Chapter Nine.Beneath the Red, White, and Blue.August passed slowly but gaily in lazy Leghorn. The town lay white beneath the fiery sun-glare through those blazing, breathless hours; the cloudless sky was of that intense blue which one usually associates with Italy, and by day the deserted Passeggio of tamarisks and ilexes, beside the most waveless sea, was for ever enlivened by the chirp of that unseen harbinger of heat, the cicale. Soon, however, the season waned, the stormy libeccio blew frequently, rendering outdoor exercise impossible; but Charles Armytage still lingered on at Gemma’s side, driving with her in the morning along the sea-road to Ardenza and Antignano, or beyond as far as the high-up villa in which lived and died Smollet, the English historian, or ascending to the venerated shrine of the Madonna of Montenero, where the little village peeps forth white and scattered on the green hill-side overlooking the wide expanse of glassy sea. Their afternoons were usually spent amid the crowd of chatterers at Pancaldi’s baths, and each evening they dined together at one or other of the restaurants beside the sea.One morning late in September, when Armytage’s coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel, the waiter directed his attention to an official-looking note lying upon the tray. He had just risen, and was standing at the window gazing out upon the distant islands indistinct in the morning haze, and thinking of the words of assurance and affection his well-beloved had uttered before he had parted from her at the door, after the theatre on the previous night. Impatiently he tore open the note, and carelessly glanced at its contents. Then, with an expression of surprise, he carefully re-read the letter, saying aloud—“Strange! I wonder what he wants?”The note was a formal one, bearing on a blue cameo official stamp the superscription, “British Consulate, Leghorn,” and ran as follows:—“Dear Sir,—“I shall be glad if you can make it convenient to call at the Consulate this morning between eleven and one, as I desire to speak to you upon an important and most pressing matter.“Yours faithfully,—“John Hutchinson, His Majesty’s Consul.”“Hutchinson,” he repeated to himself. “Is the Consul here called Hutchinson? It must be the Jack Hutchinson of whom Tristram spoke. He called him ‘jovial Jack Hutchinson.’ I wonder what’s the ‘pressing matter’? Some infernal worry, I suppose. Perhaps some dun or other in town has written to him for my address.”He paused, his eyes fixed seriously upon the distant sea.“No!” he exclaimed aloud at last. “His Majesty’s Consul must wait. I’ve promised to take Gemma driving this morning.”Presently, when he had shaved, and assumed his suit of cool white ducks, the official letter again caught his eye, and he took it up.“I suppose, after all, it’s only decent behaviour to go round and see what’s the matter,” he muttered aloud. “Yes, I’ll go, and drive with Gemma afterwards.”Then he leisurely finished his toilet, strolled out into the Viale, and entering one of the little open cabs, was driven rapidly to the wide, handsome Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where on the front of a great old galazzo at the further end were displayed a flagstaff surmounted by the English crown and an escutcheon of the British Royal arms. A tall, well-built, fierce moustached Italianconcierge, who looked as if he might once have been an elegant gendarme of the Prince of Monaco, inquired his business, and took his card into an inner room on the right, the private office of the Consul.After the lapse of a few minutes theconciergereturned, and with ceremony ushered him into the presence of the representative of the British Foreign Office.The room was large, lofty, and airy, with windows overlooking the great Piazza, the centre of Livornese life. The furniture was antique and comfortable, and testified to the taste of its owner; the writing-table littered with documents clearly proved that the office of Consul at Leghorn was no sinecure, and the book-cases were stocked with well-selected and imposing works of reference. Over the fireplace hung a large steel engraving of His Majesty, and on the mantelshelf some signed portraits of celebrities.“You’ve enjoyed your stay in Leghorn, I hope,” the Consul observed rather stiffly, after inviting his visitor to a seat on the opposite side of the table.“Very much,” Armytage answered, sinking into the chair.“You’ll excuse me for one moment,” the Consul said; and scribbling something he touched the bell, and theconciergesummoned the Vice-Consul, a slim, tall young Englishman, to whom he gave some directions.Contrary to Charles Armytage’s expectations, Mr Consul Hutchinson had, notwithstanding his professional frigidity and gravity of manner, the easy-going, good-natured bearing of the genial man of the world. He was a fair, somewhat portly man, comfortably built, shaven save for a small, well-trimmed moustache, the very picture of good health, whose face beamed with good humour, and in every line of whose countenance was good-fellowship portrayed.There were few skippers up or down the Mediterranean—or seamen, for the matter of that—who did not know Consul Hutchinson at Leghorn, and who had not at some time or another received little kindnesses at his hands. From “Gib.” to “Constant.” Jack Hutchinson had the reputation of being the best, most good-natured, and happiest of all His Majesty’s Consuls, devoted to duty, not to be trifled with certainly, but ever ready to render immediate assistance to the Englishman in difficulties.“Well,” he exclaimed, looking across at Armytage at last, when they were alone again, “I am glad you have called, because I have something to communicate in confidence to you.”“In confidence?” Armytage repeated, puzzled.Mr Consul Hutchinson, still preserving his professional air of dignity as befitted his office, leaned one elbow upon the table, and looking straight into his visitor’s face, said—“The matter is a purely private, and somewhat painful one. You will, I hope, excuse what I am about to say, for I assure you it is in no spirit of presumption that I venture to speak to you. Remember, you are a British subject, and I am here in order to assist, sometimes even to advise, any subject of His Majesty.”“I quite understand,” Armytage said, mystified at the Consul’s rather strange manner.“Well,” Hutchinson went on slowly and deliberately, “I am informed that you are acquainted with a lady here in Leghorn named Fanetti—Gemma Fanetti. Is that so?”“Certainly. Why?”“How long have you known her? It is not out of idle curiosity that I ask.”“Nearly seven months.”“She is Florentine. I presume you met her in Florence?”“Yes.”“Were you formally introduced by any friend who knew her?”“No,” he answered, after slight hesitation. “We met quite casually.”“And you followed her here?”“No. We met here again accidentally. I had no idea she was in Leghorn. Since our first meeting I have been in London several months, and had no knowledge of her address,” he replied.“And you are, I take it, in ignorance of her past?” Hutchinson said.Armytage sat silent for a few moments, then quickly recovering himself said a trifle haughtily—“I really don’t think I’m called upon to answer such a question. I cannot see any reason whatever for this cross-examination regarding my private affairs.”“Well,” the Consul exclaimed seriously, “the reason is briefly this. It is an extremely painful matter, but I may as well explain at once. You are known by the authorities here to be an associate with this lady—Gemma Fanetti.”“What of that?” he cried in surprise.“From what I can understand, this lady has a past—a past which the police have investigated.”“The police? What do you mean?” he cried, starting up.“Simply this,” answered the Consul gravely. “Yesterday I received a call from the Questore, and he told me in confidence that you, a British subject, were the close associate of a lady whose past, if revealed, would be a startling and unpleasant revelation to you, her friend. The authorities had, he further said, resolved to order her to leave Leghorn, or remain on penalty of arrest; and in order that you, an English gentleman, might have time to end your acquaintance, he suggested that it might be as well for me to warn you of what the police intended doing. It is to do this that I have asked you here to-day.”Armytage sat pale, silent, open-mouthed.“Then the police intend to hound the Signorina Fanetti from Leghorn?” he observed blankly.“The Italian police possess power to expel summarily from a town any person of whom they have suspicion,” the Consul replied calmly.“But what do they suspect?” he cried, bewildered. “You speak as if she were some common criminal or adventuress.”“I have, unfortunately, no further knowledge of the discovery they have made regarding her. It must, however, be some serious allegation, or they would not go the length of expelling her from the city.”“But why should she be expelled?” he protested angrily. “She has committed no offence. Surely there is some protection for a defenceless woman!”Hutchinson raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, an expressive gesture one soon acquires after residence in Italy.“The Questore has supreme power in such a matter,” he said. “He is a very just and honourable official, and I’m sure he would never have taken these steps to avoid you disgrace if there were not some very strong reasons.” Charles Armytage, leaning upon the edge of the Consul’s table, held down his head in deep contemplation.“Then to-morrow they will order her to quit this place?” he observed thoughtfully. “It’s unjust and brutal! Such treatment of a peaceful woman is scandalous!”“But remember you’ve admitted that you have no knowledge of her past,” Hutchinson said. “Is it not possible that the police have discovered some fact she has concealed from you?”“It’s an infernal piece of tyranny!” Armytage cried fiercely. “I suppose the police have fabricated some extraordinary allegations against her, and want money to hush it up. They want to levy blackmail.”“No, no,” Jack Hutchinson said, his manner at once relaxing as he rose and crossed to the window, his hands behind his back. “The position is a simple one,” he continued, looking him straight in the face. “The police have evidently discovered that this lady is either not what she represents herself to be, or that some extraordinary mystery is attached to her; therefore cut her acquaintance, my dear sir. Take my advice. It will save you heaps of bother.”“I can’t,” the other answered hoarsely. “I’ll never forsake her!”“Not if she’s hounded from town to town by the police, like this?”“No. I love her,” he replied brokenly.Hutchinson sighed. A silence fell between them deep and complete.At last the Consul spoke in a grave tone. His professional air had relaxed, as it always did when he desired to assist an Englishman in distress.“Before you love her,” he suggested, “would it not be as well to ask her what chapter of her life she has concealed? If she really loves you, she will no doubt tell you everything. Is it not an excellent test?”“But that will not alter the decision of the Questore.” Armytage observed woefully.“No, that’s true. The lady must leave Leghorn this evening. Take my advice and part from her,” he added sympathetically. “In a few weeks you will forget. And if you would spare her the disgrace of being sent out of Leghorn, urge her to leave of her own accord. If you will pledge your word that she shall leave to-day, I will at once see the Questore, and beg him to suspend the orders he is about to give.”“I love Gemma, and intend to marry her.”“Surely not without a very clear knowledge of her past?”“Already I have decided to make her my wife,” Armytage said, his face set and pale. “What the police may allege will not influence me in any way.”“Ah! I fear you are hopelessly infatuated,” Hutchinson observed.“Yes, hopelessly.”“Then I suppose you will leave Leghorn with her? That she must go is absolutely imperative. In that case if I may advise you, I should certainly not only leave Leghorn, but leave Italy altogether.”“What!” he cried indignantly. “Will the police of Milan or Venice act in the same cowardly way that they have done here?”“Most probably. When she leaves, the police will without doubt take good care to know her destination, and inform the authorities of the next town she enters. Your only plan is to leave Italy.”“Thanks for your advice,” the other replied in a despondent tone. “Loving her as I do, what you have just told me, and what you have hinted, have upset me and destroyed my peace of mind. I fear I’m not quite myself, and must apologise for any impatient words I have used. I shall act upon your suggestion, and leave Italy.” Then he paused, but after a few moments raised his head, saying—“You have been good enough to give me friendly advice upon many points; may I encroach upon your good nature still further? Tell me, do you think it wise to acquaint her with the facts you have told me?” Hutchinson looked at the man before him, and saw how hopelessly he was in love. He had seen them driving together, and had long ago noticed how beautiful his companion was.“No,” he answered at last. “If you intend to marry her, there is really no necessity for demanding an immediate explanation. But as soon as you are out of Italy, and you have an opportunity, I should certainly invite her to tell you the whole truth.”Then, after some further conversation, the two men shook hands, and Charles Armytage slowly made his way downstairs and out across the wide, sunlit Piazza.From the window Consul Hutchinson watched his retreating figure, and noticed how self-absorbed he was as he strode along. His heart had gone out to sympathise in this brief interview, and a strong desire came upon him to help and protect the lonely Englishman. “Poor devil!” he muttered, “he’s badly hit, and I fear he has a troublous time before him. I wish to God I could help him.”
August passed slowly but gaily in lazy Leghorn. The town lay white beneath the fiery sun-glare through those blazing, breathless hours; the cloudless sky was of that intense blue which one usually associates with Italy, and by day the deserted Passeggio of tamarisks and ilexes, beside the most waveless sea, was for ever enlivened by the chirp of that unseen harbinger of heat, the cicale. Soon, however, the season waned, the stormy libeccio blew frequently, rendering outdoor exercise impossible; but Charles Armytage still lingered on at Gemma’s side, driving with her in the morning along the sea-road to Ardenza and Antignano, or beyond as far as the high-up villa in which lived and died Smollet, the English historian, or ascending to the venerated shrine of the Madonna of Montenero, where the little village peeps forth white and scattered on the green hill-side overlooking the wide expanse of glassy sea. Their afternoons were usually spent amid the crowd of chatterers at Pancaldi’s baths, and each evening they dined together at one or other of the restaurants beside the sea.
One morning late in September, when Armytage’s coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel, the waiter directed his attention to an official-looking note lying upon the tray. He had just risen, and was standing at the window gazing out upon the distant islands indistinct in the morning haze, and thinking of the words of assurance and affection his well-beloved had uttered before he had parted from her at the door, after the theatre on the previous night. Impatiently he tore open the note, and carelessly glanced at its contents. Then, with an expression of surprise, he carefully re-read the letter, saying aloud—
“Strange! I wonder what he wants?”
The note was a formal one, bearing on a blue cameo official stamp the superscription, “British Consulate, Leghorn,” and ran as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—
“I shall be glad if you can make it convenient to call at the Consulate this morning between eleven and one, as I desire to speak to you upon an important and most pressing matter.
“Yours faithfully,—
“John Hutchinson, His Majesty’s Consul.”
“Hutchinson,” he repeated to himself. “Is the Consul here called Hutchinson? It must be the Jack Hutchinson of whom Tristram spoke. He called him ‘jovial Jack Hutchinson.’ I wonder what’s the ‘pressing matter’? Some infernal worry, I suppose. Perhaps some dun or other in town has written to him for my address.”
He paused, his eyes fixed seriously upon the distant sea.
“No!” he exclaimed aloud at last. “His Majesty’s Consul must wait. I’ve promised to take Gemma driving this morning.”
Presently, when he had shaved, and assumed his suit of cool white ducks, the official letter again caught his eye, and he took it up.
“I suppose, after all, it’s only decent behaviour to go round and see what’s the matter,” he muttered aloud. “Yes, I’ll go, and drive with Gemma afterwards.”
Then he leisurely finished his toilet, strolled out into the Viale, and entering one of the little open cabs, was driven rapidly to the wide, handsome Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where on the front of a great old galazzo at the further end were displayed a flagstaff surmounted by the English crown and an escutcheon of the British Royal arms. A tall, well-built, fierce moustached Italianconcierge, who looked as if he might once have been an elegant gendarme of the Prince of Monaco, inquired his business, and took his card into an inner room on the right, the private office of the Consul.
After the lapse of a few minutes theconciergereturned, and with ceremony ushered him into the presence of the representative of the British Foreign Office.
The room was large, lofty, and airy, with windows overlooking the great Piazza, the centre of Livornese life. The furniture was antique and comfortable, and testified to the taste of its owner; the writing-table littered with documents clearly proved that the office of Consul at Leghorn was no sinecure, and the book-cases were stocked with well-selected and imposing works of reference. Over the fireplace hung a large steel engraving of His Majesty, and on the mantelshelf some signed portraits of celebrities.
“You’ve enjoyed your stay in Leghorn, I hope,” the Consul observed rather stiffly, after inviting his visitor to a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Very much,” Armytage answered, sinking into the chair.
“You’ll excuse me for one moment,” the Consul said; and scribbling something he touched the bell, and theconciergesummoned the Vice-Consul, a slim, tall young Englishman, to whom he gave some directions.
Contrary to Charles Armytage’s expectations, Mr Consul Hutchinson had, notwithstanding his professional frigidity and gravity of manner, the easy-going, good-natured bearing of the genial man of the world. He was a fair, somewhat portly man, comfortably built, shaven save for a small, well-trimmed moustache, the very picture of good health, whose face beamed with good humour, and in every line of whose countenance was good-fellowship portrayed.
There were few skippers up or down the Mediterranean—or seamen, for the matter of that—who did not know Consul Hutchinson at Leghorn, and who had not at some time or another received little kindnesses at his hands. From “Gib.” to “Constant.” Jack Hutchinson had the reputation of being the best, most good-natured, and happiest of all His Majesty’s Consuls, devoted to duty, not to be trifled with certainly, but ever ready to render immediate assistance to the Englishman in difficulties.
“Well,” he exclaimed, looking across at Armytage at last, when they were alone again, “I am glad you have called, because I have something to communicate in confidence to you.”
“In confidence?” Armytage repeated, puzzled.
Mr Consul Hutchinson, still preserving his professional air of dignity as befitted his office, leaned one elbow upon the table, and looking straight into his visitor’s face, said—
“The matter is a purely private, and somewhat painful one. You will, I hope, excuse what I am about to say, for I assure you it is in no spirit of presumption that I venture to speak to you. Remember, you are a British subject, and I am here in order to assist, sometimes even to advise, any subject of His Majesty.”
“I quite understand,” Armytage said, mystified at the Consul’s rather strange manner.
“Well,” Hutchinson went on slowly and deliberately, “I am informed that you are acquainted with a lady here in Leghorn named Fanetti—Gemma Fanetti. Is that so?”
“Certainly. Why?”
“How long have you known her? It is not out of idle curiosity that I ask.”
“Nearly seven months.”
“She is Florentine. I presume you met her in Florence?”
“Yes.”
“Were you formally introduced by any friend who knew her?”
“No,” he answered, after slight hesitation. “We met quite casually.”
“And you followed her here?”
“No. We met here again accidentally. I had no idea she was in Leghorn. Since our first meeting I have been in London several months, and had no knowledge of her address,” he replied.
“And you are, I take it, in ignorance of her past?” Hutchinson said.
Armytage sat silent for a few moments, then quickly recovering himself said a trifle haughtily—
“I really don’t think I’m called upon to answer such a question. I cannot see any reason whatever for this cross-examination regarding my private affairs.”
“Well,” the Consul exclaimed seriously, “the reason is briefly this. It is an extremely painful matter, but I may as well explain at once. You are known by the authorities here to be an associate with this lady—Gemma Fanetti.”
“What of that?” he cried in surprise.
“From what I can understand, this lady has a past—a past which the police have investigated.”
“The police? What do you mean?” he cried, starting up.
“Simply this,” answered the Consul gravely. “Yesterday I received a call from the Questore, and he told me in confidence that you, a British subject, were the close associate of a lady whose past, if revealed, would be a startling and unpleasant revelation to you, her friend. The authorities had, he further said, resolved to order her to leave Leghorn, or remain on penalty of arrest; and in order that you, an English gentleman, might have time to end your acquaintance, he suggested that it might be as well for me to warn you of what the police intended doing. It is to do this that I have asked you here to-day.”
Armytage sat pale, silent, open-mouthed.
“Then the police intend to hound the Signorina Fanetti from Leghorn?” he observed blankly.
“The Italian police possess power to expel summarily from a town any person of whom they have suspicion,” the Consul replied calmly.
“But what do they suspect?” he cried, bewildered. “You speak as if she were some common criminal or adventuress.”
“I have, unfortunately, no further knowledge of the discovery they have made regarding her. It must, however, be some serious allegation, or they would not go the length of expelling her from the city.”
“But why should she be expelled?” he protested angrily. “She has committed no offence. Surely there is some protection for a defenceless woman!”
Hutchinson raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, an expressive gesture one soon acquires after residence in Italy.
“The Questore has supreme power in such a matter,” he said. “He is a very just and honourable official, and I’m sure he would never have taken these steps to avoid you disgrace if there were not some very strong reasons.” Charles Armytage, leaning upon the edge of the Consul’s table, held down his head in deep contemplation.
“Then to-morrow they will order her to quit this place?” he observed thoughtfully. “It’s unjust and brutal! Such treatment of a peaceful woman is scandalous!”
“But remember you’ve admitted that you have no knowledge of her past,” Hutchinson said. “Is it not possible that the police have discovered some fact she has concealed from you?”
“It’s an infernal piece of tyranny!” Armytage cried fiercely. “I suppose the police have fabricated some extraordinary allegations against her, and want money to hush it up. They want to levy blackmail.”
“No, no,” Jack Hutchinson said, his manner at once relaxing as he rose and crossed to the window, his hands behind his back. “The position is a simple one,” he continued, looking him straight in the face. “The police have evidently discovered that this lady is either not what she represents herself to be, or that some extraordinary mystery is attached to her; therefore cut her acquaintance, my dear sir. Take my advice. It will save you heaps of bother.”
“I can’t,” the other answered hoarsely. “I’ll never forsake her!”
“Not if she’s hounded from town to town by the police, like this?”
“No. I love her,” he replied brokenly.
Hutchinson sighed. A silence fell between them deep and complete.
At last the Consul spoke in a grave tone. His professional air had relaxed, as it always did when he desired to assist an Englishman in distress.
“Before you love her,” he suggested, “would it not be as well to ask her what chapter of her life she has concealed? If she really loves you, she will no doubt tell you everything. Is it not an excellent test?”
“But that will not alter the decision of the Questore.” Armytage observed woefully.
“No, that’s true. The lady must leave Leghorn this evening. Take my advice and part from her,” he added sympathetically. “In a few weeks you will forget. And if you would spare her the disgrace of being sent out of Leghorn, urge her to leave of her own accord. If you will pledge your word that she shall leave to-day, I will at once see the Questore, and beg him to suspend the orders he is about to give.”
“I love Gemma, and intend to marry her.”
“Surely not without a very clear knowledge of her past?”
“Already I have decided to make her my wife,” Armytage said, his face set and pale. “What the police may allege will not influence me in any way.”
“Ah! I fear you are hopelessly infatuated,” Hutchinson observed.
“Yes, hopelessly.”
“Then I suppose you will leave Leghorn with her? That she must go is absolutely imperative. In that case if I may advise you, I should certainly not only leave Leghorn, but leave Italy altogether.”
“What!” he cried indignantly. “Will the police of Milan or Venice act in the same cowardly way that they have done here?”
“Most probably. When she leaves, the police will without doubt take good care to know her destination, and inform the authorities of the next town she enters. Your only plan is to leave Italy.”
“Thanks for your advice,” the other replied in a despondent tone. “Loving her as I do, what you have just told me, and what you have hinted, have upset me and destroyed my peace of mind. I fear I’m not quite myself, and must apologise for any impatient words I have used. I shall act upon your suggestion, and leave Italy.” Then he paused, but after a few moments raised his head, saying—
“You have been good enough to give me friendly advice upon many points; may I encroach upon your good nature still further? Tell me, do you think it wise to acquaint her with the facts you have told me?” Hutchinson looked at the man before him, and saw how hopelessly he was in love. He had seen them driving together, and had long ago noticed how beautiful his companion was.
“No,” he answered at last. “If you intend to marry her, there is really no necessity for demanding an immediate explanation. But as soon as you are out of Italy, and you have an opportunity, I should certainly invite her to tell you the whole truth.”
Then, after some further conversation, the two men shook hands, and Charles Armytage slowly made his way downstairs and out across the wide, sunlit Piazza.
From the window Consul Hutchinson watched his retreating figure, and noticed how self-absorbed he was as he strode along. His heart had gone out to sympathise in this brief interview, and a strong desire came upon him to help and protect the lonely Englishman. “Poor devil!” he muttered, “he’s badly hit, and I fear he has a troublous time before him. I wish to God I could help him.”
Chapter Ten.The Mystery of Gemma.When Armytage entered Gemma’s pretty salon, the window of which commanded a wide view of the blue Mediterranean, she rose quickly from the silken divan with a glad cry of welcome. She was veiled and gloved ready to go out, wearing a smart costume of pearl grey, with a large black hat which suited her fair face admirably.“How late you are!” she exclaimed a trifle impetuously, pouting prettily as their lips met. “You said eleven o’clock, and it’s now nearly one.”“I’ve had a good deal to see after,” he stammered. “Business worries from London.”“Poor Nino!” she exclaimed sympathetically in her soft Italian, putting up her tiny hand and stroking his hair tenderly. Nino was the pet name she had long ago bestowed upon him. “Poor Nino! I didn’t know you were worried, or I would not have complained. Excuse, won’t you?”“Of course, dearest,” he answered, sinking a trifle wearily into a chair; whilst she, regarding him with some surprise, reseated herself upon the divan, her little russet-brown shoe stretched forth coquettishly from beneath the hem of her well-made skirt.The room was small, but artistic. Its cosiness and general arrangement everywhere betrayed the daily presence of an artistic woman; and as he sat there with his eyes fixed upon her, he became intoxicated by her marvellous beauty. There was a softness about her face, an ingenuous sweetness which always entranced him, holding him spell-bound when in her presence.“You are tired,” she said in a low, caressing tone. “Will you have some vermouth or marsala? Let me tell Margherita to bring you some.”“No,” he answered quickly; “I had a vermouth at Campari’s as I passed. I’m a trifle upset to-day.”“Why?” she inquired quickly, regarding him with some astonishment.He hesitated. His eyes were riveted upon her. The sun-shutters were closed, the glare of day subdued, and he was debating whether or not he should relate to her in that dim half-light all that had been told him an hour ago. In those brief moments of silence he remembered how, on the afternoon he had encountered Tristram at Pancaldi’s, she had expressed surprise that he should love her so blindly, without seeking to inquire into her past. He remembered his foolish reply. He had told her he wished to know nothing. If he demanded any explanation now, it would convince her that he doubted. Yes, Hutchinson’s advice was best. At present he must act diplomatically, and remain silent.“The reason why I am not myself to-day is because I must leave you, Gemma,” he said slowly at last, in a low, earnest voice.“Leave me!” she gasped, starting and turning pale beneath her veil.“Yes,” he replied quickly. “It is imperative that I should start for Paris to-night.”“Has my Nino had bad news this morning?” she asked in a sympathetic tone, bending and extending her hand until it touched his.Its contact thrilled him. In her clear blue eyes he could distinguish the light of unshed tears.“Yes,” he answered—“news which makes it necessary that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible moment.”“And how long shall you remain?” she inquired.“I shall not return to Italy,” he replied decisively, his eyes still upon hers.“You will not come back to me?” she cried blankly. “What have I done, Nino? Tell me, what have I done that you should thus forsake me?”“I do not intend to forsake you,” he answered, grasping her hand. “I will never forsake you; I love you far too well.”“You love me!” she echoed, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Then why go away and leave me alone? You must have seen how fondly I love you in return.”“I shall not go alone,” he answered her, rising and placing his arms tenderly about her neck. “That is, if you will go with me.”“With you?” she exclaimed, her face suddenly brightening. “With you, Nino?”There was a deep silence. She gazed into his dark, serious eyes with an expression of love and devotion more eloquent than words; and he, still holding her hand, bent until their lips met in a fierce, passionate caress.“Surely you do not fear to travel with me without regard for theconvenances?” he said.“Have we not already set them at naught?” she answered, looking earnestly into his face. “Unfortunately, I have nochaperone, no friends; therefore, according to Italian manners, your presence here in my house is against all the laws of etiquette;” and she laughed a strange, hollow laugh through her tears.“We can, I think, Gemma, set aside etiquette, loving each other as we do!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand. “Let us go together to London, and there marry.”“Why not marry in Italy?” she suggested, after a pause. “Marriage at your British Consulate is binding.”The mention of the Consulate brought back to his memory all that Hutchinson had said. Her words seemed to imply that she did not wish to leave Tuscany.“Why in Italy?” he inquired. “You have no tie here!”She hesitated for a moment.“No, none whatever,” she assured him in a voice which sounded strangely harsh and unconvincing. He attributed her agitation to the excitement of the moment and the fervency of her love.“Then why do you wish to remain?” he inquired bluntly.“I have reasons,” she replied mechanically, her eyes slowly wandering around the room. Suddenly she rose, and hastily snatching up an open letter that was lying upon the mantelshelf, crushed it within the palm of her gloved hand. He was sitting with his back to the mantel, therefore he saw nothing of this strange action, and believed, when she went out of the room a moment later, that she went to speak with her servant.True, she spoke some words with Margherita in the kitchen, but placing the letter upon the burning charcoal, she watched the flame slowly consume it. Then, with a parting order to Margherita uttered in a tone distinctly audible to her lover, she returned smilingly to his side.“For what reason do you want to remain here?” he inquired when she had reseated herself with a word of apology for her absence.“It is only natural that I should be loth to leave my own country,” she answered evasively, laughing.“No further motive?” he asked, a trifle incredulously. “Well, I have many acquaintances in Florence, in Milan, and Rome.”“And you desire to remain in Italy on their account?” he exclaimed. “Only the other day you expressed satisfaction at the suggestion of leaving Italy.”“I have since changed my mind.”“And you intend to remain?”“Not if you are compelled to leave Livorno, Nino,” she answered with that sweet smile which always entranced him.In her attitude he detected mystery. She appeared striving to hide from him some important fact, and he suddenly determined to discover what was its nature. Why, he wondered, should she desire to remain in Tuscany after the satisfaction she had already expressed at the prospect of life in England?“I am compelled to go to-night,” he said. “The train leaves at half-past nine, and we shall take the through wagon-lit from Pisa to Paris at midnight. If you’ll be ready, I’ll wire to Rome to secure our berths in the car.”“Then you really mean to leave?” she asked in a tone of despair.“Certainly,” he replied, puzzled at her strange manner.“It will perhaps be better for me to remain,” she observed with a deep sigh.“Why?”“If we marry, you would tire of me very, very soon. Besides, you really know so little of me;” and she regarded him gravely with her great, clear, wide-open eyes.“Ah, that’s just it!” he cried. “You have told me nothing.”She shrugged her shoulders with a careless air, and smiled.“You have never inquired,” she answered.“Then I ask you now,” he said.“And I am unable to answer you—unable to tell the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling hand seeking his.“Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and staring at her in blank surprise.“Because—because I love you too well to deceive you,” she sobbed. Then she added, “No, after all, it will be best for us to part—best for you. If you knew all, as you must some day—if we married, you would only hate me;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding tears.“Hate you—why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her slim waist.With a sudden movement she raised her veil and wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief.“Ah! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. “I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”“There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, purposely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had just uttered.“You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” she said, sighing deeply.“Then you will not accompany me?”Her blue eyes, childlike in their innocence, were fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears.“For your sake it is best we should part,” she answered hoarsely.“Why? I cannot understand your meaning,” he cried. “We love one another. What do you fear?”“I fear myself.”“Yourself?” he echoed. Then, drawing her closer to him, he exclaimed in a low intense voice, “Come, Gemma, confide in me. Tell we why you desire to remain here; why you are acting so strangely to-day.”She rose slowly from the divan, a slim, woeful figure, and swayed unevenly as she answered—“No, Nino. Do not ask me.”“But you still love me?” he demanded earnestly. “Have you not just expressed readiness to marry me?”“True,” she replied, pale and trembling. “I will marry you if you remain here in Livorno. But if you leave—if you leave, then we must part.”“My journey is absolutely necessary,” he declared. “If it were not, I should certainly remain with you.”“In a week, or a fortnight at most, you can return, I suppose? Till then, I shall remain awaiting you.”“No,” he replied firmly. “When I leave Italy, I shall not return.” Then, after a slight pause, he added in a low, sympathetic tone, “Some secret oppresses you. Gemma. Why not take me into your confidence?”“Because—well, because it is utterly impossible.”“Impossible! Yet, we love one another. Is your past such a profound secret, then?”“All of us, I suppose, have our secrets, Nino,” she replied earnestly. “I, like others, have mine.”“Is it of such a character that I, your affianced husband, must not know?” he asked in a voice of bitter reproach.“Yes,” she answered nervously. “Even to you, the man I love, I am unable to divulge the strange story which must remain locked for ever within my heart.”“Then you have no further confidence in me?”“Ah! Yes, I have, Nino. It is my inability to tell everything, to explain myself, and to present my actions to you in a true light, that worries me so.”“But why can’t you tell me everything?” he demanded.“Because I fear to.”“I love you, Gemma,” he assured her tenderly. “Surely you do not doubt the strength of my affection?”“No,” she whispered, agitated, her trembling fingers closing upon his. “I know you love me. What I fear is the dire consequences of the exposure of my secret.”“Then, to speak plainly, you are in dread of the actions of some person who holds power over you?” he hazarded.She was silent. Her heart beat wildly, her breast heaved and fell quickly; her chin sank upon her chest in an attitude of utter dejection.“Have I guessed the truth?” he asked in a calm, serious voice.She nodded in the affirmative with a deep-drawn sigh. “Who is this person whom you fear?”“Ah! no, Nino,” she burst forth, trembling with agitation she had vainly striven to suppress. “Do not ask me that. I can never tell you—never!”“But you must—you shall!” he cried fiercely. “I love you, and will protect you from all your enemies, whoever they may be.”“Impossible,” she answered despairingly. “No, let us part. You can have no faith in me after my wretched admissions of to-day.”“I still have every faith in you, darling,” he hastened to reassure her. “Only tell me everything, and set my mind at rest.”“No,” she protested. “I can tell you nothing—absolutely nothing.”“You prefer, then, that we should be put asunder rather than answer my questions?”“I cannot leave Italy with you,” she answered simply but harshly.“Not if we were to marry in England as soon as the legal formalities can be accomplished?”“I am ready to marry you here—to-day if you desire,” she said. “But I shall not go to London.”“Why?”“I have reasons—strong ones,” she answered vehemently.“Then your enemies are in London?” he said quickly. “Are they English?”At that instant the door-bell rang loudly, and both listened intently as Margherita answered the somewhat impetuous summons. There were sounds of low talking, and a few moments later the servant, pale-faced and scared, entered the room, saying—“Signorina! There are two officers of police in the house, and they wish to speak with you immediately.”“The police!” Gemma gasped, trembling. “Then they’ve discovered me!”There was a look of unutterable terror in her great blue eyes; the light died instantly out of her sweet face; she reeled, and would have fallen had not her lover started up and clasped her tenderly. Her beautiful head, with its mass of fair hair, fell inert upon his shoulder. This blow, added to the mental strain she had already undergone, had proved too much.“Nino,” she whispered hoarsely, “you still love me—you love me, don’t you? And you will not believe what they allege against me—not one single word?”
When Armytage entered Gemma’s pretty salon, the window of which commanded a wide view of the blue Mediterranean, she rose quickly from the silken divan with a glad cry of welcome. She was veiled and gloved ready to go out, wearing a smart costume of pearl grey, with a large black hat which suited her fair face admirably.
“How late you are!” she exclaimed a trifle impetuously, pouting prettily as their lips met. “You said eleven o’clock, and it’s now nearly one.”
“I’ve had a good deal to see after,” he stammered. “Business worries from London.”
“Poor Nino!” she exclaimed sympathetically in her soft Italian, putting up her tiny hand and stroking his hair tenderly. Nino was the pet name she had long ago bestowed upon him. “Poor Nino! I didn’t know you were worried, or I would not have complained. Excuse, won’t you?”
“Of course, dearest,” he answered, sinking a trifle wearily into a chair; whilst she, regarding him with some surprise, reseated herself upon the divan, her little russet-brown shoe stretched forth coquettishly from beneath the hem of her well-made skirt.
The room was small, but artistic. Its cosiness and general arrangement everywhere betrayed the daily presence of an artistic woman; and as he sat there with his eyes fixed upon her, he became intoxicated by her marvellous beauty. There was a softness about her face, an ingenuous sweetness which always entranced him, holding him spell-bound when in her presence.
“You are tired,” she said in a low, caressing tone. “Will you have some vermouth or marsala? Let me tell Margherita to bring you some.”
“No,” he answered quickly; “I had a vermouth at Campari’s as I passed. I’m a trifle upset to-day.”
“Why?” she inquired quickly, regarding him with some astonishment.
He hesitated. His eyes were riveted upon her. The sun-shutters were closed, the glare of day subdued, and he was debating whether or not he should relate to her in that dim half-light all that had been told him an hour ago. In those brief moments of silence he remembered how, on the afternoon he had encountered Tristram at Pancaldi’s, she had expressed surprise that he should love her so blindly, without seeking to inquire into her past. He remembered his foolish reply. He had told her he wished to know nothing. If he demanded any explanation now, it would convince her that he doubted. Yes, Hutchinson’s advice was best. At present he must act diplomatically, and remain silent.
“The reason why I am not myself to-day is because I must leave you, Gemma,” he said slowly at last, in a low, earnest voice.
“Leave me!” she gasped, starting and turning pale beneath her veil.
“Yes,” he replied quickly. “It is imperative that I should start for Paris to-night.”
“Has my Nino had bad news this morning?” she asked in a sympathetic tone, bending and extending her hand until it touched his.
Its contact thrilled him. In her clear blue eyes he could distinguish the light of unshed tears.
“Yes,” he answered—“news which makes it necessary that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible moment.”
“And how long shall you remain?” she inquired.
“I shall not return to Italy,” he replied decisively, his eyes still upon hers.
“You will not come back to me?” she cried blankly. “What have I done, Nino? Tell me, what have I done that you should thus forsake me?”
“I do not intend to forsake you,” he answered, grasping her hand. “I will never forsake you; I love you far too well.”
“You love me!” she echoed, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Then why go away and leave me alone? You must have seen how fondly I love you in return.”
“I shall not go alone,” he answered her, rising and placing his arms tenderly about her neck. “That is, if you will go with me.”
“With you?” she exclaimed, her face suddenly brightening. “With you, Nino?”
There was a deep silence. She gazed into his dark, serious eyes with an expression of love and devotion more eloquent than words; and he, still holding her hand, bent until their lips met in a fierce, passionate caress.
“Surely you do not fear to travel with me without regard for theconvenances?” he said.
“Have we not already set them at naught?” she answered, looking earnestly into his face. “Unfortunately, I have nochaperone, no friends; therefore, according to Italian manners, your presence here in my house is against all the laws of etiquette;” and she laughed a strange, hollow laugh through her tears.
“We can, I think, Gemma, set aside etiquette, loving each other as we do!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand. “Let us go together to London, and there marry.”
“Why not marry in Italy?” she suggested, after a pause. “Marriage at your British Consulate is binding.”
The mention of the Consulate brought back to his memory all that Hutchinson had said. Her words seemed to imply that she did not wish to leave Tuscany.
“Why in Italy?” he inquired. “You have no tie here!”
She hesitated for a moment.
“No, none whatever,” she assured him in a voice which sounded strangely harsh and unconvincing. He attributed her agitation to the excitement of the moment and the fervency of her love.
“Then why do you wish to remain?” he inquired bluntly.
“I have reasons,” she replied mechanically, her eyes slowly wandering around the room. Suddenly she rose, and hastily snatching up an open letter that was lying upon the mantelshelf, crushed it within the palm of her gloved hand. He was sitting with his back to the mantel, therefore he saw nothing of this strange action, and believed, when she went out of the room a moment later, that she went to speak with her servant.
True, she spoke some words with Margherita in the kitchen, but placing the letter upon the burning charcoal, she watched the flame slowly consume it. Then, with a parting order to Margherita uttered in a tone distinctly audible to her lover, she returned smilingly to his side.
“For what reason do you want to remain here?” he inquired when she had reseated herself with a word of apology for her absence.
“It is only natural that I should be loth to leave my own country,” she answered evasively, laughing.
“No further motive?” he asked, a trifle incredulously. “Well, I have many acquaintances in Florence, in Milan, and Rome.”
“And you desire to remain in Italy on their account?” he exclaimed. “Only the other day you expressed satisfaction at the suggestion of leaving Italy.”
“I have since changed my mind.”
“And you intend to remain?”
“Not if you are compelled to leave Livorno, Nino,” she answered with that sweet smile which always entranced him.
In her attitude he detected mystery. She appeared striving to hide from him some important fact, and he suddenly determined to discover what was its nature. Why, he wondered, should she desire to remain in Tuscany after the satisfaction she had already expressed at the prospect of life in England?
“I am compelled to go to-night,” he said. “The train leaves at half-past nine, and we shall take the through wagon-lit from Pisa to Paris at midnight. If you’ll be ready, I’ll wire to Rome to secure our berths in the car.”
“Then you really mean to leave?” she asked in a tone of despair.
“Certainly,” he replied, puzzled at her strange manner.
“It will perhaps be better for me to remain,” she observed with a deep sigh.
“Why?”
“If we marry, you would tire of me very, very soon. Besides, you really know so little of me;” and she regarded him gravely with her great, clear, wide-open eyes.
“Ah, that’s just it!” he cried. “You have told me nothing.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a careless air, and smiled.
“You have never inquired,” she answered.
“Then I ask you now,” he said.
“And I am unable to answer you—unable to tell the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling hand seeking his.
“Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and staring at her in blank surprise.
“Because—because I love you too well to deceive you,” she sobbed. Then she added, “No, after all, it will be best for us to part—best for you. If you knew all, as you must some day—if we married, you would only hate me;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding tears.
“Hate you—why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her slim waist.
With a sudden movement she raised her veil and wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief.
“Ah! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. “I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”
“There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, purposely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had just uttered.
“You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” she said, sighing deeply.
“Then you will not accompany me?”
Her blue eyes, childlike in their innocence, were fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears.
“For your sake it is best we should part,” she answered hoarsely.
“Why? I cannot understand your meaning,” he cried. “We love one another. What do you fear?”
“I fear myself.”
“Yourself?” he echoed. Then, drawing her closer to him, he exclaimed in a low intense voice, “Come, Gemma, confide in me. Tell we why you desire to remain here; why you are acting so strangely to-day.”
She rose slowly from the divan, a slim, woeful figure, and swayed unevenly as she answered—
“No, Nino. Do not ask me.”
“But you still love me?” he demanded earnestly. “Have you not just expressed readiness to marry me?”
“True,” she replied, pale and trembling. “I will marry you if you remain here in Livorno. But if you leave—if you leave, then we must part.”
“My journey is absolutely necessary,” he declared. “If it were not, I should certainly remain with you.”
“In a week, or a fortnight at most, you can return, I suppose? Till then, I shall remain awaiting you.”
“No,” he replied firmly. “When I leave Italy, I shall not return.” Then, after a slight pause, he added in a low, sympathetic tone, “Some secret oppresses you. Gemma. Why not take me into your confidence?”
“Because—well, because it is utterly impossible.”
“Impossible! Yet, we love one another. Is your past such a profound secret, then?”
“All of us, I suppose, have our secrets, Nino,” she replied earnestly. “I, like others, have mine.”
“Is it of such a character that I, your affianced husband, must not know?” he asked in a voice of bitter reproach.
“Yes,” she answered nervously. “Even to you, the man I love, I am unable to divulge the strange story which must remain locked for ever within my heart.”
“Then you have no further confidence in me?”
“Ah! Yes, I have, Nino. It is my inability to tell everything, to explain myself, and to present my actions to you in a true light, that worries me so.”
“But why can’t you tell me everything?” he demanded.
“Because I fear to.”
“I love you, Gemma,” he assured her tenderly. “Surely you do not doubt the strength of my affection?”
“No,” she whispered, agitated, her trembling fingers closing upon his. “I know you love me. What I fear is the dire consequences of the exposure of my secret.”
“Then, to speak plainly, you are in dread of the actions of some person who holds power over you?” he hazarded.
She was silent. Her heart beat wildly, her breast heaved and fell quickly; her chin sank upon her chest in an attitude of utter dejection.
“Have I guessed the truth?” he asked in a calm, serious voice.
She nodded in the affirmative with a deep-drawn sigh. “Who is this person whom you fear?”
“Ah! no, Nino,” she burst forth, trembling with agitation she had vainly striven to suppress. “Do not ask me that. I can never tell you—never!”
“But you must—you shall!” he cried fiercely. “I love you, and will protect you from all your enemies, whoever they may be.”
“Impossible,” she answered despairingly. “No, let us part. You can have no faith in me after my wretched admissions of to-day.”
“I still have every faith in you, darling,” he hastened to reassure her. “Only tell me everything, and set my mind at rest.”
“No,” she protested. “I can tell you nothing—absolutely nothing.”
“You prefer, then, that we should be put asunder rather than answer my questions?”
“I cannot leave Italy with you,” she answered simply but harshly.
“Not if we were to marry in England as soon as the legal formalities can be accomplished?”
“I am ready to marry you here—to-day if you desire,” she said. “But I shall not go to London.”
“Why?”
“I have reasons—strong ones,” she answered vehemently.
“Then your enemies are in London?” he said quickly. “Are they English?”
At that instant the door-bell rang loudly, and both listened intently as Margherita answered the somewhat impetuous summons. There were sounds of low talking, and a few moments later the servant, pale-faced and scared, entered the room, saying—
“Signorina! There are two officers of police in the house, and they wish to speak with you immediately.”
“The police!” Gemma gasped, trembling. “Then they’ve discovered me!”
There was a look of unutterable terror in her great blue eyes; the light died instantly out of her sweet face; she reeled, and would have fallen had not her lover started up and clasped her tenderly. Her beautiful head, with its mass of fair hair, fell inert upon his shoulder. This blow, added to the mental strain she had already undergone, had proved too much.
“Nino,” she whispered hoarsely, “you still love me—you love me, don’t you? And you will not believe what they allege against me—not one single word?”
Chapter Eleven.Silence is Best.“Let the police enter,” Armytage said, still pressing her slim figure in his arms. “You know, Gemma, that I love you.”“No, no,” she cried trembling; “I will see them alone. I must see them alone.”“Why?”“I cannot bear that you should stand by and hear the terrible charge against me,” she answered hoarsely. “No, let me go alone to them;” and she struggled to free herself.But he grasped her slim wrist firmly, saying, “I love you, and will be your protector. If they make allegations against you, they must prove them. I, the man who is to be your husband, may surely know the truth?”“But promise me that you will not heed what they say—you will not believe their foul, unfounded charges,” she implored, lifting her pale face to his.“I believe implicitly in you, Gemma,” he answered calmly. “Let them come in.”Gemma, her hand in that of her lover, stood blanched and trembling in the centre of the room as the two police officers in plain clothes entered.One was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with a pleasant face, a pair of dark, piercing eyes, and tiny coal-black moustache; while the other was younger, and, from the bronze of his countenance, evidently a Silician.“We are police officers,” the elder man exclaimed. “We would prefer to speak to the signorina alone.”“I am the closest friend of the signorina,” Armytage said calmly. “I am about to make her my wife.”The officer shrugged his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and a sarcastic smile played about his lips.“If I may presume to advise the Signor Conte,” he said, “I certainly think that it would be best if I spoke to her alone.”And Gemma, clinging to her lover, gazed imploringly into his face, adding—“Yes, caro. Let them speak to me alone.”“No,” the young Englishman answered firmly.“But the matter is a delicate one—extremely delicate,” urged the delegato. “I certainly think that the signorina should be allowed to decide whether or not you should be present.”“In a week or so we shall marry,” declared Armytage. “What concerns signorina also concerns myself.”“To please me, caro, will you not go out of the room for a moment?” Gemma cried in a low voice of earnest supplication.Her attitude was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible secret, and in those moments her lover had become filled with a keen desire to penetrate the cloak of mystery which enveloped her.“No,” he answered her, after a brief silence; “I have decided to remain and hear what the signor delegato has to say.”The police official and the trembling woman exchanged quick glances. In the officer’s gaze was a look of sympathy, for perhaps her beauty had softened his impressionable Italian nature; in her blue eyes was an expression of humiliation and abject fear.“My mission is very quickly accomplished,” the delegato exclaimed slowly.“You intend to arrest!” Gemma cried hoarsely. “I—I have dreaded this for a long time past. I knew that, one day or other, you would come for me, and my reputation would be ruined for ever.”“Listen, signorina,” the official said gravely. “Certain information has been obtained by the Questore, and upon that information I have been sent here to you. Much as I regret to disturb you, signorina, the Questore, after carefully considering certain statements before him, has decided that your presence is undesirable in Livorno, and, further, he wishes me to inform you that to-day you must leave this city.”Gemma, her face white and drawn, humiliated and abased, sighed deeply, then breathed again more freely. She had expected arrest, but instead was ordered out of Livorno. To say the least, the police had been merciful towards her.“Then I must leave to-day?” she repeated mechanically.“Yes, signorina. The penalty for remaining here after this order of the Questore is immediate arrest,” he said.“But why is this course pursued?” Armytage asked. “For what reason is the presence of the signorina deleterious in the city? It all seems very remarkable to me.”“The information before the Questore is of a very confidential character, signore.”“Are you not aware of the allegations against her?”“No,” he replied; “I have only been deputed to warn her to leave Livorno.”“Is such a measure frequently resorted to?”“Usually we arrest the suspected individual, question him, and afterwards deport him to the railway station, if there is not sufficient ground to justify a prosecution. In this case there is just a simple warning. Only in very exceptional cases is the course followed which the Questore is now pursuing.”“Then you have no knowledge of the actual charge in this case?”“No, signore, I have not. But,” he added, “the signorina must herself know the reason.”Armytage turned quickly to her. Their eyes met for a single instant. Then she slowly nodded, saying in an indistinct voice: “Yes, yes, I know only too well the reason of this. I must leave Livorno—leave Italy, my own country that I love, never to return.”“That would be the very best course to pursue,” the delegato urged. “If you leave Italy, signorina, you will, I think, hear no more of the unfortunate affair. Indeed, I have strong reasons for believing that the Questore has acted in the manner he has done purposely, in order that you should be afforded an opportunity to leave Italy.”“He thinks that exile is preferable to imprisonment,” she said aloud, as if reflecting. “Well, perhaps he is right;” and she laughed a short, hollow laugh.“Yes,” urged Armytage, “you must leave to-night.” She was silent. The police official exchanged glances with the tall, good-looking young Englishman, then said, bowing politely—“I will wish you adieu, signore. A thousand pardons for disturbing you; but it was my duty, therefore pray forgive me.”“Certainly, certainly,” he replied; and both men went out bowing, leaving Armytage alone with the woman he loved.“All this is strange—very strange,” he observed when they had gone. He was puzzled; for, after all, he now knew no more than what Consul Hutchinson had already told him.“Yes,” she said slowly, “to you it must appear extraordinary, but to me, who expected it and who dreaded it, it was only what might be anticipated. They have warned me out of Italy, it’s true; but if they knew everything,” she added—“if they knew everything, I should to-night be placed in a criminal’s cell.”“Why?”“Already I have told you it is impossible for me to explain,” she answered vehemently, in her voluble Italian. “If you really love me, it is surely sufficient to know that the police are in ignorance of facts which I feared were revealed; and that they have not obtained the one item of information necessary to effect my ruin and disgrace.”“Why do you speak like this?” he demanded quickly. “Has your past life in Florence been so full of mystery that you fear its exposure?”“There are certain matters which I desire to keep secret—which I will keep secret, even if it costs me the loss of you, the man I adore,” she answered fiercely.“Then they are matters which surely concern me—if I am to be your husband,” he said gravely.“No,” she answered calmly, still pale to the lips; “they only concern myself. I admit freely that there is a secret connected with my past—a secret which I shall strive to preserve, because its revelation would, I know, cause you, my beloved, much worry and unnecessary pain. I therefore prefer to hide this truth and fight my enemies alone.”“Is not this secret one that, before marrying you, I ought to know?” he demanded earnestly.“It cannot concern you in any way,” she declared. “True, it has reference to my past life, but surely you don’t believe me to be an adventuress—do you?”“Of course not, piccina,” he answered, laughing, as he again placed his arm tenderly around her waist. “You an adventuress! What made you suggest such a thing?”“I must be an enigma to you,” she said. “But believe me, I would tell you everything if I could see that you could be benefited in the least. The story is a long and wretched one; and when I reflect upon the closed chapter of my life’s history, I am always dolorous and unhappy. The more so because I’m unable to confide in you, the man I love.”“Will you explain all to me some day?”“Yes, everything. At present, if I were to tell you, the result would only be disastrous to myself, and in all probability wreck your happiness. Silence is best now—far the best.”His face wore a heavy expression of disappointment and dissatisfaction. Truth to tell, the whole matter was so utterly inexplicable that he entertained serious misgivings. She noticed this, and raising her sweet face, now no longer haggard, but pale and sweet-looking, she added—“Cannot you trust me further, Nino?”“Trust you, darling!” he cried. “Why, of course I can. Only all this secrecy worries me.”“Ah no! Don’t think of it any more,” she urged. “To-night I will leave with you for Paris. I have a friend there to whom I can go. Afterwards, in London, we will marry—if you still desire that we should.”The last words were uttered in a low, tremulous, hesitating tone.“Still desire!” he echoed. “I still love you as fondly—ah! even more fervently than before. If you would only confide in me, I should be entirely happy.”“At present that is impossible,” she declared. “Some day, before long, I hope to be in a position to tell you everything.”“And you are ready to go to London?” he observed. “Half an hour ago you said you did not wish to go to England!”“True, because I feared to go. Now I no longer fear. I am ready, even eager to accompany you if you still wish.”“Then we will go straight to Paris; and when I have concluded my business, which will occupy perhaps a couple of days, we’ll go on to London.”“Benissimo!” she answered, raising her full, red lips to his. “I so want to see your great and wonderful London, caro. I’ve read so much about it. It must be gigantic. I shall be so happy and content with you as my guide. To see London has ever been the dream of my life.”“Ah! I’m afraid you’ll be sadly disappointed, piccina,” he said, again smiling. “After your bright, beautiful Italy, our busy, bustling, smoke-blackened city will seem terribly dull, monotonous, and dreary. The sky is seldom blue, and the atmosphere never clear and bright like this. In your Tuscany everything is artistic—the country, the towns, the people; but in England—well, you will see for yourself.”“But there are lots of amusements in London,” she said, “and life there is always gay.”“For the rich, London offers the greatest and most diverse attractions of any place in the world; but for the poor, herded together in millions as they are, it is absolutely the worst. In Italy you have much poverty and distress, but the lot of the poor man is far easier here than in toiling, turbulent, over-crowded London.”“One never appreciates the town in which one lives, be it ever so beautiful,” she laughed.“Well, be patient, and you shall see what London is like,” he said. “But it is already two o’clock. You must lunch, and afterwards pack your trunks. Our train leaves at half-past nine to-night, and at Pisa we shall join the night-mail to the frontier. I’ll wire to the sleeping-car office in Rome, and secure our berths in the through car for Paris.”“Ah! Nino,” she exclaimed happily, “I am content, very content to leave Italy with you. An hour ago I had reasons for remaining; but now it is, of course, impossible; and, strangely enough, I have no further object in staying here.”“And you will not regret leaving?”“Of course not,” she said, flinging herself into his ready arms and shedding tears of joy. “I fear nothing now, because I know that you love me, Nino,” she sobbed. “I know you will not believe anything that is alleged against me. You have asked me to marry you, and I am content—ah! absolutely content to do so. But even now I do not hold you to your promise, because of my inability to divulge to you my secret. If you think me untrue or scheming, then let us part. If you believe I love you, then let us marry in England and be happy.”“I love you, Gemma,” he answered low and earnestly. “Let us go together to London, and let this be the last hour of our doubt and unhappiness.”
“Let the police enter,” Armytage said, still pressing her slim figure in his arms. “You know, Gemma, that I love you.”
“No, no,” she cried trembling; “I will see them alone. I must see them alone.”
“Why?”
“I cannot bear that you should stand by and hear the terrible charge against me,” she answered hoarsely. “No, let me go alone to them;” and she struggled to free herself.
But he grasped her slim wrist firmly, saying, “I love you, and will be your protector. If they make allegations against you, they must prove them. I, the man who is to be your husband, may surely know the truth?”
“But promise me that you will not heed what they say—you will not believe their foul, unfounded charges,” she implored, lifting her pale face to his.
“I believe implicitly in you, Gemma,” he answered calmly. “Let them come in.”
Gemma, her hand in that of her lover, stood blanched and trembling in the centre of the room as the two police officers in plain clothes entered.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with a pleasant face, a pair of dark, piercing eyes, and tiny coal-black moustache; while the other was younger, and, from the bronze of his countenance, evidently a Silician.
“We are police officers,” the elder man exclaimed. “We would prefer to speak to the signorina alone.”
“I am the closest friend of the signorina,” Armytage said calmly. “I am about to make her my wife.”
The officer shrugged his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and a sarcastic smile played about his lips.
“If I may presume to advise the Signor Conte,” he said, “I certainly think that it would be best if I spoke to her alone.”
And Gemma, clinging to her lover, gazed imploringly into his face, adding—“Yes, caro. Let them speak to me alone.”
“No,” the young Englishman answered firmly.
“But the matter is a delicate one—extremely delicate,” urged the delegato. “I certainly think that the signorina should be allowed to decide whether or not you should be present.”
“In a week or so we shall marry,” declared Armytage. “What concerns signorina also concerns myself.”
“To please me, caro, will you not go out of the room for a moment?” Gemma cried in a low voice of earnest supplication.
Her attitude was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible secret, and in those moments her lover had become filled with a keen desire to penetrate the cloak of mystery which enveloped her.
“No,” he answered her, after a brief silence; “I have decided to remain and hear what the signor delegato has to say.”
The police official and the trembling woman exchanged quick glances. In the officer’s gaze was a look of sympathy, for perhaps her beauty had softened his impressionable Italian nature; in her blue eyes was an expression of humiliation and abject fear.
“My mission is very quickly accomplished,” the delegato exclaimed slowly.
“You intend to arrest!” Gemma cried hoarsely. “I—I have dreaded this for a long time past. I knew that, one day or other, you would come for me, and my reputation would be ruined for ever.”
“Listen, signorina,” the official said gravely. “Certain information has been obtained by the Questore, and upon that information I have been sent here to you. Much as I regret to disturb you, signorina, the Questore, after carefully considering certain statements before him, has decided that your presence is undesirable in Livorno, and, further, he wishes me to inform you that to-day you must leave this city.”
Gemma, her face white and drawn, humiliated and abased, sighed deeply, then breathed again more freely. She had expected arrest, but instead was ordered out of Livorno. To say the least, the police had been merciful towards her.
“Then I must leave to-day?” she repeated mechanically.
“Yes, signorina. The penalty for remaining here after this order of the Questore is immediate arrest,” he said.
“But why is this course pursued?” Armytage asked. “For what reason is the presence of the signorina deleterious in the city? It all seems very remarkable to me.”
“The information before the Questore is of a very confidential character, signore.”
“Are you not aware of the allegations against her?”
“No,” he replied; “I have only been deputed to warn her to leave Livorno.”
“Is such a measure frequently resorted to?”
“Usually we arrest the suspected individual, question him, and afterwards deport him to the railway station, if there is not sufficient ground to justify a prosecution. In this case there is just a simple warning. Only in very exceptional cases is the course followed which the Questore is now pursuing.”
“Then you have no knowledge of the actual charge in this case?”
“No, signore, I have not. But,” he added, “the signorina must herself know the reason.”
Armytage turned quickly to her. Their eyes met for a single instant. Then she slowly nodded, saying in an indistinct voice: “Yes, yes, I know only too well the reason of this. I must leave Livorno—leave Italy, my own country that I love, never to return.”
“That would be the very best course to pursue,” the delegato urged. “If you leave Italy, signorina, you will, I think, hear no more of the unfortunate affair. Indeed, I have strong reasons for believing that the Questore has acted in the manner he has done purposely, in order that you should be afforded an opportunity to leave Italy.”
“He thinks that exile is preferable to imprisonment,” she said aloud, as if reflecting. “Well, perhaps he is right;” and she laughed a short, hollow laugh.
“Yes,” urged Armytage, “you must leave to-night.” She was silent. The police official exchanged glances with the tall, good-looking young Englishman, then said, bowing politely—
“I will wish you adieu, signore. A thousand pardons for disturbing you; but it was my duty, therefore pray forgive me.”
“Certainly, certainly,” he replied; and both men went out bowing, leaving Armytage alone with the woman he loved.
“All this is strange—very strange,” he observed when they had gone. He was puzzled; for, after all, he now knew no more than what Consul Hutchinson had already told him.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “to you it must appear extraordinary, but to me, who expected it and who dreaded it, it was only what might be anticipated. They have warned me out of Italy, it’s true; but if they knew everything,” she added—“if they knew everything, I should to-night be placed in a criminal’s cell.”
“Why?”
“Already I have told you it is impossible for me to explain,” she answered vehemently, in her voluble Italian. “If you really love me, it is surely sufficient to know that the police are in ignorance of facts which I feared were revealed; and that they have not obtained the one item of information necessary to effect my ruin and disgrace.”
“Why do you speak like this?” he demanded quickly. “Has your past life in Florence been so full of mystery that you fear its exposure?”
“There are certain matters which I desire to keep secret—which I will keep secret, even if it costs me the loss of you, the man I adore,” she answered fiercely.
“Then they are matters which surely concern me—if I am to be your husband,” he said gravely.
“No,” she answered calmly, still pale to the lips; “they only concern myself. I admit freely that there is a secret connected with my past—a secret which I shall strive to preserve, because its revelation would, I know, cause you, my beloved, much worry and unnecessary pain. I therefore prefer to hide this truth and fight my enemies alone.”
“Is not this secret one that, before marrying you, I ought to know?” he demanded earnestly.
“It cannot concern you in any way,” she declared. “True, it has reference to my past life, but surely you don’t believe me to be an adventuress—do you?”
“Of course not, piccina,” he answered, laughing, as he again placed his arm tenderly around her waist. “You an adventuress! What made you suggest such a thing?”
“I must be an enigma to you,” she said. “But believe me, I would tell you everything if I could see that you could be benefited in the least. The story is a long and wretched one; and when I reflect upon the closed chapter of my life’s history, I am always dolorous and unhappy. The more so because I’m unable to confide in you, the man I love.”
“Will you explain all to me some day?”
“Yes, everything. At present, if I were to tell you, the result would only be disastrous to myself, and in all probability wreck your happiness. Silence is best now—far the best.”
His face wore a heavy expression of disappointment and dissatisfaction. Truth to tell, the whole matter was so utterly inexplicable that he entertained serious misgivings. She noticed this, and raising her sweet face, now no longer haggard, but pale and sweet-looking, she added—
“Cannot you trust me further, Nino?”
“Trust you, darling!” he cried. “Why, of course I can. Only all this secrecy worries me.”
“Ah no! Don’t think of it any more,” she urged. “To-night I will leave with you for Paris. I have a friend there to whom I can go. Afterwards, in London, we will marry—if you still desire that we should.”
The last words were uttered in a low, tremulous, hesitating tone.
“Still desire!” he echoed. “I still love you as fondly—ah! even more fervently than before. If you would only confide in me, I should be entirely happy.”
“At present that is impossible,” she declared. “Some day, before long, I hope to be in a position to tell you everything.”
“And you are ready to go to London?” he observed. “Half an hour ago you said you did not wish to go to England!”
“True, because I feared to go. Now I no longer fear. I am ready, even eager to accompany you if you still wish.”
“Then we will go straight to Paris; and when I have concluded my business, which will occupy perhaps a couple of days, we’ll go on to London.”
“Benissimo!” she answered, raising her full, red lips to his. “I so want to see your great and wonderful London, caro. I’ve read so much about it. It must be gigantic. I shall be so happy and content with you as my guide. To see London has ever been the dream of my life.”
“Ah! I’m afraid you’ll be sadly disappointed, piccina,” he said, again smiling. “After your bright, beautiful Italy, our busy, bustling, smoke-blackened city will seem terribly dull, monotonous, and dreary. The sky is seldom blue, and the atmosphere never clear and bright like this. In your Tuscany everything is artistic—the country, the towns, the people; but in England—well, you will see for yourself.”
“But there are lots of amusements in London,” she said, “and life there is always gay.”
“For the rich, London offers the greatest and most diverse attractions of any place in the world; but for the poor, herded together in millions as they are, it is absolutely the worst. In Italy you have much poverty and distress, but the lot of the poor man is far easier here than in toiling, turbulent, over-crowded London.”
“One never appreciates the town in which one lives, be it ever so beautiful,” she laughed.
“Well, be patient, and you shall see what London is like,” he said. “But it is already two o’clock. You must lunch, and afterwards pack your trunks. Our train leaves at half-past nine to-night, and at Pisa we shall join the night-mail to the frontier. I’ll wire to the sleeping-car office in Rome, and secure our berths in the through car for Paris.”
“Ah! Nino,” she exclaimed happily, “I am content, very content to leave Italy with you. An hour ago I had reasons for remaining; but now it is, of course, impossible; and, strangely enough, I have no further object in staying here.”
“And you will not regret leaving?”
“Of course not,” she said, flinging herself into his ready arms and shedding tears of joy. “I fear nothing now, because I know that you love me, Nino,” she sobbed. “I know you will not believe anything that is alleged against me. You have asked me to marry you, and I am content—ah! absolutely content to do so. But even now I do not hold you to your promise, because of my inability to divulge to you my secret. If you think me untrue or scheming, then let us part. If you believe I love you, then let us marry in England and be happy.”
“I love you, Gemma,” he answered low and earnestly. “Let us go together to London, and let this be the last hour of our doubt and unhappiness.”
Chapter Twelve.A Word with His Excellency.One morning, about ten days after Armytage had left Leghorn with Gemma, a rather curious consultation took place at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor Square between Count Castellani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’, and Inspector Elmes, of the Criminal Investigation Department.The Ambassador, a handsome, grey-haired man of sixty with courtly manner as became the envoy of the most polite nation in the world, stroked his beard thoughtfully while he listened to the detective. He was sitting at his big writing-table in the small, well-furnished room where he was in the habit of holding private conference with those with whom the Chief Secretary of Embassy had no power to deal. Elmes, smart, well-shaven, and ruddy, sat in a large easy chair close by, and slowly explained the reason of his visit.“I remember the case quite well,” His Excellency exclaimed when the detective paused. “Some papers regarding it were placed before me, but I left my Secretary to deal with them. The girl, if I remember aright, arrived in London from Livorno accompanied by an unknown Englishman, and was found dead in a cab at Piccadilly Circus—mysteriously murdered, according to the medical evidence.”“The jury returned an open verdict, but without doubt she was the victim of foul play,” Elmes said decisively.“One moment,” the Ambassador interrupted, placing his hand upon an electric button upon the table.In answer to his summons the thin, dark-faced Neapolitan man-servant appeared, and by him the Ambassador sent a message to the Secretary, who in a few moments entered.He was younger by ten years than the Ambassador, foppishly dressed, but nevertheless pleasant-faced, with manners which were the essence of good breeding.“You remember the case of the girl—Vittorina, I think her name was—who was found dead in a cab outside the Criterion?”“Yes.”“Did we make any inquiries of the police in Livorno regarding her identity?”“Yes. Do you wish to see the reply?”“You might send it in to me at once,” the Ambassador said; and the Secretary withdrew.“What you have told me is certainly extraordinary—most extraordinary,” exclaimed His Excellency, addressing Elmes.“All the inquiries I have made point to the one fact I have already suggested,” the detective said. “At Scotland Yard we received a request from your Excellency that we should carefully investigate the matter, and we are doing so to the very best of our ability.”“I’m sure you are. I well recollect now signing a formal request to your Department to make searching investigation.”At that moment a clerk entered, bearing a file of papers, which he placed before His Excellency.“Now,” exclaimed the latter, “let us see what reply we received from the police of Livorno;” and he slowly turned over letter after letter. The correspondence had evidently been considerable. Its magnitude surprised the detective.Suddenly the Count paused, and his brows contracted as he read one of the official letters. He glanced at the signature, and saw it was that of the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs at Rome. Twice he read it through. It was a long despatch, closely written, and as the Ambassador re-read it his brow darkened.Again he touched the electric bell, and a second time summoned the Secretary of Embassy.When the latter appeared His Excellency beckoned him into an inner room, and, taking the file of papers with him, left the Inspector alone withThe Times.After the lapse of some ten minutes both men returned.“But what I desire to know, and that clearly, is, why this despatch was never handed to me,” His Excellency was saying angrily as they emerged.“You were away at Scarborough, therefore I attended to it myself,” the Secretary answered.“Did you not appreciate its extreme importance?” His Excellency cried impetuously. “Surely, in the interests of our diplomacy, this matter should have been placed immediately before me! This despatch, a private one from the Minister, has apparently been lying about the Embassy for the servants or any chance caller to read. The thing’s disgraceful! Suppose for one moment the contents of this despatch have leaked out! What would be the result?”The Secretary made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders.“Such gross carelessness on the part of any one connected with this Embassy amounts almost to treason,” the Ambassador continued, livid with rage and indignation. “We are here to do our utmost to preserve the honour and prestige of our nation. Is not our national motto, ‘For the country and the king’? Yet, because I was absent a week, a matter of the most vital importance is calmly shelved in this manner! Moreover, it was sent by special messenger from Rome; yet it has been allowed to lie about for anybody to copy!”“Pardon me, your Excellency,” exclaimed the Secretary. “The file has been kept in the private safe until this moment, and the key has never left my pocket.”“Then why did you send it in here by a clerk, and not bring it yourself?” was His Excellency’s withering retort.“It was impossible for me to return at that moment,” the Secretary explained. “I was dictating an important letter to catch the post.”“I see from these papers that we wrote direct to the Questore at Livorno, and his reply came by special messenger, under cover from the Foreign Minister. Surely that in itself was sufficient to convince you of its extreme importance! Your previous experiences in Vienna and Berlin ought to have shown you that the Minister does not send despatches by special messenger unless he fears thecabinet noir.”“I wrote formally to the Questore at Livorno, according to your instructions, and certainly received from the Ministry at Rome the reply attached. I must confess, however, that it did not strike me as extraordinary until this moment. Now that I read it in the light of recent occurrences, I see how secret is its nature. It is impossible, however, that any one besides myself has read it.”“Let us hope not,” His Excellency snapped as he reseated himself. “It was most injudicious, to say the least;” and then with politeness he bowed to the Secretary as a sign that he had concluded his expressions of displeasure.“It is most fortunate that you called,” the Ambassador observed, turning to Elmes when the Secretary had left. “If you had not, a most important matter would have escaped my attention. As it is, I fear I shall be too late in intervening, owing to the gross negligence which has been displayed. After the inquest had been held upon the body of the unfortunate girl, we wrote, it appears, to the police at Livorno to endeavour to discover who she was;” and he slowly turned over the papers one by one until he came to a formidable document headed, “Questura di Livorno,” which he glanced through.“The police, it seems, have no knowledge of any person missing,” he continued slowly and deliberately, when he had read through the report. “The name Vittorina is, of course, as common in Tuscany as Mary is in England. The photograph taken by your Department after death had been seen by the whole of the detectives in Livorno, but no one has identified it. If we had had the surname, we might possibly have traced her by means of the register, which is carefully kept in every Italian town; but as it is, the Questore expresses regret that he is unable to furnish us with more than one item of information.”“What is that?” asked Elmes eagerly.“It is stated that by the last train from Livorno, one night in August, two persons, a man and a woman, inquired for tickets for London. They were informed that tickets could only be issued as far as Milan or Modane. The man was English, and the woman Italian. The detective on duty at the station took careful observation of them, as persons who ask for through tickets for London are rare. The description of the woman tallies exactly with that of the unknown Vittorina, and that of the man with the fellow who so cleverly escaped through the Criterion bar.”“We already knew that they came from Leghorn,” the Inspector observed disappointedly; but the Ambassador took no notice of his words. He was re-reading for the third time the secret instructions contained in the despatch from the Minister at Rome, and stroking his pointed greybeard, a habit when unusually puzzled.“You, of course, still have the original of that curiously worded letter found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag, and signed ‘Egisto’?” Count Castellani exclaimed presently, without taking his keen eyes off the despatch before him.“Yes, your Excellency,” Elmes answered. “I have it in my pocket.”“I should like to see it, if you’ll allow me,” he said in a cold, dignified voice.The detective took out a well-worn leather wallet containing many notes of cases on which he was or had been engaged, and handed to the Ambassador the strange note which had so puzzled the police and the readers of newspapers.His Excellency carefully scrutinised the note.“It is strangely worded—very strangely,” he said. “Have you formed any opinion regarding the mention of Bonciani’s Restaurant in Regent Street? What kind of place is it? I’ve never heard of it.”“The Bonciani is a small restaurant halfway up Regent Street, frequented by better-class Italians; but what the veiled references to appointments on Mondays can mean, I’ve at present utterly failed to discover.”“This Egisto, whoever he is, writes from Lucca, I see,” His Excellency remarked. “Now, Lucca is only half an hour from Pisa, and if the man wished to say adieu to her, he might have taken half an hour’s journey and seen her off in the train for the frontier. Have you made any inquiries regarding this strange communication?”“A letter has been written to the British Consul at Leghorn, in whose district Lucca is, sending him a copy of the letter, together with the evidence, and asking him to communicate with the authorities.”“Has that letter been sent?” the Ambassador inquired quickly.“No. I only made application for it to be sent when I was round at the Chief Office this morning.”“Then stop it,” His Excellency said. “In this matter Consular inquiries are not required, and may have the effect of thwarting the success of the police. If you will leave this letter in my hands I shall be pleased to make inquiries through the Ministry, and at once acquaint you with the result.”“That will be extremely kind of you, your Excellency,” the Inspector said; for he at once saw that the Ambassador had far greater chance of discovering some clue than he had. A request from the Italian representative in London would, he knew, set the police office in a flutter, and all their wits would be directed towards discovering the identity of the writer of the extraordinary missive.“This piece of evidence will be quite safe in my hands, of course,” added the Count. “If I am compelled to send it to Italy, in order that the handwriting should be identified, I shall make it a condition that it shall be returned immediately. Do you speak Italian?”“A little, your Excellency,” he answered. “I’ve been in Italy once or twice on extradition cases.”“Then you can read this letter, I suppose?” the courtly diplomat asked, eyeing him keenly.“Yes. I made the translation for the Coroner,” answered Elmes, with a smile.“Well, it does you credit. Very few of our police, unfortunately, know English. In your inquiries in this case, what have you discovered?” the Ambassador asked. “You may be perfectly frank with me, because the woman was an Italian subject, and I am prepared to assist you in every way possible.”“Thanks,” the detective said. “Already I’ve made—and am still making—very careful investigations. The one fact, however, which I have really established is the identity of the mysterious Major—who was waiting on the platform of Charing Cross Station, who was introduced to the girl, who afterwards spoke to her English companion in the Criterion, and whose photograph, fortunately enough, was found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag.”“The Major?” repeated His Excellency, as if reflecting. “Ah! yes, of course; I recollect. Well, who is that interesting person?” he asked.“The photograph has been identified by at least a dozen persons as that of a Major Gordon Maitland, who lives in the Albany, and who is a member of the Junior United Service Club.”“Maitland!” echoed the Ambassador, starting at the mention of the name. “He’s rather well known, isn’t he? I fancy I’ve met him somewhere or other.”“He’s very well known,” answered Elmes. “It is strange, however, that he left London a few days after the occurrence, and has not left his address either at his chambers or his club.”“That is certainly curious,” the Ambassador agreed. “It may, however, be only accidental that he left after the tragic affair.”“I have made judicious inquiries in quarters where he is best known, but absolutely nothing is discoverable regarding his whereabouts, although I have three officers engaged on the case.”“You have found out nothing regarding his friend, the mysterious Englishman, I suppose?”“Absolutely nothing. All trace of him has vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.”“He may have been an American, and by this time is in New York, or even San Francisco,” the Count hazarded.“True, he might have been. Only Major Maitland can tell us that. We are certain to find him sooner or later.”“I sincerely hope you will,” the Ambassador said. “I am here to guard the interests of all Italian subjects, and if the life of one is taken, it is my duty to press upon your Department the urgent necessity of discovering and punishing the assassin. If, however, I can be of any service to you in this matter, or can advise you, do not hesitate to call on me. You can always see me privately if you send in your card;” and rising, as a sign the interview was at an end, His Excellency bowed, and wished the detective “good-morning.”The instant Inspector Elmes had closed the door the Ambassador took up the letter found in the dead girl’s bag, together with the file of papers lying before him. Carrying them swiftly to the window, he readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and hurriedly turned over folio after folio, until he came to the secret despatch with the sprawly signature of the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then, placing the letter beside the despatch, he closely compared the signature with the handwriting of the letter.His face grew pale, his grey brows contracted, and he bit his lip.The “l’s,” “p’s” and “t’s” in the strange missive were exactly identical with those in the signature to the closely written despatch which had been penned by the private secretary.With trembling hand he held the soiled scrap of paper to the light.“The watermark shows this to be official paper,” he muttered aloud. “There is certainly some deep, extraordinary mystery here—a mystery which must be fathomed.”Again he glanced at the long formal despatch. Then the Ambassador added, in a low, subdued, almost frightened tone: “What if it proved that the Marquis Montelupo and ‘Egisto’ are one and the same?”
One morning, about ten days after Armytage had left Leghorn with Gemma, a rather curious consultation took place at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor Square between Count Castellani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’, and Inspector Elmes, of the Criminal Investigation Department.
The Ambassador, a handsome, grey-haired man of sixty with courtly manner as became the envoy of the most polite nation in the world, stroked his beard thoughtfully while he listened to the detective. He was sitting at his big writing-table in the small, well-furnished room where he was in the habit of holding private conference with those with whom the Chief Secretary of Embassy had no power to deal. Elmes, smart, well-shaven, and ruddy, sat in a large easy chair close by, and slowly explained the reason of his visit.
“I remember the case quite well,” His Excellency exclaimed when the detective paused. “Some papers regarding it were placed before me, but I left my Secretary to deal with them. The girl, if I remember aright, arrived in London from Livorno accompanied by an unknown Englishman, and was found dead in a cab at Piccadilly Circus—mysteriously murdered, according to the medical evidence.”
“The jury returned an open verdict, but without doubt she was the victim of foul play,” Elmes said decisively.
“One moment,” the Ambassador interrupted, placing his hand upon an electric button upon the table.
In answer to his summons the thin, dark-faced Neapolitan man-servant appeared, and by him the Ambassador sent a message to the Secretary, who in a few moments entered.
He was younger by ten years than the Ambassador, foppishly dressed, but nevertheless pleasant-faced, with manners which were the essence of good breeding.
“You remember the case of the girl—Vittorina, I think her name was—who was found dead in a cab outside the Criterion?”
“Yes.”
“Did we make any inquiries of the police in Livorno regarding her identity?”
“Yes. Do you wish to see the reply?”
“You might send it in to me at once,” the Ambassador said; and the Secretary withdrew.
“What you have told me is certainly extraordinary—most extraordinary,” exclaimed His Excellency, addressing Elmes.
“All the inquiries I have made point to the one fact I have already suggested,” the detective said. “At Scotland Yard we received a request from your Excellency that we should carefully investigate the matter, and we are doing so to the very best of our ability.”
“I’m sure you are. I well recollect now signing a formal request to your Department to make searching investigation.”
At that moment a clerk entered, bearing a file of papers, which he placed before His Excellency.
“Now,” exclaimed the latter, “let us see what reply we received from the police of Livorno;” and he slowly turned over letter after letter. The correspondence had evidently been considerable. Its magnitude surprised the detective.
Suddenly the Count paused, and his brows contracted as he read one of the official letters. He glanced at the signature, and saw it was that of the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs at Rome. Twice he read it through. It was a long despatch, closely written, and as the Ambassador re-read it his brow darkened.
Again he touched the electric bell, and a second time summoned the Secretary of Embassy.
When the latter appeared His Excellency beckoned him into an inner room, and, taking the file of papers with him, left the Inspector alone withThe Times.
After the lapse of some ten minutes both men returned.
“But what I desire to know, and that clearly, is, why this despatch was never handed to me,” His Excellency was saying angrily as they emerged.
“You were away at Scarborough, therefore I attended to it myself,” the Secretary answered.
“Did you not appreciate its extreme importance?” His Excellency cried impetuously. “Surely, in the interests of our diplomacy, this matter should have been placed immediately before me! This despatch, a private one from the Minister, has apparently been lying about the Embassy for the servants or any chance caller to read. The thing’s disgraceful! Suppose for one moment the contents of this despatch have leaked out! What would be the result?”
The Secretary made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders.
“Such gross carelessness on the part of any one connected with this Embassy amounts almost to treason,” the Ambassador continued, livid with rage and indignation. “We are here to do our utmost to preserve the honour and prestige of our nation. Is not our national motto, ‘For the country and the king’? Yet, because I was absent a week, a matter of the most vital importance is calmly shelved in this manner! Moreover, it was sent by special messenger from Rome; yet it has been allowed to lie about for anybody to copy!”
“Pardon me, your Excellency,” exclaimed the Secretary. “The file has been kept in the private safe until this moment, and the key has never left my pocket.”
“Then why did you send it in here by a clerk, and not bring it yourself?” was His Excellency’s withering retort.
“It was impossible for me to return at that moment,” the Secretary explained. “I was dictating an important letter to catch the post.”
“I see from these papers that we wrote direct to the Questore at Livorno, and his reply came by special messenger, under cover from the Foreign Minister. Surely that in itself was sufficient to convince you of its extreme importance! Your previous experiences in Vienna and Berlin ought to have shown you that the Minister does not send despatches by special messenger unless he fears thecabinet noir.”
“I wrote formally to the Questore at Livorno, according to your instructions, and certainly received from the Ministry at Rome the reply attached. I must confess, however, that it did not strike me as extraordinary until this moment. Now that I read it in the light of recent occurrences, I see how secret is its nature. It is impossible, however, that any one besides myself has read it.”
“Let us hope not,” His Excellency snapped as he reseated himself. “It was most injudicious, to say the least;” and then with politeness he bowed to the Secretary as a sign that he had concluded his expressions of displeasure.
“It is most fortunate that you called,” the Ambassador observed, turning to Elmes when the Secretary had left. “If you had not, a most important matter would have escaped my attention. As it is, I fear I shall be too late in intervening, owing to the gross negligence which has been displayed. After the inquest had been held upon the body of the unfortunate girl, we wrote, it appears, to the police at Livorno to endeavour to discover who she was;” and he slowly turned over the papers one by one until he came to a formidable document headed, “Questura di Livorno,” which he glanced through.
“The police, it seems, have no knowledge of any person missing,” he continued slowly and deliberately, when he had read through the report. “The name Vittorina is, of course, as common in Tuscany as Mary is in England. The photograph taken by your Department after death had been seen by the whole of the detectives in Livorno, but no one has identified it. If we had had the surname, we might possibly have traced her by means of the register, which is carefully kept in every Italian town; but as it is, the Questore expresses regret that he is unable to furnish us with more than one item of information.”
“What is that?” asked Elmes eagerly.
“It is stated that by the last train from Livorno, one night in August, two persons, a man and a woman, inquired for tickets for London. They were informed that tickets could only be issued as far as Milan or Modane. The man was English, and the woman Italian. The detective on duty at the station took careful observation of them, as persons who ask for through tickets for London are rare. The description of the woman tallies exactly with that of the unknown Vittorina, and that of the man with the fellow who so cleverly escaped through the Criterion bar.”
“We already knew that they came from Leghorn,” the Inspector observed disappointedly; but the Ambassador took no notice of his words. He was re-reading for the third time the secret instructions contained in the despatch from the Minister at Rome, and stroking his pointed greybeard, a habit when unusually puzzled.
“You, of course, still have the original of that curiously worded letter found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag, and signed ‘Egisto’?” Count Castellani exclaimed presently, without taking his keen eyes off the despatch before him.
“Yes, your Excellency,” Elmes answered. “I have it in my pocket.”
“I should like to see it, if you’ll allow me,” he said in a cold, dignified voice.
The detective took out a well-worn leather wallet containing many notes of cases on which he was or had been engaged, and handed to the Ambassador the strange note which had so puzzled the police and the readers of newspapers.
His Excellency carefully scrutinised the note.
“It is strangely worded—very strangely,” he said. “Have you formed any opinion regarding the mention of Bonciani’s Restaurant in Regent Street? What kind of place is it? I’ve never heard of it.”
“The Bonciani is a small restaurant halfway up Regent Street, frequented by better-class Italians; but what the veiled references to appointments on Mondays can mean, I’ve at present utterly failed to discover.”
“This Egisto, whoever he is, writes from Lucca, I see,” His Excellency remarked. “Now, Lucca is only half an hour from Pisa, and if the man wished to say adieu to her, he might have taken half an hour’s journey and seen her off in the train for the frontier. Have you made any inquiries regarding this strange communication?”
“A letter has been written to the British Consul at Leghorn, in whose district Lucca is, sending him a copy of the letter, together with the evidence, and asking him to communicate with the authorities.”
“Has that letter been sent?” the Ambassador inquired quickly.
“No. I only made application for it to be sent when I was round at the Chief Office this morning.”
“Then stop it,” His Excellency said. “In this matter Consular inquiries are not required, and may have the effect of thwarting the success of the police. If you will leave this letter in my hands I shall be pleased to make inquiries through the Ministry, and at once acquaint you with the result.”
“That will be extremely kind of you, your Excellency,” the Inspector said; for he at once saw that the Ambassador had far greater chance of discovering some clue than he had. A request from the Italian representative in London would, he knew, set the police office in a flutter, and all their wits would be directed towards discovering the identity of the writer of the extraordinary missive.
“This piece of evidence will be quite safe in my hands, of course,” added the Count. “If I am compelled to send it to Italy, in order that the handwriting should be identified, I shall make it a condition that it shall be returned immediately. Do you speak Italian?”
“A little, your Excellency,” he answered. “I’ve been in Italy once or twice on extradition cases.”
“Then you can read this letter, I suppose?” the courtly diplomat asked, eyeing him keenly.
“Yes. I made the translation for the Coroner,” answered Elmes, with a smile.
“Well, it does you credit. Very few of our police, unfortunately, know English. In your inquiries in this case, what have you discovered?” the Ambassador asked. “You may be perfectly frank with me, because the woman was an Italian subject, and I am prepared to assist you in every way possible.”
“Thanks,” the detective said. “Already I’ve made—and am still making—very careful investigations. The one fact, however, which I have really established is the identity of the mysterious Major—who was waiting on the platform of Charing Cross Station, who was introduced to the girl, who afterwards spoke to her English companion in the Criterion, and whose photograph, fortunately enough, was found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag.”
“The Major?” repeated His Excellency, as if reflecting. “Ah! yes, of course; I recollect. Well, who is that interesting person?” he asked.
“The photograph has been identified by at least a dozen persons as that of a Major Gordon Maitland, who lives in the Albany, and who is a member of the Junior United Service Club.”
“Maitland!” echoed the Ambassador, starting at the mention of the name. “He’s rather well known, isn’t he? I fancy I’ve met him somewhere or other.”
“He’s very well known,” answered Elmes. “It is strange, however, that he left London a few days after the occurrence, and has not left his address either at his chambers or his club.”
“That is certainly curious,” the Ambassador agreed. “It may, however, be only accidental that he left after the tragic affair.”
“I have made judicious inquiries in quarters where he is best known, but absolutely nothing is discoverable regarding his whereabouts, although I have three officers engaged on the case.”
“You have found out nothing regarding his friend, the mysterious Englishman, I suppose?”
“Absolutely nothing. All trace of him has vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.”
“He may have been an American, and by this time is in New York, or even San Francisco,” the Count hazarded.
“True, he might have been. Only Major Maitland can tell us that. We are certain to find him sooner or later.”
“I sincerely hope you will,” the Ambassador said. “I am here to guard the interests of all Italian subjects, and if the life of one is taken, it is my duty to press upon your Department the urgent necessity of discovering and punishing the assassin. If, however, I can be of any service to you in this matter, or can advise you, do not hesitate to call on me. You can always see me privately if you send in your card;” and rising, as a sign the interview was at an end, His Excellency bowed, and wished the detective “good-morning.”
The instant Inspector Elmes had closed the door the Ambassador took up the letter found in the dead girl’s bag, together with the file of papers lying before him. Carrying them swiftly to the window, he readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and hurriedly turned over folio after folio, until he came to the secret despatch with the sprawly signature of the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then, placing the letter beside the despatch, he closely compared the signature with the handwriting of the letter.
His face grew pale, his grey brows contracted, and he bit his lip.
The “l’s,” “p’s” and “t’s” in the strange missive were exactly identical with those in the signature to the closely written despatch which had been penned by the private secretary.
With trembling hand he held the soiled scrap of paper to the light.
“The watermark shows this to be official paper,” he muttered aloud. “There is certainly some deep, extraordinary mystery here—a mystery which must be fathomed.”
Again he glanced at the long formal despatch. Then the Ambassador added, in a low, subdued, almost frightened tone: “What if it proved that the Marquis Montelupo and ‘Egisto’ are one and the same?”