguely aware that the priest’s sonorous voice ceased; but a moment later he was startled by a swift change in the girl’s face. It darkened, as a summer sky sometimes darkens at the advent of a thunder-cloud; her black eyebrows contracted, so did her red lips, the love-light vanished from her eyes; he could have sworn that they flashed red. For a moment the face was transformed to that of a fiend incarnate, obsessed by anger, hatred, jealousy.
Instinctively he looked around to see what had caused this extraordinary emotion, and saw that something had happened by the grave. The Russian group had closed up around Melikoff, towards whom the priests and Mr. Twining had turned as ifin shocked remonstrance, while the men who were in the very act of lowering the coffin had paused, and the great purple heart of flowers lay, face downwards, right on the margin of the moss-lined grave.
“What’s up?” he asked the man next him—he whom he had silenced a few minutes before.
“Didn’t you see? The old man laid the heart on the coffin just at the last moment, and that tall, dark, foreign chap stepped forward, chucked it aside, and put those red lilies he had on it. The others pulled him back, and—look—he’s crying or fainting or something. Queer, eh?”
Even as he spoke Thomson, who alone seemed to have retained his composure, lifted the heart and replaced it, but below the lilies, and signed to the men to proceed with their task.
The whole thing passed in a few seconds, the priest proceeded with the last sentences, and pronounced the benediction, and Starr, his brain awhirl with wild conjectures, looked once more at the girl.
She was standing with bowed head and downcast eyes, in an attitude of reverence, her hands clasped on her breast, and he wondered if his eyes had deceived him just now. Then he noticed that one of her black gloves was split right across—plain to see even at that distance, for her white hand gleamed through the rent—and knew he had not been mistaken. She had clenched her hands in that spasm of fury. The glove was evidence!
She loved Boris Melikoff; she hated that dead woman with a hatred that even the grave could not mitigate.
Was this the clue he sought? Who was she?What was her connection with Cacciola—with Melikoff? He must learn that without delay.
Cacciola was already hastening towards Boris and his friends, while the girl remained with Giulia, and Austin would have followed, but was intercepted by Mr. Twining, the lawyer, who had held a brief colloquy with Thomson, and now hurried up to the little group of journalists.
“Mr. Starr? I believe you and these gentlemen are representatives of the Press? I represent Sir Robert Rawson on this solemn occasion, and, speaking in his name, I beg of you not to give any publicity to the painful little incident you have just witnessed—I mean the incident with the flowers. It cannot be of any public interest whatever, and its publication would add to the distress of Sir Robert and—er—possibly of others. Can I rely upon you not to mention it?”
The undertaking was given, of course, and the journalists hurried off, with the exception of Austin, detained this time by Thomson.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like a few minutes’ conversation, and as I know you are pressed for time, would you accept the use of the car, one of Sir Robert’s that I am to return in, and permit me to accompany you? We can drive straight to your destination.”
Austin accepted with alacrity, and they entered a closed car, which had come laden with flowers, whose heavy, sickly fragrance still clung about it.
“I am sure you will excuse the liberty, sir,” said Thomson, in his precise, respectful way. “I wouldhave liked to have a word with you yesterday when you called on Sir Robert, but it was impossible.”
Austin nodded, wondering what was coming. Somewhat to his surprise, Thomson had been present at the interview yesterday, at Sir Robert’s own request, standing silently behind his master’s chair.
“It’s about Mr. Carling, sir. I can’t think why the police should have arrested him of all people in the world—such a nice young gentleman as he is. He had no more to do with my lady’s death than you had!”
“Of course he hadn’t. But, see here, Thomson, do you know anything of his movements that morning?”
“Nothing at all, sir, beyond what every one else knows, or will know soon. But how anybody acquainted with him can believe it for a minute beats me—my master most of all. I have presumed to speak to him about it—I’ve been with Sir Robert many years, sir—but he wouldn’t hear a word, even from me. He says Mr. Carling followed and murdered my lady so as to get those papers back; he told the police so!”
“I don’t believe the papers had anything to do with it.”
Thomson, who was sitting forward on the edge of the seat, his black-gloved hands resting on his knees, turned his head slowly and looked at Austin sideways, for the first time during the colloquy.
“Nor I, sir. I hold that it was a thief, who got rid of the papers as soon as possible.”
“It might have been a vendetta!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, a what?”
“Someone who had a grudge against Lady Rawson and watched for the chance of killing her?”
“That hadn’t struck me, sir,” said Thomson after a reflective pause.
“It struck me. Do you know anything about Mr. Melikoff and his associates?”
“The young gentleman who was so upset just now? Only that he was related to my lady and they used to meet, as Sir Robert was aware,” Thomson replied, and Austin had the impression that he was lying, though why he could not imagine. “I fear there’s no light in that direction, sir. And Mr. Melikoff was not even in London at the time.”
“I wasn’t thinking of him, but whether there might be someone, who knew them both,” said Austin, with that girl’s beautiful, passionate face still vividly in remembrance. But he could not question the old man about her. Some instinct, which at the moment he did not attempt to analyse, forbade him.
“What did you want to tell me?” he asked bluntly, as the swift car was nearing Fleet Street and Thomson had relapsed into silence.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was forgetting. I took the liberty, knowing that you are a friend of Mr. Carling’s, merely to ask if you could possibly convey my respects to him, and to the poor young lady his wife, and my best wishes that they will soon be restored to each other.”
“I’ll do it with pleasure. Thank you, Thomson. Good day.”
“Queer old coon,” he thought, as he dashed up to his room. “So that was all he wanted. Very decent of him though.”
Then he concentrated on his work. He was just through when Winnie rang him up, to say that Grace and her father had returned to the flat and were anxious to see him that evening, if possible.
“I’ll come round about nine, dear—perhaps earlier; but I’ve to see someone first.”
After a minute’s cogitation he rang up Cacciola. A woman’s voice answered—a delightful voice, rich and soft—in fluent English, with a mere intonation (it was slighter than an accent) that betrayed the speaker’s nationality.
“Signor Cacciola is away from home. Will you give a message?”
A dull flush rose to Austin’s face, a queer thrill passed through him.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Who is speaking? Is it Signora Giulia?”
“No. She also is not present. I am Maddelena Cacciola. What is the message?”
“I’d rather tell it to themaestrohimself. When will he be home?”
“Not till—oh, very late.”
“Then is Mr. Melikoff home?”
“No. He also is out with my uncle.”
“I see. I’m sorry to have troubled you, signorina. I’ll ring up again to-morrow.”
“Will you not tell me your name?”
“Austin Starr. But he may not remember it.”
“I will tell him, Mr. Starr. Good-bye.”
He replaced the receiver, and again sat in thought, drumming softly with his fingers on the table.
So she was Cacciola’s niece, and was living, or at least staying, with him, under the same roof as Boris Melikoff.
What a voice! Worthy of her face, her eyes. And a beautiful name too; he found himself repeating it in a whisper: “Maddelena!”
“I can’t understand it, Winnie. It seems almost as if every one—like mother—had already made up their minds that—that Roger——”
Grace broke off. She could not bring herself to utter the words “that Roger is guilty.” But Winnie understood.
“Nonsense, dear. There are you and I and George and your father and Austin on his side to begin with, and Mr. Spedding of course——”
“I don’t know about Mr. Spedding,” said Grace slowly, her hands clasped round her knees, her troubled eyes fixed on the fire. “I was with him all the afternoon, you know—there is so much to discuss and to arrange—and I thought his manner very reserved, very strange, and—and uneasy.”
“That’s only because he’s a lawyer. They’re always mysterious. What did he say?”
“Well, when I told him the simple truth as Roger told it me—as to why he followed Lady Rawson, and how it was he was so late at the church, he said, in quite an offhand way, that he knew all about that, and Roger would of course embody it in his statement at the proper time; but that his—Roger’s—unsupported account of his own movements was nouse as evidence! You can’t think what a shock it gave me, Winnie; it was the way he said it. And then he explained that ‘fortunately the onus of proof rests with the prosecution, and not with the defence: it is for them to prove him guilty, not for us to prove him innocent.’ ‘Fortunately,’ mind you; and in tone that implied that it would be quite impossible to prove my darling’s innocence! Now what do you think of that?”
“That it was his silly, pompous old legal way of talking and nothing to be upset about,” said Winnie, with a fine assumption of confidence.
“Perhaps—but it hurt! He hopes to secure Cummings-Browne for the defence.”
“Of course. Austin says there’s no one to touch him.”
“For the defence,” Grace repeated drearily. “Oh, Winnie! I suppose it was foolish, but I felt quite sure when I went out this morning that it was only a matter of a few hours and Roger would be free; and now, nothing done; just adjourned till after the inquest; and then—and then—— Mr. Spedding takes it for granted that he will be committed for trial—kept in prison for weeks, months, till after Christmas, for the trial cannot come on till January. My Roger!”
She hid her face in her hands and for the moment Winnie was dumb, unable to find words of comfort.
All that long day Grace had borne herself bravely. Betimes in the morning she had gone to Spedding’s office, and thence, with the lawyer, to the police court, where, in a private room, she had a brief half-hour with Roger—only five minutes or so alone withhim, for they had to consult with Mr. Spedding; but those five minutes were precious indeed.
Roger was pale, but cheery and confident; and she managed to appear the same for his sake.
“I’m staying with Winnie for the present, dearest,” she told him. “Mother was—well, a little difficult yesterday, so I thought it best. But I’m going to take possession of the flat—our flat—as soon as possible, and get it ready for you to come home to, or we’ll get it ready together if you come to-day—to-morrow.”
“Not so soon I fear, darling. The law moves cumbrously. But you can’t go to the flat alone. Why not stay with Winnie?”
“I’d rather be in—our own home,” she whispered, “getting it straight for us both, beloved. I shall be happier, and you will seem nearer. Winnie will come in and out, of course; and you’ll come soon—very soon—and all will be well again, and all this will have passed like a bad dream!”
She smiled at him and he at her, and none but themselves knew how hard it was to summon those brave smiles to their lips when their hearts were almost breaking.
Then her father arrived, the gentle, careworn, grey-haired professor, who had travelled all night to be with her; and she smiled at him, too, and sat with her hand in his, and Winnie Winston on the other side, through the ordeal of the police court; sat with her eyes fixed on Roger most of the time, utterly unconscious of the scrutiny and whispered comments of the fashionably dressed women who had literallyfought their way into the court in ghoulish anticipation of sensation.
The ordeal to-day was not prolonged, for, to the manifest disappointment of the assemblage of female ghouls, only a brief statement of the charge and formal evidence of arrest were given, and an adjournment asked for and granted.
The remainder of that dark, wet day was passed in a series of conferences with her father, and with the lawyers, all more or less painful, all important; but throughout she managed to maintain an appearance of cheerfulness and confidence, telling herself the while that she must be brave and strong and clear-headed, “for Roger’s sake.”
But now, alone with Winnie in the cosy drawing-room at Chelsea, came reaction. She felt and looked utterly exhausted, unutterably anxious and sorrow-stricken.
Her father had gone home, but was to return after dinner to discuss a vital matter—how, among them, they were to raise money for the defence. Mr. Spedding had named five thousand pounds as the least amount necessary. It must be raised, but how none of them knew at present. Roger’s salary had been a generous one, but he had no private means, no near or wealthy relatives, and only a very few hundred pounds at call—which had seemed an ample reserve wherewith to start housekeeping, as they had already furnished the charming little flat in Buckingham Gate which was to be their first home.
Grace herself had a tiny income, only just over a hundred a year, a legacy from an aunt, but it wasstrictly tied up under a trustee, and she could not touch the principal.
Therefore this question of money was a new and terrible difficulty that must be surmounted somehow.
In any other conceivable emergency they would have had Sir Robert Rawson to back them, with his enormous wealth and influence; but now he was their enemy, able to bring all his resources against them.
“I can’t understand it all,” Grace resumed presently. “It seems as if we had become entangled, in a moment, in a great web of evil. Butwhy? What have we done or left undone to deserve it? Rogerdiddistrust that poor thing—disliked her in a way, simply because of the distrust. But he would never have harmed her, or any living creature. And yet they fix on him of all people, just because he happened to be near at hand, and to be concerned with those papers!”
“That’s only because, as Austin says, they’re just a lot of guys who can’t see as far as their own silly noses. And he’s on the trail anyhow, so cheer up, darling. Everything’s going to come right soon perhaps. You trust Austin!”
Grace sighed and glanced restlessly at the clock.
“I wish he’d come.”
“Here he is—that’s his ring,” said Winnie, and hurried out to answer the front door bell.
Austin it was, and she questioned him in an eager undertone as he took off his coat in the little hall.
“Any news?”
“Not yet. I’ve been on duty all day, dear. Only just free. I rang up Cacciola, but he wasn’tin, or I’d have gone around to his place instead of coming here. How’s Grace?”
“Terribly down, though she’s been so plucky all day. Come along. She’s dying to see you!”
He was shocked at the change these few days had wrought in Grace. As he had been prevented from attending the wedding he had not seen her for nearly a fortnight. Her radiant girlhood had vanished; she looked ten years older, a woman scathed by sorrow; and yet it struck him that in some subtle way she had become more beautiful, or rather that her beauty was spiritualized.
In the brief interval before he entered she had pulled herself together—only with Winnie, her closest girl-friend, would she betray any sign of weakness—and greeted him with a smile that belied the tragic intensity of her grey eyes.
They had exchanged but a few sentences when there were other arrivals—her father, and Mr. Iverson the vicar, who somehow brought with him a breezy breath of comfort. Grace gave him both her hands.
“Oh,padre, how good to see you.”
“You’d have seen me before if I’d known where to find you; but Mrs. Armitage was out when I called this afternoon, and I was just going round again when I met your father, and here we are. We’ve been talking hard all the way from the bus, and I know all about everything so far. Roger’s keeping his heart up and so are you? Good!”
“Trying to,padre.”
“You’re going to, both of you, all the time, however long or short it is. It’s a black streak, child,but the help and guidance will come day by day till you’re through it and out into the sunshine again.”
“I’ve been telling the vicar about this money trouble, darling,” interposed Mr. Armitage, “and——”
“Just so; and we shall soon get over that. The house will go into committee on ways and means, so come along. What’s the state of the exchequer?”
“Roger has just over six hundred in the bank.”
“Splendid, and your father can find another six fifty.”
“Two hundred and fifty of that’s from himself, Grace,” said her father. “He insists.”
“Now, look here, Armitage, that’s sheer breach of confidence, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Let’s be thankful I have it to spare—which wouldn’t have been the case a year or two ago.”
Then Austin after a rapid mental calculation, chimed in:
“Bully for you,padre! Put me down for the same to start, and I’ll be able to raise as much again, or more in a week or two. I’d give every dollar, every red cent I have to help clear old Roger.”
He exchanged a swift glance with Winnie, who nodded delighted approval. She knew perfectly well that his impulsive offer meant that their own wedding might have to be delayed perhaps for years, but that weighed as nothing with Roger’s life and liberty in the opposite scale.
“George and I too,” she said. “I’ve told Grace so already. I don’t know how much yet, Mr. Iverson, but I’ve lots of engagements for Christmas andafter—good ones, too—so I shall be quite rich.”
The vicar beamed round at them all and rubbed the shining little bald circle on his crown in a way he had when he was pleased. That bald patch, set round with curly, iron-grey hair, was one of his innocent little vanities. It was perfectly natural, but it did look so like a real tonsure!
“Now isn’t that capital! Nearly two thousand pounds in less than five minutes. Lots to go on with; and we shall get the rest long before it’s wanted. ‘Hope for the best and prepare to meet the worst,’ is an excellent maxim.”
His incorrigible optimism was infectious; it cheered them all as no amount of conventional and lugubrious sympathy could have done; and his acceptance of Roger’s innocence as a fact that need not even be discussed, and would assuredly be established, was an unspeakable comfort to Grace, whose loyal and sensitive soul had been so cruelly tortured by the doubt of others, and by her own mother’s attitude above all.
He declared his conviction that the first theory advanced and then abandoned was the right one: that the deed had been committed by some casual miscreant, who would yet be discovered.
Austin said nothing of his own newer theory, to the secret surprise of both Winnie and Grace, who, however, followed his example, supposing he thought it best to keep silence for the present, even among themselves.
“How curious that Mr. Cacciola should be mixed up with it all, in a way,” remarked the vicar.
“Do you know him, sir?” asked Austin quickly.
“Only slightly, but I like him immensely. He’s a Catholic, of course—and a good one, I should say. I often encounter him on Sunday mornings, on his way from Mass; and we walk along and yarn in all amity so far as our road lies together. That’s as things should be, to my mind! And he’s really most generous—often comes to play and brings his pupils to our little parish concerts, asyouknow, Miss Winston.”
Winnie nodded.
“Yes, themaestrois the kindest old thing imaginable, and so simple—not a bit of side.”
“He’s a genius,” said the vicar. “And I think true genius always is simple. I met him this afternoon, of all places in the world in the post office itself.”
“Thepost office?” cried Grace. “Not where—not Mrs. Cave’s?”
“Yes. It was when I was on my way from your house, Armitage. I looked in for a chat with Mrs. Cave, and little Jessie, who really haven’t got over the shock yet. It will be a long time before they do, and they talk of giving up the shop as soon as they can find another. No wonder.”
“The telephone booth is partitioned off now, by order of the police,” said Austin.
“Yes, very necessary, of course; but awkward for the Caves, for it means that they have to go out at the shop door and in at the side one before they can get to their own rooms. I was just consoling the good lady—with the suggestion that now she would have more walks abroad and fresh air than she’s had for years; no use condoling, you know, thatwould only make things seem worse than they are—when in comes Mr. Cacciola and his niece, one of the loveliest girls I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“His niece! I didn’t know he had one—not in England!” exclaimed Winnie.
“Nor I till now. But I think she must have been educated here, she speaks English so well; though possibly she has not been with him all the time. I should certainly have remembered her if I’d seen her before—such a remarkably beautiful girl. She’s to make her début soon—as a violinist. And what do you suppose was their errand to-day? That young girl actually wanted to see the place where poor Lady Rawson was murdered, and worried her uncle till he brought her across and asked Mrs. Cave to show it them!”
“Morbid curiosity isn’t confined to young people,” Mr. Armitage remarked.
“Quite so, but it’s unhealthy in anyone, and very distressing in a girl like that. As a matter of fact, I went round with them myself. I offered to as Mrs. Cave was alone in the shop—Jessie was out; and I was glad of the opportunity, not from ‘morbid curiosity,’ I assure you, but simply so that I could see the place for myself. It seems so incredible that anyone could be murdered like that in a shop actually full of people, and the murderer get clean away, unless you’ve seen the place. It might have been made on purpose—a regular death-trap—for the booth is really in a narrow passage that at some time has been thrown into the shop, and the door of it opens outwards, towards the shop. Just beyond is the scullery-place, andIthink it probable themurderer was lurking there when Jessie Jackson came down to help her aunt. And close at hand, on the right, is the street door, through which he simply walked out.”
“The police think he went out through the garden door,” said Austin.
“Just like ’em. But they’re wrong. Why? Because Sadler’s cab was standing outside thestreetdoor, where it was the work of an instant to throw the bag through the window. If the criminal had gone down the garden and out at that door he’d have had to come all the way back to pass the cab. And he’d never have done that; he’d have bolteddownthe street.”
“I guess you’re right, vicar. And then he tried to steal the cab. Some nerve!”
“Wrong again. That was a bit of boyish mischief.”
“What in thunder makes you say that?”
“Because I happen to know. It will all come out at the next hearing—inquest or police court, or both. However that’s only a detail.”
“What did the girl—themaestro’sniece—say?” asked Winnie.
“Ah! Of course, I was speaking of them. Shesaidvery little, but, do you know, her manner rather shocked me. It takes a lot to do that! She seemed positively to gloat over that horrible, tragic, dark corner. Cacciola was quite distressed, and remonstrated with her—at least I’m sure he did, though he spoke in Italian, which I don’t understand, and she answered him very briefly, in a passionatewhisper, and then simply walked off, and Cacciola made a sort of incoherent apology and hurried after her. I couldn’t help thinking there was something mentally wrong—a most grievous thing, especially in one so young and beautiful and talented.”
Austin Starr sat listening intently, but neither then nor later, when the elder men had gone, did he say that he knew aught of Maddelena Cacciola, though why he kept silence he really did not know.
“Giulia, thou art a foolish old cow! I tell thee no harm will come to thee. It is but to make oath and tell the truth; that the young signor came here inquiring for Donna Paula, and went away, and that Withers brought thee later the little silver case, and thou gave it to the police. What is there in all that?”
In the beautifully appointed kitchen where usually Giulia reigned supreme Maddelena, attired in a morning wrapper of brilliant hues, was dividing her attention between preparing the breakfast coffee and alternately coaxing and scolding Giulia, who sat huddled in a chair, weeping and muttering prayers and protestations to every saint in the calendar.
She was to give evidence in the police court again that day—as she had already done at the inquest which had terminated in a verdict of wilful murder against Roger Carling—and nothing would induce the poor old woman to believe that the object of these interrogations was any other than to prove her guilty of stealing that silver cigarette case! That, she was convinced, was what “they of the police” were after, and the murder of “Donna Paula” was quite a secondary consideration.
Maddelena shrugged her pretty shoulders andwent on with her task, setting a dainty breakfast-tray with a little silver service. For all her sharp words to Giulia, there was a smile on her lips, and her fine, capable white hands touched the inanimate things caressingly; for she was preparing that tray for Boris, who had not been out the other evening—as she told Austin Starr on the telephone—but ill in bed. He had collapsed after that scene at the cemetery, and they had brought him home more dead than alive. As Giulia was so foolishly upset, Maddelena and her uncle had nursed the invalid, and already he was much better.
She turned brightly to Cacciola as he came into the kitchen.
“On the instant, for behold all is ready. Tell him he is to eat every morsel, on pain of my royal displeasure! How is he?”
“Very weak still, though he says he slept well,” said Cacciola, taking up the tray. “And he insists on coming with us to-day.”
Maddelena’s expressive face darkened.
“To the court? But what folly; there is no need, and he will make himself ill again,” she cried.
“I think not. Let him have his way,carissima, and he will get over it the sooner,” said Cacciola pacifically, and retreated with the tray down the long passage that led to Melikoff’s room.
The flat was a large one—two thrown into one in fact—for themaestroliked plenty of room. That was why he had settled in a suburb.
Maddelena stood frowning for a minute or more, then shrugged her shoulders again, administered a petulant shake to the sobbing Giulia, poured out abig cup of coffee, and handed it to the old woman, sternly bidding her drink it and cease her fuss, and finally sat down to her own breakfast, breaking her roll and dabbing on butter with angry, jerky movements, and scolding Giulia between mouthfuls.
But she showed no sign of ill-humour an hour later when she greeted Boris. Her manner now was of charming, protective, almost maternal, solicitude.
She looked very beautiful too, not in the mourning garb she had worn at the funeral, but in a handsome furred coat of tawny cloth, almost the colour of her eyes, and a bewitching little hat to match.
Even Boris, worn, haggard, brooding resentfully on his tragic sorrow, summoned up a smile for her, as Cacciola, watching the pair of them, noticed with secret satisfaction.
“I ought to scold you Boris, my friend,” she said. “You are not fit to go out at all, and it will be such a trial for you. But,altro, you must have your way as usual! Give him your arm, uncle. Come, Giulia.”
Outside the court they parted from the reluctant and trembling Giulia, leaving her in charge of the kindly postmistress, Mrs. Cave, who was also to give evidence, and promised to take charge of her in the witnesses’ room.
A big crowd had assembled waiting for the public doors to open, but Cacciola and his companions were admitted through the official entrance, and given seats in the front row, just above and behind the solicitors’ table.
A few minutes later such spectators as could beaccommodated swarmed in, pushing for places; and presently the body of the little court began to fill up, as solicitors, clerks, and reporters drifted in and took their places.
Boris Melikoff, on one side of Cacciola, sat with his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk on his breast, giving no heed to anyone at present; but Maddelena, on the other side, watched with lively though decorous interest, whispering many questions and comments to her uncle.
“That is Mr. Starr, a journalist,” said Cacciola as Austin appeared and betook himself to the Press table.
“He who spoke with me on the telephone? He is very good-looking. I think I like him! Ah, he sees us!”
For Austin, surveying the eager, curious faces of the crowd, again mainly composed of smart women, saw the group in front, and exchanged a nod of greeting with Cacciola. Then his eyes met Maddelena’s frank, inquiring gaze. For several seconds—that seemed longer to Austin—they looked full at each other, till she drooped her long, black lashes demurely, her lips relaxing in a faint smile. The startled admiration she thought she discerned in his glance amused and did not surprise her. She was used to creating such an impression, for, though not in the least vain, she was fully conscious of her beauty. She did not imagine that he had ever seen her before, and that his interest in her was deeper and more complex than that which an exceptionally pretty girl inspires in most men, young or old.
When she stole another glance at him he was nolonger looking in her direction, but was listening with frigid courtesy to a fair-haired woman in a seal coat and expensive hat, who had just come in with a tall, thin, grey-haired man, and was looking up coquettishly into Austin’s glum face, as she spoke in a rapid undertone.
“Who is that?” demanded Maddelena.
“Mrs. Armitage and her husband—Mrs. Carling’s mother and father,” said Cacciola.
Mrs. Armitage it was, who, having realized that as a close connection of the two central figures in this poignant drama of life, she was a person of importance in the eyes of the public, had decided that it was her duty to attend the court; and already, with much complacence, had permitted herself to be “snapped” by several Press photographers lying in wait outside, and had assumed a most pathetic expression in the hope that it would “come out well.”
Maddelena noted every detail of her attire and manner, and with keen feminine intuition summed her up accurately on the instant. “So. If the daughter is like the mother then I, for one, will spare no sympathy for her,” she decided.
Cacciola touched her arm.
“Behold, here is Mrs. Carling. The poor girl, my heart bleeds for her. Miss Winston is with her. That is good.”
There was a buzz and flutter, as necks were craned in the endeavour to see Grace Carling’s face, but she kept her heavy veil down, and appeared absolutely unconscious of the presence of those inquisitive onlookers, as she gravely accepted her mother’s effusive greeting, and then seated herselfwith her back to the crowd, where she would have an uninterrupted view of her husband when he should be brought into the dock.
Winnie Winston became the centre of attention for the moment, as, seeing Cacciola, she made her way across to speak to him, and unashamedly every one in the vicinity tried to overhear. Only Melikoff maintained his sullen, brooding attitude. He had come there to-day to see but one person, Roger Carling, the enemy whom he hated.
“How is Mrs. Carling?” asked Cacciola.
“Very well, and wonderfully brave,” said Winnie. “They both are, as they should be, for he is innocent,maestro. But it is terrible for us all. Is this your niece? I have heard of her, but we haven’t met before.”
He introduced the girls, and Maddelena leant down over the barrier and spoke with charming courtesy.
“My uncle talks so much of you, Miss Winston. You are—oh, one of his great favourites. I wish we had met more happily. I have just returned from Milan, into all this sorrow. It is too sad!”
“Ought Mr. Melikoff to be here? He looks very ill,” said Winnie, with a glance at Boris; and Maddelena looked at him, too, her eyes softening, as they always did when they regarded him.
“Alas! he would come, though I and my uncle sought to dissuade him; but he is very obstinate, our poor Boris, and distracted with grief. But he will—he must—recover in time.”
Winnie nodded sympathetically and retreated, much to the relief of Austin Starr, who from thedistance had watched the incident uneasily, though why he should be disturbed he could not have said. But thenceforth, for the greater part of that grim day, he concentrated his attention chiefly on those three, feeling more and more convinced that they presented a psychological problem which, if it could be solved, would elucidate the mystery of Paula Rawson’s murder. When Roger Carling was brought into the dock Starr saw Boris Melikoff sit up, as if galvanized into life, his white face set like a fine, stern mask, his dark eyes, feverishly brilliant, fixed relentlessly on the prisoner’s face.
So far as Austin’s observation went, Roger was quite unaware of that fierce, fanatical stare, and of all the other eyes focused upon him. With head erect he listened with grave attention as the case against him was stated by the prosecution, and later supported in nearly every detail by the many witnesses. Usually he watched each speaker in turn, and in the intervals his eyes always sought those of Grace, in silent and spiritual communion that gave strength and courage to them both. At those moments husband and wife were as unconscious of the crowded court, of the whispered glances of the spectators, as if they had been transported to another world which held none but themselves.
Maddelena could not see Grace Carling’s face, but she watched Roger as intently as Austin Starr watched her.
As he watched, Austin’s perplexity increased. At first her expressive face revealed a most curious emotion, in which there was no trace of the hatred and resentment betrayed so plainly by BorisMelikoff, or of the fury that had distorted it by Paula Rawson’s grave. On the contrary, she looked at Roger admiringly, exultantly, as women look at a hero who has done some great deed. Austin felt that he really would not have been surprised if she had clapped and cheered!
Now, why on earth should she look at Roger Carling like that?
But presently her face changed and softened, became gravely thoughtful. She sat very still, leaning forward, her elbows on the rail in front of her, her chin resting on her clasped hands, her dark brows contracted, and Austin thought he read in her wonderful eloquent eyes doubt, dismay, increasing anxiety, and a great compassion.
What was in her mind? What did she know—or conjecture?
That was what he must endeavour to discover.
Dispassionately, inexorably, the case was stated by the prosecution, based, as nearly every murder charge must be, on circumstantial evidence.
There were the undisputed facts that the prisoner had followed and endeavoured to see Lady Rawson, with the intention of recovering the stolen papers which he believed to have been—and were now known to have been—in her possession; that he had been close at hand at the moment the murder must have been committed, though none of the people who were in and out of the shop at the time, and who had all been traced and summoned as witnesses, could swear to having seen him. There was the agreement of time and place; even allowing for the delay caused by the fog, there was ample time forhim to reach the church, “late and agitated” as he undoubtedly was, after committing the crime.
Above all, there, on the table, was the possible—nay, almost certainly the actual—weapon employed; one of the two pocket knives found on the prisoner at the time of his arrest. It was a flat, tortoiseshell penknife, of which the larger blade, of finely tempered steel, keen as a razor, constituted, in the opinion of the surgical experts, precisely the sort of instrument with which the wound was inflicted. The other knife—a thick blunt blade—was out of the question, part of a “motorists’s compendium,” fitted with several other small tools, none of which could inflict just such a wound.
Sadler, the taxi-driver, who had a bandage round his head and still looked shaky as a result of his smash up, identified the prisoner as the gentleman he had driven from Grosvenor Gardens to Rivercourt Mansions, having already picked him out unhesitatingly from among a number of other men.
Sadler’s further story was perfectly straightforward.
Having deposited his fare, and finding himself so close to the house of his sweetheart, Jessie Jackson, he drove slowly across to the post office, saw, through the window, Jessie in the shop with her aunt, guessed that in a few minutes she would be going up to dinner, and they would have the chance of a few words together, so pulled up in a side street, just by the house door, and out of sight from the shop, and smoked a “gasper” while he waited.
Presently he got down, had another squint into the shop, saw Mrs. Cave was now alone, so soundedhis horn, “in a sort of signal we have,” and Jessie immediately came down and let him in at the side door. How long he was up in the kitchen with her he couldn’t say—not exactly—till her aunt called her down.
Then he waited for another few minutes, till he thought he heard someone “cranking up” his cab; ran downstairs, and sure enough the cab was disappearing down the street.
He went after it, and round the corner, just by the waterworks, found it standing, the engine still going, and saw a “nipper” running away.
He jumped to his seat, followed the boy, and, turning the corner, crashed right into a lorry, and that was all he knew till he came to himself in hospital.
Story corroborated by Jessie Jackson, Jim Trent—a bright faced mischievous schoolboy, who had himself owned up to the police that, seeing the cab unattended, he couldn’t resist the temptation of trying to start and drive it, but soon pulled up and “hooked it,” exactly as Sadler had said—and several people who had seen the chauffeur in wrathful pursuit of the cab.
At this stage the court rose for lunch, and Austin Starr went across for a word with Cacciola.
Already Maddelena had changed places with her uncle, and was speaking softly to Boris, who, the moment Roger Carling disappeared from sight, had sunk down in his former attitude, looking utterly exhausted.
Starr could not hear what she said, but she seemed to be remonstrating with him, tenderly andanxiously, while from her big brocaded bag she produced a thermos flask, poured out a cup of fragrant Russian tea—it smelt as if it was laced with brandy as well as lemon!—and coaxed him to drink, just as a mother might coax a sick and fretful child.
She was far too absorbed to spare a glance or a thought for anyone else at the moment, and Austin took himself off, having no time to waste, and having achieved his immediate purpose—an appointment with Cacciola at Rivercourt Mansions that evening. He was most anxious to begin a near study of that “psychological problem” of which Maddelena Cacciola was the most perplexing—yes, and the most attractive element!
It was fairly late that evening when Austin Starr arrived at Cacciola’s, having had a hasty meal at a restaurant when he was through with his day’s work.
He had been obliged to decline themaestro’shospitable invitation to dinner, and had been assured by the old man that it did not matter how late he turned up: “I am not what the English call an early bird!”
Cacciola himself, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers and carrying a big curved meerschaum pipe in his hand, admitted and welcomed him cordially.
There was no one else in the spacious sitting-room, but Austin’s quick sense of disappointment was speedily banished by his host.
“Sit down, my friend. You will find that chair comfortable. Now, will you have wine—it is here ready? Or wait for the coffee which my Maddelena will bring soon? She is now preparing it.”
“Coffee for me, thank you, sir.”
“And none makes it better than Maddelena,” said the old man, settling himself in his own great chair, and resuming his pipe. “It is well indeed for us all that she is at home at this time, for, alas! we are a sick household, with Boris and my poor old Giuliaso much distressed by this terrible event, which touched us so nearly through our poor Boris.”
“It’s a great and awful mystery that I’d give my right hand to solve,” said Austin bluntly.
Cacciola looked at him with grave surprise.
“Say a tragedy, yes. But where is the mystery? There is no doubt of the guilt of that unhappy young man.”
“Doubt! Man alive, Roger Carling is as innocent as I am; I’d stake my life on that! He’s been committed for trial, I know—one couldn’t expect anything else at present—but——”
He checked himself. After all, he had come here in search of a clue, and must say nothing that might put Cacciola on his guard.
“Now that is strange,” mused Cacciola. “Maddelena has been saying the same ever since we returned from the court, simply because she has decided that he does not look like a murderer—a woman’s reason!”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your niece yet. Does she live with you, sir?”
“It is her home, and has been these many years, since my brother died and left her in my charge. She and my poor Boris are to me as children. But she has not been at home except for holidays since she went to school; she has been educated here in England, and since two years has been studying in Milan. She should be there now, the naughty one, but the moment she heard the news of this terrible thing she came back, travelling night and day. I was vexed, yes; with a musician, music should always come first, and her impulse will retard hercareer; but I do not know what we should have done without her. None can manage Boris and our old Giulia as Maddelena does,” he added with an indulgent smile.
“Is that so? She’s evidently a very capable as well as a very charming young lady. Is she a singer, sir?” said Austin, conscious of a curious sense of relief. What dark suspicions had been in his mind ever since he saw that fury of hatred in the girl’s face as she stood by Paula Rawson’s grave he had not dared to formulate, even in thought, but they had been there, and now Cacciola’s words had dispersed them so far as Maddelena was concerned. However much she hated the dead woman, she could have had no hand in her death.
Yet he was still convinced that here, in this quaint Bohemian household, the heart of the mystery was hidden. How was he to discover it? At present all he could do was to cultivate his friendship with the genial, simple-minded oldmaestro, whom he was learning to like immensely. At the back of his mind he was secretly ashamed of employing this plan. It was a low-down trick, yet the only course that seemed possible at present. And Roger Carling’s life was in the balance: that grim fact overshadowed all other considerations!
Cacciola shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with a whimsical air of resignation.
“Alas! no. She has a voice indeed which, compared with most English voices for instance, would pass as good. But a Cacciola who sings must excel, and my Maddelena will never excel——”
“As a singer! My uncle is on his old grievance,”said Maddelena herself, as she entered carrying the coffee-tray, and flashed an amused glance from one to the other.
“Aha! What is the proverb about listeners never hearing any good of themselves?” chuckled Cacciola. “This is my little girl, Mr. Starr; and if she had come an instant later she would have heard something nicer, for one of these days she is going to be a great violinist.”
“So my uncle says; but we shall see,” laughed Maddelena, setting the tray on a low, carved stand, and giving Austin her hand, and continuing more seriously: “I am so glad you have come to-night, Mr. Starr, for I have heard so much of you, and there are, oh, so many things I want to ask you about. You are a great friend of that poor Mr. Carling and his bride, are you not? The poor young lovers, how my heart is grieved for them! But we must have our coffee first and then we will talk.”
There was something so frank and charming in her manner, so like her uncle’s, in its easy, gracious simplicity, that again Austin marvelled, remembering her in that unguarded moment the other day. Was she merely a creature of passionate impulse or a consummate actress?
“I am very much the maid-of-all-work these days,” she explained, seating herself between them on a big “humpty.” “For Giulia—you know her?”
“Your old servant, yes, I have seen her.”
“She is still in such a state of nerves that she is no use at all. It is very foolish of her.”
“Have patience,carissima; she will get over it in time. We all shall,” said Cacciola soothingly.
“I suppose Mrs. Giulia was very fond of Lady Rawson?” hazarded Austin.
Maddelena turned towards him, raising her dark brows.
“Fond of her? No, indeed. Why should she be?”
“I don’t know. But I thought, as she seemed to be fairly intimate with you all——”
“Paula Rawson intimate withus!”
There was a note of indignant protest in her rich voice, and her eyes flashed stormily. Austin metaphorically “sat up,” and Cacciola cast a deprecating glance at the girl.
“I’m sorry if I’ve said anything wrong, Miss Maddelena; but it seems she did come here very frequently, so I naturally thought——”
“Come here, yes, indeed, and far too often,” said Maddelena with emphasis. “But not to seeus. She came to see Boris, her cousin; not because she loved him—Paula Rawson was not capable of loving anyone—but because she wanted him as a tool for her ambitions, for her intrigues. She was ruining him, body and soul!”
Cacciola interposed, almost sternly: “Peace, Maddelena. We must speak with charity of the dead!”
“That is my uncle all over. Oh, yes, ‘speak with charity, think with charity!’ For me, I cannot, I will not, when I think of Paula Rawson. I am glad she is dead. If I made any other pretence I shouldbe a hypocrite. This is the truth, Mr. Starr—my uncle knows it, though he will not say so now. We were so happy together, he and I and Boris, a year ago, when I came home from Milan for the winter vacation. You, who have only seen Boris as he is now, cannot imagine what he was then—what he was to us both. And his voice!”
“Ah! she is right,” sighed Cacciola. “It was divine, but the voice is there still, my child, the saints be praised, and when he recovers he will sing once more, better than ever perhaps, and be his old self once again.”
“Perhaps. Because Paula Rawson is dead and can trouble him no more,” cried Maddelena. “He met her, she whom he had thought dead, as would to heaven she had been—and, lo, we became as nothing to him: his voice, his career became as nothing! He lived only for her, to do her bidding, to see her from time to time; plotting for their country, they said. Pouff! He had forgotten his country until he met her—Paula—again, and fluttered round her like a moth round a candle, singeing his wings. Well, that candle has been put out, just in time to save him being burnt up!”
Cacciola shifted uneasily in his chair, but did not venture on further expostulation.
“Do you know any of their Russian friends, Miss Cacciola?” asked Austin.
She shook her head.
“They used to come and go like shadows, seeing only Boris, and whoever might chance to admit them when he did not—Giulia or my uncle usually. She—Paula—actually had a key, and could let herself into this,ourhome, if you please, whenever she liked. I was always furious about it, as was Giulia, and my uncle did not like it. He should have forbidden it, as I told him a hundred times.”
“She had a key!” exclaimed Austin. “Did she use it that last time she was here?”
“I do not know. Why do you ask?”
“Because if she did it ought to have been found either in her purse or her bag, and certainly it was not there.”
“That is curious,” said Maddelena reflectively. “I will find out from Giulia to-morrow; she is in bed now. You think that is of importance?”
“Every little thing is of importance. See, here, Miss Cacciola——”
“Well?” she asked, her bright eyes fixed inquiringly upon him, as he hesitated, wondering if, and how far, he should confide in her. Cacciola still remained silent but was listening intently.
“It’s this way,” Austin resumed slowly, weighing each word before he spoke. “Roger Carling is innocent. A good few of us—every one who really knows him, in fact, except Sir Robert Rawson himself—are convinced of that, although appearances are so terribly against him.”
“I too, since I watched him in the court to-day,” she murmured.
“I know. Themaestrotold me so just before you came in. Now we’ve got to find out the truth, to trace the murderer, before the trial comes on, and we’ve only a very few weeks to do it in. It’sno use going to the police, unless and until we’ve got something definite to put them on. They think the case is clear and their duty done.”
“But you—there is something in your mind?”
“There is, but I don’t quite know how to explain it. I believe this Russian business may provide the clue, and that you can help to find it. Just suppose there was one of them who had a personal grudge against her—or even a spy in their councils, for there always is a spy, sure, in these intrigues.”
“Or someone who wanted to separate her from Boris,” said Maddelena dryly, and he was thankful that she was now gazing at the fire and not at him. “Well, I and my uncle wanted to do that. He is sorry the separation has been brought about with such tragedy, but I—I care not how it came about so that it did come. I wonder you did not suspect me, Mr. Starr!”
She turned and looked at him again, a sort of challenge in her eyes, which he met squarely.
“Maddelena!” exclaimed Cacciola, glancing from one to the other, but neither heeded him at the moment.
“Perhaps I did till I met you,” Austin answered. “I don’t now, or I shouldn’t have asked your help.”
“Good! I like an honest man, and that is very honest, Mr. Starr. I also will be honest. I did not murder Paula Rawson, though there have been many times when I would have done so if I could. And I tell you that if I knew who did I would do all in my power to shield him.”
“But not if an innocent man should suffer in his place,” he urged. “Miss Cacciola, I implore youif you know anything—even if you suspect anything or anyone——”
“I neither know nor suspect anything,” she interrupted decisively. “I had not thought till to-day that there was any doubt. But you are right, the innocent must not suffer. I—we”—she glanced at her uncle—“will do all we can to help you.”
“What can we do?” asked Cacciola perplexedly. “I have heard you with much surprise, with much distress. I am grieved that Maddelena here is so hard; she knows it. It is not like her, signor, for she is truly a loving child.”
He looked so thoroughly upset and miserable that with one of her swift impulses Maddelena sprang up, and bent over the back of his chair, putting her arms caressingly round him.
“Never mind me, dear uncle. I love when I love and I hate when I hate; I am made like that, and it cannot be helped. But Mr. Starr is right: we must do what we can to bring the truth to light.”
“That’s so, Miss Cacciola. Now do either of you know the names of any of these Russians or where they live?”
“I do not, nor you, uncle? As I said, they came and went as they liked, and my uncle should have forbidden it; but he is so weak where Boris is concerned. And he is so sorry for them, as for all who are unfortunate.” She gave him another hug, and resumed her seat, continuing: “Do you know he used to give them food if he was at home and knew they were there with Boris, slinking in by one and two after dark? Well, he would bid Giulia make a good meal; and she did, grumbling. Butshe was never permitted to take in the dishes—no, nor even to peep into the room. Boris always came and took them from her!”
“What is a little food?” protested Cacciola. “I do not believe there is any harm in these poor souls; they are not Communists, but aristocrats who have escaped with their bare lives—whose lives are still perhaps in danger; and of one thing I am certain: not one of them would have lifted his hand against Paula—she was their best friend.”
“There may have been a spy among them for all that, as Mr. Starr suggested,” said Maddelena. “And I promise you that I will find out all I can about them. Boris will tell me, if I go to work in the right way.”
“I’m infinitely obliged to you, Miss Maddelena,” said Austin earnestly.
“And now let us talk of something pleasanter. Will you have some more coffee? Ah, it is cold! Some wine, then. That will make my uncle more cheerful. Will you move the coffee-tray, Mr. Starr? Set it on the piano—anywhere.”
He jumped up to do her bidding, while she crossed to the corner cupboard. Taking the tray from the little carved stand, he glanced round the room, and noting a small table near the door moved towards it.
As he did so he saw the door, on which hung a heavy embroideredportière, gently closing. Next instant he remembered that Maddelena had certainly shut the door after her when she entered; he had noticed the clever little backward kick with which she did so, and had heard the click of thelatch. None of them had been anywhere near the door since. Who then was outside?
Striding swiftly across the room he dropped rather than set the tray on the table, sprang to the door and threw it wide open. The outer hall was dark and silent.
“Who is there?” he demanded, and at the same moment Maddelena called from the other side the room:
“What is the matter, Mr. Starr?”
“The door has been opened—someone has been listening,” he said, stepping warily into the darkness and feeling for the electric switch. “Where is that switch?”
“By the hall door, on the right,” said Maddelena, hurrying to him, while Cacciola followed more slowly, shuffling in his big slippers.
He switched the light on. The small, square hall was empty but for themselves. Maddelena passed swiftly along and switched on another light that illuminated the two passages at the end that ran right and left. No one there either.
“I shut the door when I came in,” she whispered.
“I know. I saw you,” he answered as softly.
“And I left the light on in the hall—I had both my hands full. It must have been either Boris or Giulia. Uncle, go and see if Boris is up. I will go to Giulia,” she said, motioning Austin to stay where he was.
He watched her go softly along the right-hand passage, open a door at the end, and switch on a light. From within the room, even at that distance, he could hear a sonorous snore.
Maddelena put out the light, closed Giulia’s door, and beckoned to Austin to join her.
“She is fast asleep; it could not have been she. I—I am frightened. Let us look in the other rooms.”
They did so; dining-room, kitchen, her own room—a charming one, next to Giulia’s. No one lurking there.
They went back and found Cacciola doing the same in the other wing, which once was a separate flat. He too looked very disturbed.
“Boris sleeps soundly, as he should do; he is under the doctor and had a sleeping draught to-night, and there is none other here but ourselves. Who can have been here?”
“I guess whoever it was has just walked out,” said Austin, striding back to the front door. “Why didn’t I think of that first?”
“Wait, the lights will be out there. Take my torch,” counselled Cacciola, fumbling for it in his overcoat pocket.