Chapter Five.Tristram at Home.The jury, after a long deliberation, returned an open verdict of “Found dead.” In the opinion of the twelve Strand tradesmen, there was insufficient evidence to justify a verdict of murder, therefore they had contented themselves in leaving the matter in the hands of the police. They had, in reality, accepted the evidence of the analyst in preference to the theory of the doctor, and had publicly expressed a hope that the authorities at Scotland Yard would spare no pains in their endeavours to discover the deceased’s fellow traveller, if he did not come forward voluntarily and establish her identity.This verdict practically put an end to the mystery created by the sensational section of the evening Press, for although it was not one of natural causes, actual murder was not alleged. Therefore, amid the diversity of the next day’s news, the whirling world of London forgot, as it ever forgets, the sensation of the previous day. All interest had been lost in the curious circumstances surrounding the death of the unknown Italian girl in the most crowded of London thoroughfares by reason of this verdict of the jury.The police had taken up the matter actively, but all that had been discovered regarding the identity of the dead woman was that her name was probably Vittorina—beyond that, absolutely nothing. Among the millions who had followed the mystery with avidity in the papers, one man alone recognised the woman by her description, and with satisfaction learnt how ingeniously her death had been encompassed.That man was the eminently respectable doctor in the remote rural village of Lyddington. With his breakfast untouched before him, he sat in his cosy room eagerly devouring the account of the inquest; then, when he had finished, he cast the paper aside, exclaiming aloud in Italian—“Dio! What good fortune! I wonder how it was accomplished? Somebody else, besides ourselves, apparently, feared her presence in England. Arnold is in Livorno by this time, and has had his journey for nothing.”Then, with his head thrown back in his chair, he gazed up at the panelled ceiling deep in thought.“Who, I wonder, could that confounded Englishman have been who escorted her to London and who left her so suddenly? Some Jackanapes or other, I suppose. And who’s the Major? He’s evidently English too, whoever he is. Only fancy, on the very night we discussed the desirability of the girl’s death, some unknown person obligingly did the work for us!” Then he paused, set his teeth, and, frowning, added, “But that injudicious letter of Egisto’s may give us some trouble. What an idiot to write like that! I hope the police won’t trace him. If they do, it will be awkward—devilish awkward.”A few minutes later the door opened, and a younger man, slim and pale-faced, entered and wished him “good-morning.”“No breakfast?” the man, his assistant, inquired, glancing at the table. “What’s the matter?”“Liver, my boy, liver,” Malvano answered with his usual good-humoured smile. “I shall go to town to-day. I may be absent the whole week; but there’s nothing really urgent. That case of typhoid up at Craig’s Lodge is going on well. You’ve seen it once, haven’t you?”“Yes. You’re treating it in the usual way, I suppose?”“Of course;” and the doctor, advancing to the table, poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, at the same time calling to his man Goodwin to pack his bag, and be ready to drive him to the London train at ten-twenty.His assistant being called to the surgery a few minutes later, Malvano sat down at his writing-table, hastily scribbled a couple of telegrams, which he folded and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and half an hour later drove out of the quiet old-world village, with its ancient church spire and long, straggling street of thatched cottages, on his way to catch the train.Beside the faithful Goodwin he sat in silence the whole way, for many things he had read that morning sorely puzzled him. It was true that the lips of Vittorina were sealed in death, but the letter signed “Egisto,” discovered by the police in her dressing-bag, still caused him the most intense anxiety.At the same hour that Malvano had been reading the account of the previous day’s inquest, Frank Tristram was sitting in his handsome, well-furnished chambers in St. James’s Street. He had breakfasted early, as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habitual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical bachelor’s quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and bric-à-brac which its owner had picked up in the various corners of the earth he had visited bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the curiosity shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from Africa and South America, and a bright, shining samovar from St. Petersburg. In a corner stood the much-worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, and hanging upon a nail above the mantelshelf was the blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discomfort. Over the fireplace, too, were many autographed portraits of British ambassadors and distinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of one or two ladies of this constant traveller’s acquaintance.As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair—the same in which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board many an ocean steamer—well-shaven, smart, and spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply.“Italy again!” he grumbled to himself as he took up a scribbled note on official paper. “Just my infernal luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to start this morning.” And rousing himself, he stretched his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled all that he had read half an hour before.“I wonder,” he went on—“I wonder if any one on Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the girl?” Then he remained silent for a moment. “No. I oughtn’t to go to Italy; it’s far too risky. There’s plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington. Yes, a touch of fever will be a good excuse.” But, after a moment’s further consideration, he added, “Yet, after all, to be ill will be to arouse suspicion. No, I’ll go;” and he pressed the electric bell.In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered.“A foreign telegraph form, Smayle,” he said.The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.“Take this to the telegraph office in Regent Street,” he said. “I’m leaving this morning, and if anybody calls, tell them I’ve gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, or to the devil, if you like—anyhow, I shan’t be back for a month. You understand?”“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a smile. “Shall I forward any letters?”“Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.”At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a moment later, saying—“Major Maitland, sir.”“Show him in,” answered his master in a tone of suppressed excitement.The man disappeared, and a second later the Major entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of the comfortable saddle-bag chairs.“Well, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed as soon as they were alone. “Why do you risk London after the events of the other night? I never dreamed that I should find you at home.”“I’m leaving for Italy again by the eleven train,” the other answered. “Have you read this morning’s paper?”“Of course I have,” answered the Major. “It’s an infernally awkward bit of business for both of us, I’m afraid. That introduction at the station was the greatest mistake possible, for the cabman will no doubt identify us. Besides, he overheard you address me by rank.”“But the police have no suspicion,” Tristram observed. “At present we are safe enough.”“If I were you I wouldn’t arrive or depart from Charing Cross for a few months at least,” the Major suggested. “The business is far too ugly for us to run any unnecessary risks, you know.”“No; I shall make a habit of departing from London Bridge and arriving at Cannon Street. I never have more than hand-baggage with me.”“Where are you going to-day?”“To Leghorn again. Right into the very midst of the enemy’s camp,” he laughed.“Suppose any facts regarding the mystery have been published in the local papers, don’t you think you’d stand a good chance of being arrested? The police in Italy are very arbitrary.”“They dare not arrest me with despatches in my possession. I have immunity from arrest while on official business,” His Majesty’s messenger answered.“That may be so,” replied the Major. “But you’d have a considerable difficulty in persuading the police of either London or Leghorn that you were not the amiable young man who arrived at Charing Cross with Vittorina.”“And you would have similar difficulty, my dear old chap, in convincing the detectives that you were not the person who waited for us on the platform,” the other replied. “You’re so well known about town that, if I were you, I should leave London at once, and not take a return ticket.”“I leave to-night.”“By what route?”“By a rather round-about one,” the Major answered, slowly striking a vesta. “The ordinary Channel passage might disagree with me, you know, so I shall travel this evening to Hull, and sail to-morrow morning for Christiania. Thence I shall get down into Germany via Hamburg.”“A very neat way of evading observation,” observed the Captain in a tone of admiration.“I booked my passage a fortnight ago, in case I might require it,” the elder man observed carelessly. “When one desires to cover one’s tracks, the ordinary Channel services are worse than useless. I call the Norwegian the circular route. I’ve used it more than once before. They know me on the Wilson liners.”Tristram glanced at his watch. “I must be off in five minutes. What will be your address?”“Portland before long, if I’m not wary,” the other replied, with a grim smile.“This is no time for joking, Maitland,” Tristram said severely. “Reserve your witticisms for the warders, if you really anticipate chokee. They’ll no doubt appreciate them.”“Then address me Poste Restante, Brussels. I’m certain to drift to the Europe there sooner or later within the next three months,” the Major said.“Very well, I must go;” and the King’s messenger quickly obtained his soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat from the hall, filled a silver flask from a decanter, took down the blue ribbon, deftly fastened it around his neck out of sight beneath his cravat, and snatched up his travelling-bag.“I’m going along to the Foreign Office for despatches. Can I drop you anywhere from my cab?” he asked as they made their way down the stairs together.“No, my dear fellow,” the Major replied. “I’m going up Bond Street.”Then, on gaining St. James’s Street, the Captain sprang into a cab, and shouting a cheery adieu to his friend, drove off on the first stage of his tedious thousand-mile journey to the Mediterranean shore.
The jury, after a long deliberation, returned an open verdict of “Found dead.” In the opinion of the twelve Strand tradesmen, there was insufficient evidence to justify a verdict of murder, therefore they had contented themselves in leaving the matter in the hands of the police. They had, in reality, accepted the evidence of the analyst in preference to the theory of the doctor, and had publicly expressed a hope that the authorities at Scotland Yard would spare no pains in their endeavours to discover the deceased’s fellow traveller, if he did not come forward voluntarily and establish her identity.
This verdict practically put an end to the mystery created by the sensational section of the evening Press, for although it was not one of natural causes, actual murder was not alleged. Therefore, amid the diversity of the next day’s news, the whirling world of London forgot, as it ever forgets, the sensation of the previous day. All interest had been lost in the curious circumstances surrounding the death of the unknown Italian girl in the most crowded of London thoroughfares by reason of this verdict of the jury.
The police had taken up the matter actively, but all that had been discovered regarding the identity of the dead woman was that her name was probably Vittorina—beyond that, absolutely nothing. Among the millions who had followed the mystery with avidity in the papers, one man alone recognised the woman by her description, and with satisfaction learnt how ingeniously her death had been encompassed.
That man was the eminently respectable doctor in the remote rural village of Lyddington. With his breakfast untouched before him, he sat in his cosy room eagerly devouring the account of the inquest; then, when he had finished, he cast the paper aside, exclaiming aloud in Italian—
“Dio! What good fortune! I wonder how it was accomplished? Somebody else, besides ourselves, apparently, feared her presence in England. Arnold is in Livorno by this time, and has had his journey for nothing.”
Then, with his head thrown back in his chair, he gazed up at the panelled ceiling deep in thought.
“Who, I wonder, could that confounded Englishman have been who escorted her to London and who left her so suddenly? Some Jackanapes or other, I suppose. And who’s the Major? He’s evidently English too, whoever he is. Only fancy, on the very night we discussed the desirability of the girl’s death, some unknown person obligingly did the work for us!” Then he paused, set his teeth, and, frowning, added, “But that injudicious letter of Egisto’s may give us some trouble. What an idiot to write like that! I hope the police won’t trace him. If they do, it will be awkward—devilish awkward.”
A few minutes later the door opened, and a younger man, slim and pale-faced, entered and wished him “good-morning.”
“No breakfast?” the man, his assistant, inquired, glancing at the table. “What’s the matter?”
“Liver, my boy, liver,” Malvano answered with his usual good-humoured smile. “I shall go to town to-day. I may be absent the whole week; but there’s nothing really urgent. That case of typhoid up at Craig’s Lodge is going on well. You’ve seen it once, haven’t you?”
“Yes. You’re treating it in the usual way, I suppose?”
“Of course;” and the doctor, advancing to the table, poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, at the same time calling to his man Goodwin to pack his bag, and be ready to drive him to the London train at ten-twenty.
His assistant being called to the surgery a few minutes later, Malvano sat down at his writing-table, hastily scribbled a couple of telegrams, which he folded and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and half an hour later drove out of the quiet old-world village, with its ancient church spire and long, straggling street of thatched cottages, on his way to catch the train.
Beside the faithful Goodwin he sat in silence the whole way, for many things he had read that morning sorely puzzled him. It was true that the lips of Vittorina were sealed in death, but the letter signed “Egisto,” discovered by the police in her dressing-bag, still caused him the most intense anxiety.
At the same hour that Malvano had been reading the account of the previous day’s inquest, Frank Tristram was sitting in his handsome, well-furnished chambers in St. James’s Street. He had breakfasted early, as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habitual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical bachelor’s quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and bric-à-brac which its owner had picked up in the various corners of the earth he had visited bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the curiosity shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from Africa and South America, and a bright, shining samovar from St. Petersburg. In a corner stood the much-worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, and hanging upon a nail above the mantelshelf was the blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discomfort. Over the fireplace, too, were many autographed portraits of British ambassadors and distinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of one or two ladies of this constant traveller’s acquaintance.
As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair—the same in which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board many an ocean steamer—well-shaven, smart, and spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply.
“Italy again!” he grumbled to himself as he took up a scribbled note on official paper. “Just my infernal luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to start this morning.” And rousing himself, he stretched his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled all that he had read half an hour before.
“I wonder,” he went on—“I wonder if any one on Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the girl?” Then he remained silent for a moment. “No. I oughtn’t to go to Italy; it’s far too risky. There’s plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington. Yes, a touch of fever will be a good excuse.” But, after a moment’s further consideration, he added, “Yet, after all, to be ill will be to arouse suspicion. No, I’ll go;” and he pressed the electric bell.
In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered.
“A foreign telegraph form, Smayle,” he said.
The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.
“Take this to the telegraph office in Regent Street,” he said. “I’m leaving this morning, and if anybody calls, tell them I’ve gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, or to the devil, if you like—anyhow, I shan’t be back for a month. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a smile. “Shall I forward any letters?”
“Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.”
At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a moment later, saying—
“Major Maitland, sir.”
“Show him in,” answered his master in a tone of suppressed excitement.
The man disappeared, and a second later the Major entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of the comfortable saddle-bag chairs.
“Well, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed as soon as they were alone. “Why do you risk London after the events of the other night? I never dreamed that I should find you at home.”
“I’m leaving for Italy again by the eleven train,” the other answered. “Have you read this morning’s paper?”
“Of course I have,” answered the Major. “It’s an infernally awkward bit of business for both of us, I’m afraid. That introduction at the station was the greatest mistake possible, for the cabman will no doubt identify us. Besides, he overheard you address me by rank.”
“But the police have no suspicion,” Tristram observed. “At present we are safe enough.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t arrive or depart from Charing Cross for a few months at least,” the Major suggested. “The business is far too ugly for us to run any unnecessary risks, you know.”
“No; I shall make a habit of departing from London Bridge and arriving at Cannon Street. I never have more than hand-baggage with me.”
“Where are you going to-day?”
“To Leghorn again. Right into the very midst of the enemy’s camp,” he laughed.
“Suppose any facts regarding the mystery have been published in the local papers, don’t you think you’d stand a good chance of being arrested? The police in Italy are very arbitrary.”
“They dare not arrest me with despatches in my possession. I have immunity from arrest while on official business,” His Majesty’s messenger answered.
“That may be so,” replied the Major. “But you’d have a considerable difficulty in persuading the police of either London or Leghorn that you were not the amiable young man who arrived at Charing Cross with Vittorina.”
“And you would have similar difficulty, my dear old chap, in convincing the detectives that you were not the person who waited for us on the platform,” the other replied. “You’re so well known about town that, if I were you, I should leave London at once, and not take a return ticket.”
“I leave to-night.”
“By what route?”
“By a rather round-about one,” the Major answered, slowly striking a vesta. “The ordinary Channel passage might disagree with me, you know, so I shall travel this evening to Hull, and sail to-morrow morning for Christiania. Thence I shall get down into Germany via Hamburg.”
“A very neat way of evading observation,” observed the Captain in a tone of admiration.
“I booked my passage a fortnight ago, in case I might require it,” the elder man observed carelessly. “When one desires to cover one’s tracks, the ordinary Channel services are worse than useless. I call the Norwegian the circular route. I’ve used it more than once before. They know me on the Wilson liners.”
Tristram glanced at his watch. “I must be off in five minutes. What will be your address?”
“Portland before long, if I’m not wary,” the other replied, with a grim smile.
“This is no time for joking, Maitland,” Tristram said severely. “Reserve your witticisms for the warders, if you really anticipate chokee. They’ll no doubt appreciate them.”
“Then address me Poste Restante, Brussels. I’m certain to drift to the Europe there sooner or later within the next three months,” the Major said.
“Very well, I must go;” and the King’s messenger quickly obtained his soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat from the hall, filled a silver flask from a decanter, took down the blue ribbon, deftly fastened it around his neck out of sight beneath his cravat, and snatched up his travelling-bag.
“I’m going along to the Foreign Office for despatches. Can I drop you anywhere from my cab?” he asked as they made their way down the stairs together.
“No, my dear fellow,” the Major replied. “I’m going up Bond Street.”
Then, on gaining St. James’s Street, the Captain sprang into a cab, and shouting a cheery adieu to his friend, drove off on the first stage of his tedious thousand-mile journey to the Mediterranean shore.
Chapter Six.In Tuscany.Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering-place known to Italians as Livorno, is at its brightest and best throughout the month of August. To the English, save those who reside permanently in Florence, Pisa, or Rome, its beauties are unknown. But those who know Italy—and to know Italy is to love it—are well aware that at “cara Livorno,” as the Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea-bathing in Europe, and enjoy a perfectly delightful summer beside the Mediterranean.It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy or inartistic; for it makes no pretension to being a first-class holiday resort like Nice or Cannes. Still, it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the whole of the seafront, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, and flowing oleanders; it has its wide, airy piazzas, its cathedral, its Grand Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, its little open cabs in which one can drive two miles for the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence halfpenny. Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown rocks into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers at English seaside resorts, and here during the afternoon everybody, clad in ducks and muslins, lounge in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings, while the waves beat with musical cadence up to their very feet. At evening there are gay, well-lit open-air cafés and several theatres, while the musical can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best works performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of one and threepence.But life at Livorno is purely Tuscan. As yet it is unspoilt by English-speaking tourists; indeed, it is safe to say that not three Cookites set foot within the city in twelve months. In its every aspect the town is beautiful. From the sea it presents a handsome appearance, with its lines of high white houses with their red roofs and closed sun-shutters, backed by the distant blue peaks of the Lucca Mountains, and the serrated spurs of the purple Apennines, while in its sun-whitened streets the dress of the Livornesi, with their well-made skirts of the palest and most delicate tints of blue, grey, and rose, and with their black silk scarves or lace mantillas twisted about their handsome heads, is the most artistic and tasteful in all fair Italy. The men are happy, careless, laughing fellows, muscular, and bronzed by the sun; the women dark-eyed, black-haired, and notable throughout the length and breadth of Europe for their extreme beauty and their grace of carriage.Little wonder is it that stifled Florentines, from shopkeepers to princes, unable to bear the heat and mosquitoes beside the muddy Arno, betake themselves to this bright little watering-place during August and September, where, even if the heat is blazing at midday, the wind is delightfully cool at evening, and the sea-baths render life really worth living. Unless one has spent a summer in Tuscany, it is impossible to realise its stifling breathlessness and its sickening sun-glare. Unless one has lived among the sly, secretive, proud but carelessly happy Livornesi, has shared their joys, sympathised with their sorrows, fraternised with them and noted their little peculiarities, one can never enjoy Livorno.At first the newly arrived foreigner is pointed at by all as one apart, and considered an imbecile for preferring Livorno to Florence, or Milano; every shopkeeper endeavours to charge him double prices, and for every trifling service performed he is expected to disburse princely tips. But the Tuscan heart is instantly softened towards him as soon as he seems likely to become a resident; all sorts and conditions of men do him little kindnesses without monetary reward; grave-faced monks will call at his house and leave him presents of luscious fruits and fresh-cut salads; and even his cabman, the last to relent, will one day, with profuse apology for previous extortions, charge only his just fare.The Italians are indeed an engaging people. It is because they are so ingenuous, so contented, so self-denying, so polite yet so sarcastic, that one learns to love them so well.Along the Viale Regina Margherita, or esplanade—better known perhaps by its ancient name, the Passeggio—are a number of baths, all frequented by different grades of society, the one most in vogue among the better-class residents and visitors being a handsome establishment with café and skating-rink attached, known as Pancaldi’s.It was here, one evening soon after the mysterious death of Vittorina in London, that two persons, a man and a woman, were sitting, watching the ever-changing hues of one of those glorious blazing sunsets seen nowhere else in the world but in the Mediterranean. The broad, asphalted promenade, covered by its wide canvas awnings, was almost blocked by the hundreds of gaily dressed persons sitting on chairs chattering and laughing, and it seemed as though all the notable people of Florence and Bologna had assembled there to enjoy the cool breeze after the terrific heat of the August day. Along the Viale the road was sun-bleached, the wind-swept tamarisks were whitened by the dust, and the town that day had throbbed and gasped beneath the terrible, fiery August glare. But here, at Pancaldi’s, was light, happy chatter—in Italian of various dialects, of course—a cool, refreshing breeze, and that indefinable air of delicious laziness which Italy alone claims as her birthright.The pair sitting together at the end of the asphalted walk, at some distance from the crowd, were young and, to a casual observer, well matched. Unlike all others round about her, the woman was of fair complexion, about twenty-five, with that gold-brown hair that Titian loved to paint, eyes of a deep and wondrous blue, a small, adorable mouth, the upper lip of which possessed that rare attribute, the true Cupid’s bow, a face sweet, almost childlike in expression, prefect in its purity. Her great beauty was well set off by her black dress and tiny black bonnet, but from the crown of her head to the toe of her pointed patent-leather shoe there was a chic and daintiness about her which, to an English eye, stamped her as foreign, even though her face bore no trace of Italian blood.Half that gay, gossiping crowd, attracted by her beauty, had already set her down as English, perhaps because her fairness was uncommon in Tuscany, perhaps because they detected by the cut of her companion’s clothes that he was English. But Gemma Fanetti was really a native of Florence, a true-bred Tuscan, who knew not half a dozen words of English. She could chatter French a little, and could gabble the nasal Milanese dialect, but it always amused her to be taken for an Englishwoman.Her dress, although black, and only relieved by a little white lace at the throat and wrists, was made in the latest mode, and fitted her perfectly. On her slim wrist was a single bangle of diamonds, which flashed in the dying sunlight with all the colours of the spectrum as, in chatting idly with her companion, she slowly traced semicircles on the ground with the point of her black sunshade. Undoubtedly she was strikingly beautiful, for men in twos and threes were passing and repassing solely for the purpose of obtaining a glance at her.Utterly unconscious of their admiration, of the whisperings of those about her, or of the glorious wealth of colour spread before them as the sun sank deep into the grey, glittering sea, they both chatted on, glancing now and then into each other’s eyes.Her companion was about twenty-eight, good-looking, dark-eyed, with a merry face and an air of carelessness as, in a suit of cool, white ducks, and his straw hat tilted slightly over his brow to shade his eyes, he sat back in his chair, joining in her low, well-bred laughter. Truth to tell, Charles Armytage was desperately in love.For seven years—ever since he came of age and succeeded to his father’s property in Wales—he had led a wild, rather dissipated life on the Continent, and had found himself world-weary before his time. His college career had terminated somewhat ignominiously, for he had been “sent down” on account of a rather serious practical joke; he had studied for the Bar, and failed; he had done the whole round of the public gaming establishments, Monte Carlo, Ostend, Spa, Dinant, Namur, and Trouville, losing heavily at each; he had idled on the sands of Scheveningen, flirted on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, tasted the far-famed oysters at Arcachon, the bouillabaisse at Marseilles, and bathed on San Sebastian’s golden sands. Once he had taken a fit into his head to visit all the spas, and, beginning with Royat, he made a tour of all the principal ones as far as Carlsbad. Thus had he developed into a thorough cosmopolitan, travelling hither and thither just as his fancy led him, his only hobby being in occasionally writing a short story or travel article for one or other of the English magazines.It was in his restless, dejected mood that, six months before, he had arrived in Florence, and by mere chance had first met the woman who was now beside him. He had one morning been walking along the Via Tornabuoni when he first saw her, accompanied by her servant. Suddenly something fell to the pavement, and an urchin instantly snatched it up. Armytage ran after him, recovered the little golden charm, and handed it to its owner, being rewarded by a few words of thanks. Her grace, her beauty, her soft, musical voice rekindled within him a desire for life. Instantly he became fascinated by her wondrous beauty, and she, too, seemed content to chat with him, and to listen to his very faulty Italian, which must have been exceedingly difficult for her to understand.They did not meet often, but always casually. Once or twice he encountered her cycling in the Cascine, and had joined her in a spin along the shady avenues. They had exchanged cards, but she had never invited him to call, and he, living at a hotel, could scarcely invite her. Italian manners strictly preserve theconvenances. No unmarried lady in any Tuscan city, not even a woman of the people, ever dreams of going out alone. Even the poorest girl is chaperoned whenever she takes an airing.Suddenly, just when Armytage found himself hopelessly infatuated, he one morning received an urgent telegram calling him to London, and he had been compelled to leave without a word of farewell, or any knowledge of her address.As soon as he could, he returned to Florence, but the weather had then grown hot, and all who were able had left the sun-baked city. Then, disappointed at not finding her after an active search, he drifted down to the sea at Livorno, and within three days was delighted to see her strolling in the Passeggio with her ugly, cross-eyed serving woman. The recognition was mutual, and after one or two meetings she explained that she had a flat for the season in one of the great white houses opposite, and expressed a hope that he would call.He lost no time in renewing the acquaintance, and now they were inseparable. He loved her.“Do you know, Gemma,” he was saying seriously, “when I left Florence in March, I left my heart behind—with you.”She blushed slightly beneath her veil, and raising her clear blue eyes to his, answered with a slight sigh in her soft Italian—“You say you love me, caro; but can I really believe you?”“Of course you can, dearest,” he answered earnestly, speaking her tongue with difficulty. “I love no other woman in the whole world but you.”“Ah!” she exclaimed sadly, gazing blankly away across the sea, now glittering crimson in the blaze of the dying day. “I sometimes fear to love you, because you may tire of me one day, and go back to some woman of your own people.”“Never,” he answered fervently. “As I told you yesterday, Gemma, I love you; and you, in return, have already given me your pledge.”“And you can actually love me like this, blindly, without inquiring too deeply into my past?” she whispered, regarding him gravely with those calm, clear eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul.“Your past matters not to me,” he answered in a deep, intense voice under his breath, so that passers-by should not overhear. “I have asked you nothing; you have told me nothing. I love you, Gemma, and trust to your honour to tell me what I ought to know.”“Ah! you are generous!” she exclaimed; and he saw beneath her veil a single tear upon her cheek. “The past life of a man can always be effaced; that of a woman never. A false step, alas! lives as evidence against her until the grave.”“Why are you so melancholy this evening?” he asked, after a pause.“I really don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps it is because I am so happy and contented. My peace seems too complete to be lasting.”“While you love me, Gemma, I shall love you always,” he exclaimed decisively. “You need never have any doubt about my earnestness. I adore you.”Her breast heaved and fell beneath its black lace and jet, and she turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression more eloquent than any words of assurance and affection.Then, after a brief silence, he glanced around at the crowd about them, saying—“It is impossible to speak further of our private affairs here. You will dine with me to-night. Where shall it be?”“Let’s dine at the Eden. There’s plenty of air there. We can get a table facing the sea, and stay to the performance afterwards. Shall we?” she asked, her face brightening.“Certainly,” he replied. “I’ll go across to the hotel and dress, while you go along home and put on another frock. I know you won’t go in black to acafé chantant,” he added, laughing.“You’ll call for me?” she asked.“Yes, at eight.”As these words fell from his lips a man’s voice in English exclaimed—“Hulloa, Charlie! Who’d have thought of finding you here?”Armytage looked up quickly, and, to his surprise, found standing before him his old college chum and fellow clubman, Frank Tristram.“Why, Frank, old fellow!” he cried, jumping up and grasping the other’s hand warmly. “We haven’t met for how long? The last time was one night in the Wintergarden at Berlin, fully two years ago—eh?”“Yes. Neither of us are much in London nowadays, therefore we seldom meet. But what are you doing here?” asked the King’s messenger, looking cool and smart in his suit of grey flannel.“Killing time, as usual,” his friend replied, with a smile.“Lucky devil!” Tristram exclaimed. “While I’m compelled to race from end to end of Europe for a paltry eight hundred a year, you laze away your days in an out-of-the-world place like this.” And he glanced significantly at the sweet, fair-faced woman who, having given him a swift look, was now sitting motionless, her hands idly crossed upon her lap, her eyes fixed blankly upon the sunlit sea.“Let me introduce you,” Armytage exclaimed in Italian, noticing his friend’s look of admiration. “The Signorina Gemma Fanetti—my friend, Captain Frank Tristram.”The latter bowed, made a little complimentary speech in excellent Italian, and seated himself with Armytage beside her.“Well,” Tristram said, still speaking in Italian, “this is quite an unexpected pleasure. I thought that in addition to the Ambassador out at Ardenza, and the jovial Jack Hutchinson, the Consul, I was the only Englishman in this purely Tuscan place.” Then turning to his friend’s companion, he asked, “Are you Livornese?”“Oh, no,” she replied, with a gay, rippling laugh, “I live in Florence; only just now the place is stifling, so I’m down here for fresh air.”“Ah, Florence!” he said. “The old city is justly termed ‘La Bella.’ I sometimes find myself there in winter, and it is always interesting, always delightful.”At that moment an English lady, the wife of an Italian officer, bowed in passing, and Armytage sprang to his feet and began to chat to her. He had known her well during his stay in Florence earlier in the year.As soon as Gemma noticed that her lover was no longer listening, her manner at once changed, and bending quickly towards the Captain, she exclaimed in rapid Italian, which she knew Armytage could not understand—“Well, did you see Vittorina safely to London?”Tristram started at the unexpected mention of that name.“Yes,” he answered, with slight hesitation. “I saw her safely as far as Charing Cross, but was compelled to leave her there, and put her in a cab for Hammersmith.”“How far is that?”“About five kilometres,” he replied.“I have had no telegram from her,” she observed. “She promised to wire to me as soon as she arrived, and I am beginning to feel anxious about her.”“Worry is useless,” he said calmly. “She is no doubt quite safe with her friends. I gave the cabman the right address. My official business was pressing, or I would have gone out to Hammersmith with her.”“You remember what I told you on the night we parted in Florence?” she said mysteriously.He nodded, and his dark face grew a shade paler.“Well, I have discovered that what I suspected was correct,” she said, her eyes flashing for an instant with a strange glint. “Some one has betrayed the secret.”“Betrayed you!” he gasped.She shrugged her shoulders. Her clear eyes fixed themselves fiercely upon him.“You alone knew the truth,” she said. “And you have broken your promise of silence.”He flinched.“Well?” he said. “You are, of course, at liberty to make any charge you like against me, but I can only declare that I have not divulged one single word.” Then he added quickly, “But what of Armytage? Does he know anything?”“Absolutely nothing,” she answered quickly. “I love him. Remember that you and I have never met before our introduction this afternoon.”“Of course,” the Captain answered.“Curious that Vittorina has disappeared! If I hear nothing of her, I shall go to London and find her,” Gemma observed, after a few moments’ silence.“Better not, if you really have been betrayed,” he answered quickly.“I have been betrayed, Captain Tristram,” she said rapidly, with withering scorn, her face flushing instantly, her large, luminous eyes flashing. “You are well aware that I have; and, further, you know that you yourself are my bitterest enemy. I spare you now, mean, despicable coward that you are, but utter one word to the man I love, and I will settle accounts with you swiftly and relentlessly.”She held her breath, panting for an instant, then turning from him, greeted her lover with a sweet, winning smile, as at that moment he returned to her side.
Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering-place known to Italians as Livorno, is at its brightest and best throughout the month of August. To the English, save those who reside permanently in Florence, Pisa, or Rome, its beauties are unknown. But those who know Italy—and to know Italy is to love it—are well aware that at “cara Livorno,” as the Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea-bathing in Europe, and enjoy a perfectly delightful summer beside the Mediterranean.
It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy or inartistic; for it makes no pretension to being a first-class holiday resort like Nice or Cannes. Still, it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the whole of the seafront, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, and flowing oleanders; it has its wide, airy piazzas, its cathedral, its Grand Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, its little open cabs in which one can drive two miles for the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence halfpenny. Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown rocks into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers at English seaside resorts, and here during the afternoon everybody, clad in ducks and muslins, lounge in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings, while the waves beat with musical cadence up to their very feet. At evening there are gay, well-lit open-air cafés and several theatres, while the musical can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best works performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of one and threepence.
But life at Livorno is purely Tuscan. As yet it is unspoilt by English-speaking tourists; indeed, it is safe to say that not three Cookites set foot within the city in twelve months. In its every aspect the town is beautiful. From the sea it presents a handsome appearance, with its lines of high white houses with their red roofs and closed sun-shutters, backed by the distant blue peaks of the Lucca Mountains, and the serrated spurs of the purple Apennines, while in its sun-whitened streets the dress of the Livornesi, with their well-made skirts of the palest and most delicate tints of blue, grey, and rose, and with their black silk scarves or lace mantillas twisted about their handsome heads, is the most artistic and tasteful in all fair Italy. The men are happy, careless, laughing fellows, muscular, and bronzed by the sun; the women dark-eyed, black-haired, and notable throughout the length and breadth of Europe for their extreme beauty and their grace of carriage.
Little wonder is it that stifled Florentines, from shopkeepers to princes, unable to bear the heat and mosquitoes beside the muddy Arno, betake themselves to this bright little watering-place during August and September, where, even if the heat is blazing at midday, the wind is delightfully cool at evening, and the sea-baths render life really worth living. Unless one has spent a summer in Tuscany, it is impossible to realise its stifling breathlessness and its sickening sun-glare. Unless one has lived among the sly, secretive, proud but carelessly happy Livornesi, has shared their joys, sympathised with their sorrows, fraternised with them and noted their little peculiarities, one can never enjoy Livorno.
At first the newly arrived foreigner is pointed at by all as one apart, and considered an imbecile for preferring Livorno to Florence, or Milano; every shopkeeper endeavours to charge him double prices, and for every trifling service performed he is expected to disburse princely tips. But the Tuscan heart is instantly softened towards him as soon as he seems likely to become a resident; all sorts and conditions of men do him little kindnesses without monetary reward; grave-faced monks will call at his house and leave him presents of luscious fruits and fresh-cut salads; and even his cabman, the last to relent, will one day, with profuse apology for previous extortions, charge only his just fare.
The Italians are indeed an engaging people. It is because they are so ingenuous, so contented, so self-denying, so polite yet so sarcastic, that one learns to love them so well.
Along the Viale Regina Margherita, or esplanade—better known perhaps by its ancient name, the Passeggio—are a number of baths, all frequented by different grades of society, the one most in vogue among the better-class residents and visitors being a handsome establishment with café and skating-rink attached, known as Pancaldi’s.
It was here, one evening soon after the mysterious death of Vittorina in London, that two persons, a man and a woman, were sitting, watching the ever-changing hues of one of those glorious blazing sunsets seen nowhere else in the world but in the Mediterranean. The broad, asphalted promenade, covered by its wide canvas awnings, was almost blocked by the hundreds of gaily dressed persons sitting on chairs chattering and laughing, and it seemed as though all the notable people of Florence and Bologna had assembled there to enjoy the cool breeze after the terrific heat of the August day. Along the Viale the road was sun-bleached, the wind-swept tamarisks were whitened by the dust, and the town that day had throbbed and gasped beneath the terrible, fiery August glare. But here, at Pancaldi’s, was light, happy chatter—in Italian of various dialects, of course—a cool, refreshing breeze, and that indefinable air of delicious laziness which Italy alone claims as her birthright.
The pair sitting together at the end of the asphalted walk, at some distance from the crowd, were young and, to a casual observer, well matched. Unlike all others round about her, the woman was of fair complexion, about twenty-five, with that gold-brown hair that Titian loved to paint, eyes of a deep and wondrous blue, a small, adorable mouth, the upper lip of which possessed that rare attribute, the true Cupid’s bow, a face sweet, almost childlike in expression, prefect in its purity. Her great beauty was well set off by her black dress and tiny black bonnet, but from the crown of her head to the toe of her pointed patent-leather shoe there was a chic and daintiness about her which, to an English eye, stamped her as foreign, even though her face bore no trace of Italian blood.
Half that gay, gossiping crowd, attracted by her beauty, had already set her down as English, perhaps because her fairness was uncommon in Tuscany, perhaps because they detected by the cut of her companion’s clothes that he was English. But Gemma Fanetti was really a native of Florence, a true-bred Tuscan, who knew not half a dozen words of English. She could chatter French a little, and could gabble the nasal Milanese dialect, but it always amused her to be taken for an Englishwoman.
Her dress, although black, and only relieved by a little white lace at the throat and wrists, was made in the latest mode, and fitted her perfectly. On her slim wrist was a single bangle of diamonds, which flashed in the dying sunlight with all the colours of the spectrum as, in chatting idly with her companion, she slowly traced semicircles on the ground with the point of her black sunshade. Undoubtedly she was strikingly beautiful, for men in twos and threes were passing and repassing solely for the purpose of obtaining a glance at her.
Utterly unconscious of their admiration, of the whisperings of those about her, or of the glorious wealth of colour spread before them as the sun sank deep into the grey, glittering sea, they both chatted on, glancing now and then into each other’s eyes.
Her companion was about twenty-eight, good-looking, dark-eyed, with a merry face and an air of carelessness as, in a suit of cool, white ducks, and his straw hat tilted slightly over his brow to shade his eyes, he sat back in his chair, joining in her low, well-bred laughter. Truth to tell, Charles Armytage was desperately in love.
For seven years—ever since he came of age and succeeded to his father’s property in Wales—he had led a wild, rather dissipated life on the Continent, and had found himself world-weary before his time. His college career had terminated somewhat ignominiously, for he had been “sent down” on account of a rather serious practical joke; he had studied for the Bar, and failed; he had done the whole round of the public gaming establishments, Monte Carlo, Ostend, Spa, Dinant, Namur, and Trouville, losing heavily at each; he had idled on the sands of Scheveningen, flirted on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, tasted the far-famed oysters at Arcachon, the bouillabaisse at Marseilles, and bathed on San Sebastian’s golden sands. Once he had taken a fit into his head to visit all the spas, and, beginning with Royat, he made a tour of all the principal ones as far as Carlsbad. Thus had he developed into a thorough cosmopolitan, travelling hither and thither just as his fancy led him, his only hobby being in occasionally writing a short story or travel article for one or other of the English magazines.
It was in his restless, dejected mood that, six months before, he had arrived in Florence, and by mere chance had first met the woman who was now beside him. He had one morning been walking along the Via Tornabuoni when he first saw her, accompanied by her servant. Suddenly something fell to the pavement, and an urchin instantly snatched it up. Armytage ran after him, recovered the little golden charm, and handed it to its owner, being rewarded by a few words of thanks. Her grace, her beauty, her soft, musical voice rekindled within him a desire for life. Instantly he became fascinated by her wondrous beauty, and she, too, seemed content to chat with him, and to listen to his very faulty Italian, which must have been exceedingly difficult for her to understand.
They did not meet often, but always casually. Once or twice he encountered her cycling in the Cascine, and had joined her in a spin along the shady avenues. They had exchanged cards, but she had never invited him to call, and he, living at a hotel, could scarcely invite her. Italian manners strictly preserve theconvenances. No unmarried lady in any Tuscan city, not even a woman of the people, ever dreams of going out alone. Even the poorest girl is chaperoned whenever she takes an airing.
Suddenly, just when Armytage found himself hopelessly infatuated, he one morning received an urgent telegram calling him to London, and he had been compelled to leave without a word of farewell, or any knowledge of her address.
As soon as he could, he returned to Florence, but the weather had then grown hot, and all who were able had left the sun-baked city. Then, disappointed at not finding her after an active search, he drifted down to the sea at Livorno, and within three days was delighted to see her strolling in the Passeggio with her ugly, cross-eyed serving woman. The recognition was mutual, and after one or two meetings she explained that she had a flat for the season in one of the great white houses opposite, and expressed a hope that he would call.
He lost no time in renewing the acquaintance, and now they were inseparable. He loved her.
“Do you know, Gemma,” he was saying seriously, “when I left Florence in March, I left my heart behind—with you.”
She blushed slightly beneath her veil, and raising her clear blue eyes to his, answered with a slight sigh in her soft Italian—
“You say you love me, caro; but can I really believe you?”
“Of course you can, dearest,” he answered earnestly, speaking her tongue with difficulty. “I love no other woman in the whole world but you.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed sadly, gazing blankly away across the sea, now glittering crimson in the blaze of the dying day. “I sometimes fear to love you, because you may tire of me one day, and go back to some woman of your own people.”
“Never,” he answered fervently. “As I told you yesterday, Gemma, I love you; and you, in return, have already given me your pledge.”
“And you can actually love me like this, blindly, without inquiring too deeply into my past?” she whispered, regarding him gravely with those calm, clear eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul.
“Your past matters not to me,” he answered in a deep, intense voice under his breath, so that passers-by should not overhear. “I have asked you nothing; you have told me nothing. I love you, Gemma, and trust to your honour to tell me what I ought to know.”
“Ah! you are generous!” she exclaimed; and he saw beneath her veil a single tear upon her cheek. “The past life of a man can always be effaced; that of a woman never. A false step, alas! lives as evidence against her until the grave.”
“Why are you so melancholy this evening?” he asked, after a pause.
“I really don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps it is because I am so happy and contented. My peace seems too complete to be lasting.”
“While you love me, Gemma, I shall love you always,” he exclaimed decisively. “You need never have any doubt about my earnestness. I adore you.”
Her breast heaved and fell beneath its black lace and jet, and she turned her fine eyes upon him with an expression more eloquent than any words of assurance and affection.
Then, after a brief silence, he glanced around at the crowd about them, saying—
“It is impossible to speak further of our private affairs here. You will dine with me to-night. Where shall it be?”
“Let’s dine at the Eden. There’s plenty of air there. We can get a table facing the sea, and stay to the performance afterwards. Shall we?” she asked, her face brightening.
“Certainly,” he replied. “I’ll go across to the hotel and dress, while you go along home and put on another frock. I know you won’t go in black to acafé chantant,” he added, laughing.
“You’ll call for me?” she asked.
“Yes, at eight.”
As these words fell from his lips a man’s voice in English exclaimed—
“Hulloa, Charlie! Who’d have thought of finding you here?”
Armytage looked up quickly, and, to his surprise, found standing before him his old college chum and fellow clubman, Frank Tristram.
“Why, Frank, old fellow!” he cried, jumping up and grasping the other’s hand warmly. “We haven’t met for how long? The last time was one night in the Wintergarden at Berlin, fully two years ago—eh?”
“Yes. Neither of us are much in London nowadays, therefore we seldom meet. But what are you doing here?” asked the King’s messenger, looking cool and smart in his suit of grey flannel.
“Killing time, as usual,” his friend replied, with a smile.
“Lucky devil!” Tristram exclaimed. “While I’m compelled to race from end to end of Europe for a paltry eight hundred a year, you laze away your days in an out-of-the-world place like this.” And he glanced significantly at the sweet, fair-faced woman who, having given him a swift look, was now sitting motionless, her hands idly crossed upon her lap, her eyes fixed blankly upon the sunlit sea.
“Let me introduce you,” Armytage exclaimed in Italian, noticing his friend’s look of admiration. “The Signorina Gemma Fanetti—my friend, Captain Frank Tristram.”
The latter bowed, made a little complimentary speech in excellent Italian, and seated himself with Armytage beside her.
“Well,” Tristram said, still speaking in Italian, “this is quite an unexpected pleasure. I thought that in addition to the Ambassador out at Ardenza, and the jovial Jack Hutchinson, the Consul, I was the only Englishman in this purely Tuscan place.” Then turning to his friend’s companion, he asked, “Are you Livornese?”
“Oh, no,” she replied, with a gay, rippling laugh, “I live in Florence; only just now the place is stifling, so I’m down here for fresh air.”
“Ah, Florence!” he said. “The old city is justly termed ‘La Bella.’ I sometimes find myself there in winter, and it is always interesting, always delightful.”
At that moment an English lady, the wife of an Italian officer, bowed in passing, and Armytage sprang to his feet and began to chat to her. He had known her well during his stay in Florence earlier in the year.
As soon as Gemma noticed that her lover was no longer listening, her manner at once changed, and bending quickly towards the Captain, she exclaimed in rapid Italian, which she knew Armytage could not understand—
“Well, did you see Vittorina safely to London?”
Tristram started at the unexpected mention of that name.
“Yes,” he answered, with slight hesitation. “I saw her safely as far as Charing Cross, but was compelled to leave her there, and put her in a cab for Hammersmith.”
“How far is that?”
“About five kilometres,” he replied.
“I have had no telegram from her,” she observed. “She promised to wire to me as soon as she arrived, and I am beginning to feel anxious about her.”
“Worry is useless,” he said calmly. “She is no doubt quite safe with her friends. I gave the cabman the right address. My official business was pressing, or I would have gone out to Hammersmith with her.”
“You remember what I told you on the night we parted in Florence?” she said mysteriously.
He nodded, and his dark face grew a shade paler.
“Well, I have discovered that what I suspected was correct,” she said, her eyes flashing for an instant with a strange glint. “Some one has betrayed the secret.”
“Betrayed you!” he gasped.
She shrugged her shoulders. Her clear eyes fixed themselves fiercely upon him.
“You alone knew the truth,” she said. “And you have broken your promise of silence.”
He flinched.
“Well?” he said. “You are, of course, at liberty to make any charge you like against me, but I can only declare that I have not divulged one single word.” Then he added quickly, “But what of Armytage? Does he know anything?”
“Absolutely nothing,” she answered quickly. “I love him. Remember that you and I have never met before our introduction this afternoon.”
“Of course,” the Captain answered.
“Curious that Vittorina has disappeared! If I hear nothing of her, I shall go to London and find her,” Gemma observed, after a few moments’ silence.
“Better not, if you really have been betrayed,” he answered quickly.
“I have been betrayed, Captain Tristram,” she said rapidly, with withering scorn, her face flushing instantly, her large, luminous eyes flashing. “You are well aware that I have; and, further, you know that you yourself are my bitterest enemy. I spare you now, mean, despicable coward that you are, but utter one word to the man I love, and I will settle accounts with you swiftly and relentlessly.”
She held her breath, panting for an instant, then turning from him, greeted her lover with a sweet, winning smile, as at that moment he returned to her side.
Chapter Seven.Doctor Malvano.Among the thousand notable dining-places in London, Bonciani’s Restaurant, in Regent Street, is notable for itsrecherchérepasts. It is by no means a pretentious place, for its one window displays a few long-necked, rush-covered flasks of Tuscan wine, together with some rather sickly looking plants, a couple of framed menus, and two or three large baskets of well-selected fruit.Yet to many, mostly clubmen and idlers about town, the Bonciani is a feature of London life. In the daytime the passer-by sees no sign of activity within, and even at night the place presents an ill-lit, paltry, and uninviting appearance. But among the few in London who know where to dine well, the little unpretentious place halfway up Regent Street, on the left going toward Oxford Street, is well known for its unrivalled cuisine, its general cosiness, and its well-matured wines. The interior is not striking. There are no gilt-edged mirrors, as is usual in Anglo-Italian restaurants, but the walls are frescoed, as in Italy, with lounges upholstered in red velvet, a trifle shabby, extending down the long, rather low room. Upon the dozen little marble-topped tables, with their snow-white cloths, are objects seen nowhere else in London, namely, silver-plated holders for the wine-flasks; for with the dinner here wine is inclusive, genuine Pompino imported direct from old Galuzzo in the Val d’Ema beyond Firenze, a red wine of delicate bouquet which connoisseurs know cannot be equalled anywhere in London.One evening, about a week after the meeting between Gemma and Tristram at Livorno, nearly all the tables were occupied, as they usually are at the dining hour, but at the extreme end sat two men, eating leisurely, and taking long draughts from the great rush-covered flask before them. They were Tristram and Romanelli.Four days ago the pair had met late at night at the railway station at Leghorn, and the one hearing the other demand a ticket for London, they got into conversation, and travelled through together, arriving at Victoria on the previous evening. During the three days of travelling they had become very friendly, and now, at the Italian’s invitation, Tristram was dining previous to his return on the morrow to Livorno, for at that period Italy was approaching England on the subject of a treaty, and the correspondence between our Ambassador and the Foreign Office was considerable, necessitating despatches being sent to Italy almost daily.“So you return to-morrow?” Romanelli exclaimed, twirling his tiny black moustache affectedly. To men his foppishness was nauseating; but women liked him because of his amusing gossip.“Yes,” the other answered, sighing. “I expected to get a few days’ rest in London, but this afternoon I received orders to leave again to-morrow.”“Your life must be full of change and entertainment,” the young Italian said.“Rather too full,” the other laughed. “Already this year I’ve been to Italy more than twenty times, besides three times to Constantinople, once to Stockholm, twice to Petersburg, and innumerable trips to Brussels and Paris. But, by the way,” he added, putting down his glass as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, “you know Leghorn well, I think you said?”“I’m not Livornese, but I lived there for ten years,” the other answered. “I came to London a year ago to learn English, for they said it was impossible to get any sort of good pronunciation in Italy.”“I’ve passed through Pisa hundreds of times, but have only been in Leghorn once or twice,” observed the King’s messenger. “Charming place. Full of pretty girls.”“Ah! yes,” cried Romanelli. “The English always admire our Livornesi girls.”Tristram paused for a few seconds, then, raising his eyes until they met those of his new acquaintance, asked—“Do you happen to know a girl there named Fanetti—Gemma Fanetti?”Romanelli started perceptibly, and for an instant held his breath. He was utterly unprepared for this question, and strove vainly not to betray his surprise.“Fanetti,” he repeated aloud, as if reflecting. “I think not. It is not a Livornese name.”“She lives in Florence, I believe, but always spends the bathing season at Leghorn,” Tristram added. His quick eyes had detected the Italian’s surprise and anxiety when he had made the unexpected inquiry, and he felt confident that his foppish young friend was concealing the truth.“I’ve never, to my recollection, met any one of that name,” Romanelli answered with well-feigned carelessness. “Is she a lady or merely a girl of the people?”“A lady.”“Young?”“Quite. She’s engaged to be married to a friend of mine.”“Engaged to be married?” the young man repeated with a smile. “Is the man an Englishman?”“Yes, a college chum of mine. He’s well off, and they seem a most devoted pair.”There was a brief silence.“I have no recollection of the name in Florentine society, and I certainly have never met her in Livorno,” Romanelli said. “So she’s found a husband? Is she pretty?”“Extremely. The prettiest woman I’ve ever seen in Italy.”“And there are a good many in my country,” the Italian said. “The poor girl who died so mysteriously—or who, some say, was murdered—outside the Criterion was very beautiful. I knew her well—poor girl!”“You knew her?” gasped the Captain, in turn surprised. “You were acquainted with Vittorina Rinaldo?”“Yes,” replied his companion slowly, glancing at him with some curiosity. “But, tell me,” he added after a pause, “how did you know her surname? The London police have failed to discover it?”Frank Tristram’s brow contracted. He knew that he had foolishly betrayed himself. In an instant a ready lie was upon his lips.“I was told so in Livorno,” he said glibly. “She was Livornese.”“Yes,” Romanelli observed, only half convinced. “According to the papers, it appears as if she were accompanied by some man from Italy. But her death and her companion’s disappearance are alike unfathomable mysteries.”“Extraordinary!” the Captain acquiesced. “I’ve been away so much that I haven’t had a chance to read the whole of the details. But the scraps I have read seem remarkably mysterious.”“There appears to have been absolutely no motive whatever in murdering her,” Arnoldo said, glancing sharply across the table at his companion.“If it were really murder, there must have been some hidden motive,” Tristram declared. “Personally, however, in the light of the Coroner’s verdict, I’m inclined to the opinion that the girl died suddenly in the cab, and the man sitting beside her, fearing that an accusation of murder might bring about some further revelation, made good his escape.”“He must have known London pretty well,” observed Romanelli.“Of course. The evidence proves that he was an Englishman; and that he knew London was quite evident from the fact that he gave instructions to the cabman to drive up the Haymarket, instead of crossing Leicester Square.”Again a silence fell between them, as a calm-faced elderly waiter, in the most correct garb of the Italiancameriere—a short jacket and long white apron reaching almost to his feet—quickly removed their empty plates. He glanced swiftly from one man to the other, polished Tristram’s plate with his cloth as he stood behind him, and exchanged a meaning look with Romanelli. Then he turned suddenly, and went off to another table, to which he was summoned by the tapping of a knife upon a plate. The glance he had exchanged with the young Italian was one of recognition and mysterious significance.This man, the urbane head-waiter, known well to frequenters of the Bonciani as Filippo, was known equally well in the remote Rutlandshire village as Doctor Malvano, the man who had expressed fear at the arrival of Vittorina in England, and who, truth to tell, led the strangest dual existence of doctor and waiter.None in rural Lyddington suspected that their jovial doctor, with his merry chaff and imperturbable good humour, became grave-faced and suddenly transformed each time he visited London; none dreamed that his many absences from his practice were due to anything beyond his natural liking for theatres and the gaiety of town life; and none would have credited, even had it ever been alleged, that this man who could afford that large, comfortable house, rent shooting, and keep hunters in his stables, on each of his visits to London, assumed a badly starched shirt, black tie, short jacket, and long white apron, in order to collect stray pence from diners in a restaurant. Yet such was the fact. Doctor Malvano, who had been so well known among the English colony in Florence, was none other than Filippo, head-waiter at the obscure little café in Regent Street.“It is still a mystery who the dead girl was,” Tristram observed at last. “The man who told me her name only knew very little about her.”“What did he know?” Romanelli inquired quickly. “I had often met her at various houses in Livorno, but knew nothing of her parentage.”“Nobody seems to know who she really was,” Tristram remarked pensively; “and her reason for coming to England seems to have been entirely a secret one.”“A lover, perhaps,” Arnoldo said.“Perhaps,” acquiesced his friend.“But who told you about her?”“There have been official inquiries through the British Consulate,” the other answered mysteriously.“Inquiries from the London police?”The King’s messenger nodded in the affirmative, adding—“I believe they have already discovered a good many curious facts.”“Have they?” asked Romanelli quickly, exchanging a hasty glance with Filippo, who at that moment had paused behind his companion’s chair.“What’s the nature of their discoveries?”“Ah!” Tristram answered, with a provoking smile. “I really don’t know, except that I believe they have discovered something of her motive for coming to England.”“Her motive!” the other gasped, a trifle pale. “Then there is just a chance that the mystery will be elucidated, after all.”“More than a chance, I think,” the Captain replied. “The police, no doubt, hold a clue by that strange letter written from Lucca which was discovered in her dressing-case. And, now that I recollect,” he added in surprise, “this very table at which we are sitting is the one expressly mentioned by her mysterious correspondent. I wonder what was meant by it?”“Ah, I wonder!” the Italian exclaimed mechanically, his brow darkened by deep thought. “It was evident that the mysterious Egisto feared that some catastrophe might occur if she arrived in England, and he therefore warned her in a vague, veiled manner.”Filippo came and went almost noiselessly, his quick ears constantly on the alert to catch their conversation, his clean-shaven face grave, smileless, sphinx-like.“Well,” the Captain observed in a decisive manner, “you may rest assured that Scotland Yard will do its utmost to clear up the mystery surrounding the death of your friend, for I happen to know that the Italian Ambassador in London has made special representation to our Home Office upon the subject, and instructions have gone forth that no effort is to be spared to solve the enigma.”“Then our Government at Rome have actually taken up the matter?” the Italian said in a tone which betrayed alarm.Tristram smiled, but no word passed his lips. He saw that his new acquaintance had not the slightest suspicion that it was he who had accompanied Vittorina from Italy to London; that it was he who had escaped so ingeniously through the bar of the Criterion; that it was for him the police were everywhere searching.At last, when they had concluded their meal, Romanelli paid Filippo, giving him a tip, and the pair left the restaurant to pass an hour at the Empire before parting.Once or twice the young Italian referred to the mystery, but found his companion disinclined to discuss it further.“In my official capacity, I dare not say what I know,” Tristram said at last in an attitude of confidence, as they were sitting together in the crowded lounge of the theatre. “My profession entails absolute secrecy. Often I am entrusted with the exchange of confidences between nations, knowledge of which would cause Europe to be convulsed by war from end to end, but secrets entrusted to me remain locked within my own heart.”“Then you are really aware of true facts?” inquired the other.“Of some,” he replied vaguely, with a mysterious smile.The hand of his foppish companion trembled as he raised his liqueur-glass to his pale lips. But he laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, and then was silent.
Among the thousand notable dining-places in London, Bonciani’s Restaurant, in Regent Street, is notable for itsrecherchérepasts. It is by no means a pretentious place, for its one window displays a few long-necked, rush-covered flasks of Tuscan wine, together with some rather sickly looking plants, a couple of framed menus, and two or three large baskets of well-selected fruit.
Yet to many, mostly clubmen and idlers about town, the Bonciani is a feature of London life. In the daytime the passer-by sees no sign of activity within, and even at night the place presents an ill-lit, paltry, and uninviting appearance. But among the few in London who know where to dine well, the little unpretentious place halfway up Regent Street, on the left going toward Oxford Street, is well known for its unrivalled cuisine, its general cosiness, and its well-matured wines. The interior is not striking. There are no gilt-edged mirrors, as is usual in Anglo-Italian restaurants, but the walls are frescoed, as in Italy, with lounges upholstered in red velvet, a trifle shabby, extending down the long, rather low room. Upon the dozen little marble-topped tables, with their snow-white cloths, are objects seen nowhere else in London, namely, silver-plated holders for the wine-flasks; for with the dinner here wine is inclusive, genuine Pompino imported direct from old Galuzzo in the Val d’Ema beyond Firenze, a red wine of delicate bouquet which connoisseurs know cannot be equalled anywhere in London.
One evening, about a week after the meeting between Gemma and Tristram at Livorno, nearly all the tables were occupied, as they usually are at the dining hour, but at the extreme end sat two men, eating leisurely, and taking long draughts from the great rush-covered flask before them. They were Tristram and Romanelli.
Four days ago the pair had met late at night at the railway station at Leghorn, and the one hearing the other demand a ticket for London, they got into conversation, and travelled through together, arriving at Victoria on the previous evening. During the three days of travelling they had become very friendly, and now, at the Italian’s invitation, Tristram was dining previous to his return on the morrow to Livorno, for at that period Italy was approaching England on the subject of a treaty, and the correspondence between our Ambassador and the Foreign Office was considerable, necessitating despatches being sent to Italy almost daily.
“So you return to-morrow?” Romanelli exclaimed, twirling his tiny black moustache affectedly. To men his foppishness was nauseating; but women liked him because of his amusing gossip.
“Yes,” the other answered, sighing. “I expected to get a few days’ rest in London, but this afternoon I received orders to leave again to-morrow.”
“Your life must be full of change and entertainment,” the young Italian said.
“Rather too full,” the other laughed. “Already this year I’ve been to Italy more than twenty times, besides three times to Constantinople, once to Stockholm, twice to Petersburg, and innumerable trips to Brussels and Paris. But, by the way,” he added, putting down his glass as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, “you know Leghorn well, I think you said?”
“I’m not Livornese, but I lived there for ten years,” the other answered. “I came to London a year ago to learn English, for they said it was impossible to get any sort of good pronunciation in Italy.”
“I’ve passed through Pisa hundreds of times, but have only been in Leghorn once or twice,” observed the King’s messenger. “Charming place. Full of pretty girls.”
“Ah! yes,” cried Romanelli. “The English always admire our Livornesi girls.”
Tristram paused for a few seconds, then, raising his eyes until they met those of his new acquaintance, asked—
“Do you happen to know a girl there named Fanetti—Gemma Fanetti?”
Romanelli started perceptibly, and for an instant held his breath. He was utterly unprepared for this question, and strove vainly not to betray his surprise.
“Fanetti,” he repeated aloud, as if reflecting. “I think not. It is not a Livornese name.”
“She lives in Florence, I believe, but always spends the bathing season at Leghorn,” Tristram added. His quick eyes had detected the Italian’s surprise and anxiety when he had made the unexpected inquiry, and he felt confident that his foppish young friend was concealing the truth.
“I’ve never, to my recollection, met any one of that name,” Romanelli answered with well-feigned carelessness. “Is she a lady or merely a girl of the people?”
“A lady.”
“Young?”
“Quite. She’s engaged to be married to a friend of mine.”
“Engaged to be married?” the young man repeated with a smile. “Is the man an Englishman?”
“Yes, a college chum of mine. He’s well off, and they seem a most devoted pair.”
There was a brief silence.
“I have no recollection of the name in Florentine society, and I certainly have never met her in Livorno,” Romanelli said. “So she’s found a husband? Is she pretty?”
“Extremely. The prettiest woman I’ve ever seen in Italy.”
“And there are a good many in my country,” the Italian said. “The poor girl who died so mysteriously—or who, some say, was murdered—outside the Criterion was very beautiful. I knew her well—poor girl!”
“You knew her?” gasped the Captain, in turn surprised. “You were acquainted with Vittorina Rinaldo?”
“Yes,” replied his companion slowly, glancing at him with some curiosity. “But, tell me,” he added after a pause, “how did you know her surname? The London police have failed to discover it?”
Frank Tristram’s brow contracted. He knew that he had foolishly betrayed himself. In an instant a ready lie was upon his lips.
“I was told so in Livorno,” he said glibly. “She was Livornese.”
“Yes,” Romanelli observed, only half convinced. “According to the papers, it appears as if she were accompanied by some man from Italy. But her death and her companion’s disappearance are alike unfathomable mysteries.”
“Extraordinary!” the Captain acquiesced. “I’ve been away so much that I haven’t had a chance to read the whole of the details. But the scraps I have read seem remarkably mysterious.”
“There appears to have been absolutely no motive whatever in murdering her,” Arnoldo said, glancing sharply across the table at his companion.
“If it were really murder, there must have been some hidden motive,” Tristram declared. “Personally, however, in the light of the Coroner’s verdict, I’m inclined to the opinion that the girl died suddenly in the cab, and the man sitting beside her, fearing that an accusation of murder might bring about some further revelation, made good his escape.”
“He must have known London pretty well,” observed Romanelli.
“Of course. The evidence proves that he was an Englishman; and that he knew London was quite evident from the fact that he gave instructions to the cabman to drive up the Haymarket, instead of crossing Leicester Square.”
Again a silence fell between them, as a calm-faced elderly waiter, in the most correct garb of the Italiancameriere—a short jacket and long white apron reaching almost to his feet—quickly removed their empty plates. He glanced swiftly from one man to the other, polished Tristram’s plate with his cloth as he stood behind him, and exchanged a meaning look with Romanelli. Then he turned suddenly, and went off to another table, to which he was summoned by the tapping of a knife upon a plate. The glance he had exchanged with the young Italian was one of recognition and mysterious significance.
This man, the urbane head-waiter, known well to frequenters of the Bonciani as Filippo, was known equally well in the remote Rutlandshire village as Doctor Malvano, the man who had expressed fear at the arrival of Vittorina in England, and who, truth to tell, led the strangest dual existence of doctor and waiter.
None in rural Lyddington suspected that their jovial doctor, with his merry chaff and imperturbable good humour, became grave-faced and suddenly transformed each time he visited London; none dreamed that his many absences from his practice were due to anything beyond his natural liking for theatres and the gaiety of town life; and none would have credited, even had it ever been alleged, that this man who could afford that large, comfortable house, rent shooting, and keep hunters in his stables, on each of his visits to London, assumed a badly starched shirt, black tie, short jacket, and long white apron, in order to collect stray pence from diners in a restaurant. Yet such was the fact. Doctor Malvano, who had been so well known among the English colony in Florence, was none other than Filippo, head-waiter at the obscure little café in Regent Street.
“It is still a mystery who the dead girl was,” Tristram observed at last. “The man who told me her name only knew very little about her.”
“What did he know?” Romanelli inquired quickly. “I had often met her at various houses in Livorno, but knew nothing of her parentage.”
“Nobody seems to know who she really was,” Tristram remarked pensively; “and her reason for coming to England seems to have been entirely a secret one.”
“A lover, perhaps,” Arnoldo said.
“Perhaps,” acquiesced his friend.
“But who told you about her?”
“There have been official inquiries through the British Consulate,” the other answered mysteriously.
“Inquiries from the London police?”
The King’s messenger nodded in the affirmative, adding—
“I believe they have already discovered a good many curious facts.”
“Have they?” asked Romanelli quickly, exchanging a hasty glance with Filippo, who at that moment had paused behind his companion’s chair.
“What’s the nature of their discoveries?”
“Ah!” Tristram answered, with a provoking smile. “I really don’t know, except that I believe they have discovered something of her motive for coming to England.”
“Her motive!” the other gasped, a trifle pale. “Then there is just a chance that the mystery will be elucidated, after all.”
“More than a chance, I think,” the Captain replied. “The police, no doubt, hold a clue by that strange letter written from Lucca which was discovered in her dressing-case. And, now that I recollect,” he added in surprise, “this very table at which we are sitting is the one expressly mentioned by her mysterious correspondent. I wonder what was meant by it?”
“Ah, I wonder!” the Italian exclaimed mechanically, his brow darkened by deep thought. “It was evident that the mysterious Egisto feared that some catastrophe might occur if she arrived in England, and he therefore warned her in a vague, veiled manner.”
Filippo came and went almost noiselessly, his quick ears constantly on the alert to catch their conversation, his clean-shaven face grave, smileless, sphinx-like.
“Well,” the Captain observed in a decisive manner, “you may rest assured that Scotland Yard will do its utmost to clear up the mystery surrounding the death of your friend, for I happen to know that the Italian Ambassador in London has made special representation to our Home Office upon the subject, and instructions have gone forth that no effort is to be spared to solve the enigma.”
“Then our Government at Rome have actually taken up the matter?” the Italian said in a tone which betrayed alarm.
Tristram smiled, but no word passed his lips. He saw that his new acquaintance had not the slightest suspicion that it was he who had accompanied Vittorina from Italy to London; that it was he who had escaped so ingeniously through the bar of the Criterion; that it was for him the police were everywhere searching.
At last, when they had concluded their meal, Romanelli paid Filippo, giving him a tip, and the pair left the restaurant to pass an hour at the Empire before parting.
Once or twice the young Italian referred to the mystery, but found his companion disinclined to discuss it further.
“In my official capacity, I dare not say what I know,” Tristram said at last in an attitude of confidence, as they were sitting together in the crowded lounge of the theatre. “My profession entails absolute secrecy. Often I am entrusted with the exchange of confidences between nations, knowledge of which would cause Europe to be convulsed by war from end to end, but secrets entrusted to me remain locked within my own heart.”
“Then you are really aware of true facts?” inquired the other.
“Of some,” he replied vaguely, with a mysterious smile.
The hand of his foppish companion trembled as he raised his liqueur-glass to his pale lips. But he laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, and then was silent.
Chapter Eight.Her Ladyship’s Secret.Filippo, grey-faced, but smart nevertheless, continued to attend to the wants of customers at the Bonciani until nearly ten o’clock. He took their orders in English, transmitted them in Italian through the speaking tube to the kitchen, and deftly handed the piles of plates and dishes with the confident air of the professional waiter.Evidence was not wanting that to several elderly Italians he was well known, for he greeted them cheerily, advised them as to the best dishes, and treated them with fatherly solicitude from the moment they entered until their departure.At ten o’clock only two or three stray customers remained, smoking their long rank cigars and sipping their coffee, therefore Filippo handed over his cash, assumed his shabby black overcoat, and wishing “buona notte” to his fellow-waiters, and “good-night” to the English check-taker at the small counter, made his way out and eastward along Regent Street. It was a bright, brilliant night, cool and refreshing after the heat of the day. As he crossed Piccadilly Circus, the glare of the Criterion brought back to him the strange occurrence that had recently taken place before that great open portal, and, with a glance in that direction, he muttered to himself—“I wonder if the truth will ever be discovered? Strange that Arnoldo’s friend knows so much, yet will tell so little! That the girl was killed seems certain. But how, and by whom? Strange,” he added, after a pause as he strode on, deep in thought—“very strange.”Engrossed in his own reflections, he passed along Wardour Street into Shaftesbury Avenue, and presently entered the heart of the foreign quarter of London, a narrow, dismal street of high, dingy, uninviting-looking houses known as Church Street, a squalid, sunless thoroughfare behind the glaring Palace of Varieties, inhabited mostly by French and Italians.He paused before a dark, dirty house, a residence of some importance a century ago, judging from its deep area, its wide portals, and its iron extinguishers, once used by the now-forgotten linkman, and, taking out a latchkey, opened the door, ascending to a small bed-sitting-room on the third floor, not over clean, but nevertheless comfortable. Upon the small side-table, with its cracked and clouded miror, stood the removable centre of his dressing-bag with its silver fittings, and hanging behind the door were the clothes he wore when living his other life.He lit the cheap paraffin lamp, pulled down the faded crimson blind, threw his hat and coat carelessly upon the bed, and, after glancing at his watch, sank into the shabby armchair.“Still time,” he muttered. “I wonder whether she’ll come? If she don’t—if she refuses—”And sighing, he took out a cigarette, lit it, and throwing back his head, meditatively watched the smoke rings as they curled upwards.“I’d give something to know how much the police have actually discovered,” he continued, speaking to himself. “If they’ve really discovered Vittorina’s object in visiting London, then I must be wary not to betray my existence. Already the Ambassador must have had his suspicions aroused, but, fortunately, her mouth is closed for ever. She cannot now betray the secret which she held, nor can she utter any wild denunciations. Our only fear is that the police may possibly discover Egisto in Lucca, make inquiries of him, and thus obtain a key to the whole matter. Our only hope, however, is that Egisto, hearing of the fatal termination of Vittorina’s journey, and not desiring to court inquiry, has wisely fled. If he has remained in Lucca after writing that most idiotic letter, he deserves all the punishment he’ll get for being such a confounded imbecile.”Then, with an expression of disgust, he smoked on in a lazy, indolent attitude, regardless of the shabbiness and squalor of his surroundings.“It is fortunate,” he continued at last, speaking slowly to himself—“very fortunate, indeed, that Anioldo should have met this cosmopolitan friend of his. He evidently knows something, but does not intend to tell us. One thing is evident—he can’t have the slightest suspicion of the real facts as we know them; but, on the other hand, there seems no doubt that the police have ascertained something—how much, it is impossible to tell. That the Italian Ambassador has made representations to the Home Office is quite correct. I knew it days ago. Therefore his other statements are likely to be equally true. By Jove!” he added, starting suddenly to his feet. “By jove! If Egisto should be surprised by the police, the fool is certain to make a clean breast of the whole thing in order to save his own neck. Then will come the inevitable crisis! Dio! Such a catastrophe is too terrible to contemplate.”He drew a deep breath, murmured some inaudible words, and for a long time sat consuming cigarette after cigarette. Then, glancing at his watch again, and finding it past eleven, he rose and stretched himself, saying—“She’s not coming. Well, I suppose I must go to her.” Quickly he took from his bag a clean shirt, and assuming a light covert-coat and a crush hat, he was once again transformed into a gentleman. By the aid of a vesta he found his way down the dark carpetless stairs, and, hurrying along, soon gained Shaftesbury Avenue, where he sprang into a hansom and gave the man instructions to drive to Sussex Square, Hyde Park.In twenty minutes the conveyance pulled up before the wide portico of a handsome but rather gloomy-looking house. His summons was answered by a footman who, recognising him at once, exclaimed, “Her ladyship is at home, sir;” and ushered him into a well-furnished morning-room.A few moments elapsed, when the man returned, and Malvano, with the air of one perfectly acquainted with the arrangements of the house, followed him up the wide, well-lit staircase to the drawing-room, a great apartment on the first floor resplendent with huge mirrors, gilt furniture, and costly bric-à-bric.Seated in an armchair at the farther end of the room beside a table whereon was a shaded lamp, sat a small, ugly woman, whose aquiline face was wizened by age, whose hair was an unnatural flaxen tint, and whose cheeks were not altogether devoid of artificial colouring.“So you are determined to see me?” she exclaimed petulantly.“I am,” he answered simply, seating himself without hesitation in a chair near her.Her greeting was the reverse of cordial. As she spoke her lips parted, displaying her even rows of false teeth; as she moved, her dress of rich black silk rustled loudly; and as she placed her book upon the table with a slight sigh, the fine diamonds in her bony, claw-like hand sparkled with a thousand fires.“Well, why have you come—at this hour, too?” she inquired with a haughtiness which she always assumed towards her servants and inferiors. She sat rigid, immovable; and Malvano, student of character that he was, saw plainly that she had braced herself for an effort.“I asked you to come to me, and you have refused,” he said, folding his arms calmly and looking straight into her rouged and powdered face; “therefore I have come to you.”“For what purpose? Surely we could have met at the Bonciani?”“True, but it was imperative that I should see you to-night.”“More complications—eh?”“Yes,” he replied, “more complications—serious ones.”“Serious!” her ladyship gasped, turning instantly pale. “Is the truth known?” she demanded quickly. “Tell me at once; don’t keep me in suspense.”“Be patient for a moment, and I’ll explain my object in calling,” the Doctor said gravely. “Compose yourself, and listen.”The Countess of Marshfield drew her skirts around her and moved uneasily in her chair. She was well known in London society, a woman whose eccentricities had for years afforded plenty of food for the gossips, and whose very name was synonymous with senile coquetry. Her age was fully sixty-five, yet like many other women of position, she delighted in the delusion that she was still young, attractive, and fascinating. Her attitude towards young marriageable men would have been nauseating were it not so absolutely ludicrous; and the way in which she manipulated her fan at night caused her to be ridiculed by all the exclusive set in which she moved.The dead earl, many years her senior, had achieved brilliant success in the Army, and his name was inscribed upon the roll of England’s heroes. Ever since his death, twenty years ago, however, she had been notable on account of her foolish actions, her spasmodic generosity to various worthless institutions, her wild speculations in rotten companies, and her extraordinary eccentricities. As she sat waiting for her visitor to commence, her thin blue lips twitched nervously, and between her eyes was the deep furrow that appeared there whenever she was unduly agitated. But even then she could not resist the opportunity for coquetry, for, taking up her small ivory fan, she opened it, and, slowly waving it to and fro, glanced at him across it, her lips parted in a smile.But of all men Malvano was one of the least susceptible to feminine blandishments, especially those of such a painfully ugly, artificial person as Lady Marshfield; therefore, heedless of her sudden change of manner towards him, he said bluntly—“The police have already discovered some facts regarding Vittorina.”“Of her past?” she cried, starting forward.“No, of her death,” he answered.“Have they discovered whether or not it was murder?” she inquired, her bejewelled hand trembling perceptibly.“They have no doubt that it was murder,” he replied. “They accept the doctor’s theory, and, moreover, as you already know, the Italian Embassy in London are pressing the matter.”“They suspect at the Embassy—eh?”“Without doubt. It can scarcely come as a surprise that they are endeavouring to get at the truth. One thing, however, is in our favour; and that is, she cannot tell what she knew. If she were still alive, I’m confident the whole affair would have been exposed before this.”“And you would have been under arrest.”He raised his shoulders to his ears, exhibited his palms, grinned, but did not reply.“How have you ascertained this about the police?” her ladyship continued.“Arnoldo is acquainted with the King’s Messenger who carries dispatches between the Foreign Office and the British Ambassador in Italy. The messenger knows everything, but refuses to say much.”“Knows everything!” she cried in alarm. “What do you mean? Has our secret really been divulged?”“No,” answered he. “He is not aware of the true facts, but he knows how far the knowledge of Scotland Yard extends.”“What’s his name?”“Tristram. Captain Tristram.”“Do you know him?”“No.”“Then don’t make his acquaintance,” the eccentric woman urged with darkening countenance. “He’s no doubt a dangerous friend.”“But we may obtain from him some useful knowledge. You know the old saying about being forewarned.”“Our warnings must come from Livorno,” she answered briefly.“That will be impossible.”“Why?”“Gemma has unfortunately fallen in love.”“Love! Bah! With whom?”“With an Englishman,” he answered. “Arnoldo saw them together several times when in Livorno last week.”“Who is he?”“His name is Armytage—Charles Armytage. He—”“Charles Armytage!” her ladyship echoed, starting from her chair. “And he is in love with Gemma?”“No doubt he is. He intends to marry her.”“But they must never marry—never!” she cried quickly. “They must be parted immediately, or our secret will at once be out.”“How? I don’t understand,” he said, with a puzzled expression. “Surely Gemma, of all persons, is still friendly disposed? She owes much to us.”“Certainly,” Lady Marshfield answered. “But was she not present with Vittorina on that memorable night in Livorno? Did she not witness with her own eyes that which we witnessed?”“Well, what of that? We have nothing to fear from her.”“Alas! we have. A word from her would expose the whole affair,” the wizen-faced woman declared. “By some means or other we must part her from Armytage.”“And by doing so you will at once make her your enemy.”“No, your own enemy, Doctor Malvano,” she exclaimed, correcting him haughtily. “I am blameless in this matter.”He looked straight into her dark, sunken eyes, and smiled grimly.“It is surely best to preserve her friendship,” he urged. “We have enemies enough, in all conscience.”“Reflect,” she answered quickly. “Reflect for a moment what exposure means to us. If Gemma marries Armytage, then our secret is no longer safe.”“But surely she has no object to attain in denouncing us, especially as in doing so she must inevitably implicate herself,” he observed.“No,” she said gravely, after a brief pause. “In this matter I have my own views. They must be parted, Filippo. Armytage has the strongest motive—the motive of a fierce and terrible vengeance—for revealing everything.”“But why has Armytage any motive in denouncing us? You speak in enigmas.”“The secret of his motive is mine alone,” the haggard-eyed woman answered. “Seek no explanation, for you can never gain knowledge of the truth until too late, when the whole affair is exposed. It is sufficient for me to tell you that he must be parted from Gemma.”Her wizened face was bloodless and brown beneath its paint and powder, her blue lips were closed tight, and a hard expression showed itself at the corners of her cruel mouth.“Then Gemma is actually as dangerous to us as Vittorina was?” Malvano said, deeply reflecting.“More dangerous,” she declared in a low, harsh voice. “She must be parted from Armytage at once. Every moment’s delay increases our danger. Exposure and disgrace are imminent. In this matter we must risk everything to prevent betrayal.”
Filippo, grey-faced, but smart nevertheless, continued to attend to the wants of customers at the Bonciani until nearly ten o’clock. He took their orders in English, transmitted them in Italian through the speaking tube to the kitchen, and deftly handed the piles of plates and dishes with the confident air of the professional waiter.
Evidence was not wanting that to several elderly Italians he was well known, for he greeted them cheerily, advised them as to the best dishes, and treated them with fatherly solicitude from the moment they entered until their departure.
At ten o’clock only two or three stray customers remained, smoking their long rank cigars and sipping their coffee, therefore Filippo handed over his cash, assumed his shabby black overcoat, and wishing “buona notte” to his fellow-waiters, and “good-night” to the English check-taker at the small counter, made his way out and eastward along Regent Street. It was a bright, brilliant night, cool and refreshing after the heat of the day. As he crossed Piccadilly Circus, the glare of the Criterion brought back to him the strange occurrence that had recently taken place before that great open portal, and, with a glance in that direction, he muttered to himself—
“I wonder if the truth will ever be discovered? Strange that Arnoldo’s friend knows so much, yet will tell so little! That the girl was killed seems certain. But how, and by whom? Strange,” he added, after a pause as he strode on, deep in thought—“very strange.”
Engrossed in his own reflections, he passed along Wardour Street into Shaftesbury Avenue, and presently entered the heart of the foreign quarter of London, a narrow, dismal street of high, dingy, uninviting-looking houses known as Church Street, a squalid, sunless thoroughfare behind the glaring Palace of Varieties, inhabited mostly by French and Italians.
He paused before a dark, dirty house, a residence of some importance a century ago, judging from its deep area, its wide portals, and its iron extinguishers, once used by the now-forgotten linkman, and, taking out a latchkey, opened the door, ascending to a small bed-sitting-room on the third floor, not over clean, but nevertheless comfortable. Upon the small side-table, with its cracked and clouded miror, stood the removable centre of his dressing-bag with its silver fittings, and hanging behind the door were the clothes he wore when living his other life.
He lit the cheap paraffin lamp, pulled down the faded crimson blind, threw his hat and coat carelessly upon the bed, and, after glancing at his watch, sank into the shabby armchair.
“Still time,” he muttered. “I wonder whether she’ll come? If she don’t—if she refuses—”
And sighing, he took out a cigarette, lit it, and throwing back his head, meditatively watched the smoke rings as they curled upwards.
“I’d give something to know how much the police have actually discovered,” he continued, speaking to himself. “If they’ve really discovered Vittorina’s object in visiting London, then I must be wary not to betray my existence. Already the Ambassador must have had his suspicions aroused, but, fortunately, her mouth is closed for ever. She cannot now betray the secret which she held, nor can she utter any wild denunciations. Our only fear is that the police may possibly discover Egisto in Lucca, make inquiries of him, and thus obtain a key to the whole matter. Our only hope, however, is that Egisto, hearing of the fatal termination of Vittorina’s journey, and not desiring to court inquiry, has wisely fled. If he has remained in Lucca after writing that most idiotic letter, he deserves all the punishment he’ll get for being such a confounded imbecile.”
Then, with an expression of disgust, he smoked on in a lazy, indolent attitude, regardless of the shabbiness and squalor of his surroundings.
“It is fortunate,” he continued at last, speaking slowly to himself—“very fortunate, indeed, that Anioldo should have met this cosmopolitan friend of his. He evidently knows something, but does not intend to tell us. One thing is evident—he can’t have the slightest suspicion of the real facts as we know them; but, on the other hand, there seems no doubt that the police have ascertained something—how much, it is impossible to tell. That the Italian Ambassador has made representations to the Home Office is quite correct. I knew it days ago. Therefore his other statements are likely to be equally true. By Jove!” he added, starting suddenly to his feet. “By jove! If Egisto should be surprised by the police, the fool is certain to make a clean breast of the whole thing in order to save his own neck. Then will come the inevitable crisis! Dio! Such a catastrophe is too terrible to contemplate.”
He drew a deep breath, murmured some inaudible words, and for a long time sat consuming cigarette after cigarette. Then, glancing at his watch again, and finding it past eleven, he rose and stretched himself, saying—
“She’s not coming. Well, I suppose I must go to her.” Quickly he took from his bag a clean shirt, and assuming a light covert-coat and a crush hat, he was once again transformed into a gentleman. By the aid of a vesta he found his way down the dark carpetless stairs, and, hurrying along, soon gained Shaftesbury Avenue, where he sprang into a hansom and gave the man instructions to drive to Sussex Square, Hyde Park.
In twenty minutes the conveyance pulled up before the wide portico of a handsome but rather gloomy-looking house. His summons was answered by a footman who, recognising him at once, exclaimed, “Her ladyship is at home, sir;” and ushered him into a well-furnished morning-room.
A few moments elapsed, when the man returned, and Malvano, with the air of one perfectly acquainted with the arrangements of the house, followed him up the wide, well-lit staircase to the drawing-room, a great apartment on the first floor resplendent with huge mirrors, gilt furniture, and costly bric-à-bric.
Seated in an armchair at the farther end of the room beside a table whereon was a shaded lamp, sat a small, ugly woman, whose aquiline face was wizened by age, whose hair was an unnatural flaxen tint, and whose cheeks were not altogether devoid of artificial colouring.
“So you are determined to see me?” she exclaimed petulantly.
“I am,” he answered simply, seating himself without hesitation in a chair near her.
Her greeting was the reverse of cordial. As she spoke her lips parted, displaying her even rows of false teeth; as she moved, her dress of rich black silk rustled loudly; and as she placed her book upon the table with a slight sigh, the fine diamonds in her bony, claw-like hand sparkled with a thousand fires.
“Well, why have you come—at this hour, too?” she inquired with a haughtiness which she always assumed towards her servants and inferiors. She sat rigid, immovable; and Malvano, student of character that he was, saw plainly that she had braced herself for an effort.
“I asked you to come to me, and you have refused,” he said, folding his arms calmly and looking straight into her rouged and powdered face; “therefore I have come to you.”
“For what purpose? Surely we could have met at the Bonciani?”
“True, but it was imperative that I should see you to-night.”
“More complications—eh?”
“Yes,” he replied, “more complications—serious ones.”
“Serious!” her ladyship gasped, turning instantly pale. “Is the truth known?” she demanded quickly. “Tell me at once; don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Be patient for a moment, and I’ll explain my object in calling,” the Doctor said gravely. “Compose yourself, and listen.”
The Countess of Marshfield drew her skirts around her and moved uneasily in her chair. She was well known in London society, a woman whose eccentricities had for years afforded plenty of food for the gossips, and whose very name was synonymous with senile coquetry. Her age was fully sixty-five, yet like many other women of position, she delighted in the delusion that she was still young, attractive, and fascinating. Her attitude towards young marriageable men would have been nauseating were it not so absolutely ludicrous; and the way in which she manipulated her fan at night caused her to be ridiculed by all the exclusive set in which she moved.
The dead earl, many years her senior, had achieved brilliant success in the Army, and his name was inscribed upon the roll of England’s heroes. Ever since his death, twenty years ago, however, she had been notable on account of her foolish actions, her spasmodic generosity to various worthless institutions, her wild speculations in rotten companies, and her extraordinary eccentricities. As she sat waiting for her visitor to commence, her thin blue lips twitched nervously, and between her eyes was the deep furrow that appeared there whenever she was unduly agitated. But even then she could not resist the opportunity for coquetry, for, taking up her small ivory fan, she opened it, and, slowly waving it to and fro, glanced at him across it, her lips parted in a smile.
But of all men Malvano was one of the least susceptible to feminine blandishments, especially those of such a painfully ugly, artificial person as Lady Marshfield; therefore, heedless of her sudden change of manner towards him, he said bluntly—
“The police have already discovered some facts regarding Vittorina.”
“Of her past?” she cried, starting forward.
“No, of her death,” he answered.
“Have they discovered whether or not it was murder?” she inquired, her bejewelled hand trembling perceptibly.
“They have no doubt that it was murder,” he replied. “They accept the doctor’s theory, and, moreover, as you already know, the Italian Embassy in London are pressing the matter.”
“They suspect at the Embassy—eh?”
“Without doubt. It can scarcely come as a surprise that they are endeavouring to get at the truth. One thing, however, is in our favour; and that is, she cannot tell what she knew. If she were still alive, I’m confident the whole affair would have been exposed before this.”
“And you would have been under arrest.”
He raised his shoulders to his ears, exhibited his palms, grinned, but did not reply.
“How have you ascertained this about the police?” her ladyship continued.
“Arnoldo is acquainted with the King’s Messenger who carries dispatches between the Foreign Office and the British Ambassador in Italy. The messenger knows everything, but refuses to say much.”
“Knows everything!” she cried in alarm. “What do you mean? Has our secret really been divulged?”
“No,” answered he. “He is not aware of the true facts, but he knows how far the knowledge of Scotland Yard extends.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tristram. Captain Tristram.”
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Then don’t make his acquaintance,” the eccentric woman urged with darkening countenance. “He’s no doubt a dangerous friend.”
“But we may obtain from him some useful knowledge. You know the old saying about being forewarned.”
“Our warnings must come from Livorno,” she answered briefly.
“That will be impossible.”
“Why?”
“Gemma has unfortunately fallen in love.”
“Love! Bah! With whom?”
“With an Englishman,” he answered. “Arnoldo saw them together several times when in Livorno last week.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Armytage—Charles Armytage. He—”
“Charles Armytage!” her ladyship echoed, starting from her chair. “And he is in love with Gemma?”
“No doubt he is. He intends to marry her.”
“But they must never marry—never!” she cried quickly. “They must be parted immediately, or our secret will at once be out.”
“How? I don’t understand,” he said, with a puzzled expression. “Surely Gemma, of all persons, is still friendly disposed? She owes much to us.”
“Certainly,” Lady Marshfield answered. “But was she not present with Vittorina on that memorable night in Livorno? Did she not witness with her own eyes that which we witnessed?”
“Well, what of that? We have nothing to fear from her.”
“Alas! we have. A word from her would expose the whole affair,” the wizen-faced woman declared. “By some means or other we must part her from Armytage.”
“And by doing so you will at once make her your enemy.”
“No, your own enemy, Doctor Malvano,” she exclaimed, correcting him haughtily. “I am blameless in this matter.”
He looked straight into her dark, sunken eyes, and smiled grimly.
“It is surely best to preserve her friendship,” he urged. “We have enemies enough, in all conscience.”
“Reflect,” she answered quickly. “Reflect for a moment what exposure means to us. If Gemma marries Armytage, then our secret is no longer safe.”
“But surely she has no object to attain in denouncing us, especially as in doing so she must inevitably implicate herself,” he observed.
“No,” she said gravely, after a brief pause. “In this matter I have my own views. They must be parted, Filippo. Armytage has the strongest motive—the motive of a fierce and terrible vengeance—for revealing everything.”
“But why has Armytage any motive in denouncing us? You speak in enigmas.”
“The secret of his motive is mine alone,” the haggard-eyed woman answered. “Seek no explanation, for you can never gain knowledge of the truth until too late, when the whole affair is exposed. It is sufficient for me to tell you that he must be parted from Gemma.”
Her wizened face was bloodless and brown beneath its paint and powder, her blue lips were closed tight, and a hard expression showed itself at the corners of her cruel mouth.
“Then Gemma is actually as dangerous to us as Vittorina was?” Malvano said, deeply reflecting.
“More dangerous,” she declared in a low, harsh voice. “She must be parted from Armytage at once. Every moment’s delay increases our danger. Exposure and disgrace are imminent. In this matter we must risk everything to prevent betrayal.”