"The danger would certainly lie there," Walter said thoughtfully.
"My dear boy, that is just where the danger comes in," Ravenspur replied. "I haven't the remotest idea whether Vera is like or unlike her mother, but I fear that she must be, otherwise that man Silva would never have got on my track, as I have felt quite sure lately that he has done. Doubtless in some of his wanderings he has seen the girl, he has recognised the likeness, and made up his mind that he has found the object of his search at last. You see, he has only to make a few inquiries amongst the servants, who would tell him that Vera is my ward, and that, as to the rest, she is more or less of a beautiful mystery. One can understand now why he should come to my studio and steal that portrait."
"I think I can see a better theory than that," Walter said. "Wasn't the portrait exhibited before it came back to the studio again? I seem to remember something of the kind."
"Of course it was," Ravenspur exclaimed. "I had quite forgotten that. Silva must have got his inspiration from the picture. I suppose that is why he made that murderous attack upon Sir James Seton the other night, taking him, of course, for me. But that is not the first warning I have had of the impending danger, and I am afraid it won't be the last."
Walter listened to this desponding view with impatience.
"But, surely, you are not going to take it like this, sir?" he expostulated. "By greatest good fortune we have discovered who your mysterious foe is. I think it has been a wonderful slice of luck, and we ought to take advantage of it. Surely you couldn't do any less than place the matter in the hands of the police, telling them all that has happened. At any rate, you can do nothing else. They can drive this man Silva out of the country. If I may be allowed a suggestion, you will let Inspector Dallas know without delay. If you don't care to tell him yourself, let me broach the matter. Indeed, it seems my imperative duty to do so. If you fell by the hand of this man now I should feel morally responsible for your death. And, besides, if anything happens to you, what are we going to do about Vera? She is not yet of age. She might at any moment be claimed by her mother, who you say is a perfect fiend. And, besides, though this is a minor matter, I am deeply attached to Vera myself----"
"Oh, I know, I know," Ravenspur groaned. "The thing is hedged round with troubles and difficulties. You know why I was against your marriage with Vera, and how greatly distressed I was when I found everything out. If there had been nothing in the way, nobody would have been more delighted at a match like that than myself. But you see the danger, though you little know how deep and far-reaching those Corsican vengeances are. How do I know that if you marry Vera you would not be marked down for the same fate as myself?"
"I am prepared to risk that," Walter said grimly. "Still, at the present moment, we have far more important things to talk about. And Vera must know nothing of this."
"My dear boy, of course not. I should never dream of telling her. But sooner or later she must discover everything for herself, I am afraid. I have been thinking over what you said just now, and perhaps it would be as well to let the police know."
"You will do it at once?" asked Walter eagerly.
"Well, no, I don't propose to do it at all. You have been so clever and cool-headed in this matter that I have decided to leave everything to you. The whole problem is so complicated that I am utterly unable to grasp it. I can see no connection between the two, but I am perfectly certain that the death of poor Delahay is all part of the coil."
"I feel that, too," Walter said. "But we need not concern ourselves about that at present. By the way, have you seen anything of Mrs. Delahay to-day?"
"She won't see me," Ravenspur replied. "She obstinately refuses to see anybody. She remains wilfully blind to the fact that she is in a serious position. You see, she declared in her evidence in chief that she had not been outside the hotel on the night of the murder, and yet on the testimony of three independent witnesses we have it that she was away upwards of three hours. Of course, that man Stevens is a very suspicious character, but he could have nothing to gain by swearing that he saw Mrs. Delahay with her husband very early in the morning in Fitzjohn Square. Moreover, the man's evidence was not in the least shaken. What to make of it I don't know. I wish you would try and see her. You know her far better than I do, because you were a deal in Italy before Delahay's marriage, and I think she likes you. Of course, she might have some strong reasons for leaving the hotel and for keeping the thing a secret, and she may be utterly and entirely innocent. But, really she ought to tell her best friends what is the meaning of this mystery."
Walter glanced at his watch. It still wanted some minutes to eleven o'clock, and it was no far cry to the Grand Hotel. A hansom took him there in ten minutes. Mrs. Delahay had not yet retired for the night, and Walter sent up his card, with a few urgent words pencilled on it. A maid came down presently with the information that Mrs. Delahay would see him for a moment.
She came into her sitting-room perfectly calm and self-possessed, though the deadly whiteness of her face and the scintillating of her eyes told of the torture that was going on within.
"I wish you would let me help you," Walter said as they shook hands. "I wish you would be advised by me. My uncle tells me that you refused to see him altogether."
"I was bound to," Mrs. Delahay said in a low voice. "Oh, I know exactly what you want. I am the victim of a set of extraordinary circumstances. My innocent lie may get me into serious trouble. I am not blind to that knowledge, but at the same time I cannot speak. I must allow people to think the worst. But I swear to you if it is the last word I ever utter, that I was not with my husband. I was not the woman the witness identified as the person he had seen with Louis Delahay in Fitzjohn Square that terrible morning."
The words were quietly, almost coldly, uttered, but Walter believed them as he would perhaps have refused to believe a passionate outburst on the speaker's part.
"But surely," he argued, "you can give some account of your movements. You can say why you went out and what for?"
"I cannot," Maria Delahay went on in the same even tones. "There are the most pressing reasons why I should keep silent. My dear Mr. Lance, I am grateful from the bottom of my heart for all your sympathy and kindness, but nothing can move me from my determination. After all said and done, the police can prove nothing against me. For the rest of my life I shall be a person to be shunned and avoided, but I shall know how to bear my punishment uncomplainingly. And in conclusion, I am quite convinced of this--if I told you everything, you would say that I was perfectly justified in the course I am taking. Further argument is useless."
Walter saw the futility of it, too. He saw in the woman's averted head and outstretched hand, the sign that he was no longer needed, and that the interview was at an end. By no means satisfied he made his way down to the vestibule intent upon seeing Inspector Dallas without further delay. He was not surprised to find the object of his search engaged in discussion with the clerk.
"You are the very man I want to see," he said. "If you have ten minutes to spare, I think I can give you some useful information. I have just been having a long conversation with Lord Ravenspur, and he has asked me to lay certain facts before you."
"I can come with you now," Dallas said. "We can talk as we go along the road. Now, sir."
"It is rather a long story," Walter said. "I suppose you Scotland Yard people keep yourselvesau faitwith most of the sensational crimes which take place on the Continent? I suppose, for instance, you remember the death by poisoning of Count Boris Flavio, and how his wife was charged no fewer than five times with the crime?"
Dallas fairly started.
"That is a most extraordinary thing," he said. "I don't mind telling you that within the last day or two, or rather within the last few hours, we have blundered upon a startling light on that crime. It so happens that an Italian detective, who has come here to take a prisoner back to Rome, has interested himself in the Fitzjohn business, more or less because Mrs. Delahay is Italian herself. This detective Berti was not in court during the inquest, but he came round here an hour or two ago and expressed a casual wish to see Mrs. Delahay. He managed to do so for a moment, and then he made a statement that fairly took my breath away. But come with me as far as Scotland Yard and you shall hear him tell the story himself. I won't spoil it for him."
A little while later Walter found himself in the presence of a slim, diminutive man, with a fierce moustache and an exceedingly mild, insinuating manner.
"This is my friend Berti," Dallas explained. "And this, Berti, is Mr. Walter Lance, nephew of Lord Ravenspur. He mentioned the Flavio case to me just now with a view to getting a little information. I told him that you had had the whole business in hand, and you had better let him know that you are in a position to place your finger upon the Countess Flavio at any moment."
"Oh, that is an easy matter," Berti said. "I had the privilege of seeing the Countess this evening; but she does not call herself countess now. She is Mrs. Louis Delahay."
"You have made a most extraordinary mistake," Walter said. "On and off I have known Mrs. Delahay for some considerable time. I am quite certain that she is no relation whatever to Countess Flavio."
"And I, sir, am equally positive," the Italian detective replied. "I think my friend Inspector Dallas told you just now that I had the Flavio case in hand from the first. Indeed, I have had many conversations with the Countess. So positive am I that I am right that I will be prepared to make an affidavit of the facts."
"This is very strange," Lance murmured. "I cannot but believe that you have been deceived by a strong likeness between two different women. I know all about Mrs. Delahay. She comes from a very good Italian family, though I believe they were poor; they were exceedingly proud and exclusive, and until the death of her parents, Mrs. Delahay lived a life of almost monastic seclusion."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me her name?" Berti asked. "It might facilitate matters."
"Certainly," Walter Lance replied. "Before she was married Mrs. Delahay was Signora Descarti."
A peculiar smile flitted over his face.
"That is assuredly a point in my favour," he said, "seeing that Countess Flavio also was Signora Descarti."
Lance began to feel less sure of his ground. It appeared to him that the mystery was deeper than he had anticipated, and the more he came to investigate, the more bewildering the puzzle was. Certainly he had known Maria Delahay for the last three years on and off, but when he came to think over matters it struck him for the first time with peculiar force that, really, he knew little or nothing of Maria Delahay's antecedents. He well recollected the time when Louis Delahay announced his approaching marriage. He recalled that evening perfectly. Delahay had been a self-contained sort of man, and one of the last persons in the world to associate with matrimony, but he seemed to have found his fate at length, and had quite come out of his shell, discussing his future wife with Lance.
And what was it that he had told him after all? In the first instance, Signora Descarti was no longer in the bloom of her youth. In the second place, she was shy and retiring, possibly because, up to a certain time, she had lived such a secluded life. Despite the fact that she was of excellent family, she was earning a precarious living with her brush, and Delahay had hinted that there had been a romance in her early days which had coloured her life. Really, beyond this, Walter Lance had no knowledge of this unhappy woman's past, and he did not forget that the Flavio affair was nearly twenty years old. Except by the police, the thing was absolutely forgotten. It was almost impossible that anybody besides these authorities would recognise Carlotta, Countess Flavio, at this moment.
It came upon Lance with quite a shock that his unfortunate friend, after all, might have married a woman who had been tried five times on the capital charge. Eighteen years is a long span in a human life, and many changes can happen in that time.
Lance put aside the uneasy thoughts that rose to his mind, and turned to Berti again.
"That is distinctly a point in your favour," he said. "I confess that the fact that both ladies possessed the same maiden name comes as a shock to me. And yet, even now, I can't altogether abandon the idea that this is nothing more than a coincidence. But, tell me, what opinion did you form of Countess Flavio's character?"
The Italian smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"Enigma," he said, "the woman seemed to be without feeling altogether, from the time that I arrested her until her final acquittal I never knew her display any feeling at all. Even when I had to announce to her that she was at liberty, she gave no sign of pleasure or relief. She was like a creature who had been deprived of all the emotions, like some people you see who are deeply addicted to the drug habit. I have seen her execrated by a mob of excited people, and taking no more notice of them than if she were deaf. Yes; she was a most extraordinary woman."
"Did you believe her guilty?" Lance asked.
"Ah, there you puzzle me," Berti replied. "Upon my word, I don't know. Opinion was so equally divided; in each case the jury was balanced for and against. Sometimes I thought the woman was guilty, and sometimes I thought she was innocent. Of course, it was that extraordinaryalibiwhich saved her life. There was no getting away from it, for the testimony in the woman's favour was given by people who were total strangers to her. On the other hand, all the household servants came forward one after the other, and gave their mistress a very bad name, indeed. On their testimony she would have been executed, without a doubt. If only half they said was true, the Countess Flavio was a fiend."
"Did no servant testify in her favour?" Lance asked.
"Well, one. And he was a manservant who had accompanied the Countess from her own home. According to his account, his mistress was a perfect angel, and the Count was no more nor less than a disgrace to humanity. This testimony passed for very little, seeing that Count Flavio's neighbours and tenants came forward and spoke of him as a man of singular charm and virtue."
"I have heard that," Lance said, thoughtfully. "You see, Lord Ravenspur, my uncle, was a great friend of the Count. I understand that he never met the Countess, though he had an interview with the Count not long before his death. According to what Lord Ravenspur says, at that time the Count walked in fear of his life. He was very fearful lest his wife should try to destroy him. And now you tell me that the Countess Flavio was no less than the wife of my friend Delahay. I don't know what to think about it. I presume that Inspector Dallas will take steps to assure himself that Mrs. Delahay is the woman you take her to be."
"Well, yes," Dallas said grimly; "I don't see how the matter can rest here. We know perfectly well that Mrs. Delahay was away from her hotel for upwards of two hours on the night of her husband's death. It has been proved that she was seen in his company. And yet, at the first outset, she declares that she has not been outside her bedroom. One doesn't like to come to conclusions; they are fatal things to form in our profession. But it seems to me pretty obvious that there is one person who could clear up this mystery, and she happens to be the dead man's wife."
Lance had nothing to say in objection to this. Still, at the same time, there was a haunting doubt in the back of his mind that circumstances were shaping themselves against Maria Delahay apart from any faults of her own.
"You haven't enough to justify an immediate arrest, I suppose?" he asked. "You see what I mean?"
"Oh, I see perfectly well what you mean, sir," Inspector Dallas replied. "There is nothing to gain by such a course. It is impossible for the woman to get away. Indeed, we should take immediate steps to prevent her leaving the country. If she is the guilty party, she will be much more use to us as a free woman than she would be as a suspected criminal under lock and key. But, unless I am mistaken, Mr. Lance, you came here to tell me something."
"I had clean forgotten all about it," Lance exclaimed. "But as it is getting late now, if you don't mind I will leave it till the morning. It is a long story."
A few moments later and Lance was retracing his steps in the direction of the Grand Hotel. He was going to do wrong; he was going to do something which, sooner or later, might land him in serious trouble, but that did not deter him for a moment. In the hall of the hotel he scribbled a hasty note, and sent it up to Mrs. Delahay. A message came down in a moment or two to say that Mrs. Delahay would be pleased to see Mr. Lance.
He found her waiting in the sitting-room, just as cold and pale and impassive as before.
"You have something very important?" she asked.
"Indeed, I have," Lance exclaimed. "I want you to believe that I am actuated entirely by the friendliest motives, and if I speak plainly you will understand that I am not wanting in feeling. I have been with Inspector Dallas tonight and he introduced me to an Italian detective whose name is Berti. The latter assures me that his name is quite familiar to you."
"He is quite mistaken," Mrs. Delahay said in her cold, even voice. "I don't know anybody of that name. As to a policeman, I never had the honour of speaking to one in my life."
"You are quite certain of that?"
"Absolutely. If it were true, what should I have to gain by denying it? If you have anything to say to me, it will be far better to speak quite plainly."
The woman spoke quietly enough. It was impossible to believe that she was wilfully deceiving her questioner.
"Very well, then," Lance said, "I may as well tell you that this man Berti was the detective who had the Flavio case in hand. You will remember, of course, what an extraordinary sensation that drama caused in Italy many years ago."
"Did it?" Mrs. Delahay said indifferently. "I never had the slightest interest in that kind of thing. So far as this particular case is concerned, I never heard of it before."
Lance could only stare in astonishment. She was speaking and acting now just as, according to Berti, the Countess Flavio had behaved before and during the trial. Was she the sport of circumstance, or was she the woman she denied herself to be?
"That is very strange," Lance murmured. "I am told that the trial in question was the talk of Europe for two or three years. I believe the papers were full of it at the time. And yet you don't seem to have heard of it. Isn't the name of Flavio familiar to you at all? It is not a common name."
As Lance spoke he saw a swift and subtle change pass over the face of his companion. A flame of colour stained either cheek; then it was gone, leaving her still more ghastly white than before.
"I have not told you quite the truth," the woman said; "but in twenty years one forgets even the keenest of sorrows. Now I come to think of it, the name of Flavio reminds me of one of the most unhappy experiences in my existence. There was a certain Count Flavio whose estates joined those of my father. For some generations there had been a deep and bitter feud existing between the Flavios and the Descartis. The head of the Flavios was a very old man, who had two sons. Not to make a long story of it, the young people met, and fell in love with each other: the young people on one side being my sister and myself. The intrigue was found out, of course, and for the next ten years I was practically a prisoner in my father's house. He had a gloomy old fortress somewhere up country, and there I was detained. I might have been there still had my parents lived."
"And your sister?" Lance asked. "What of her?"
Again the woman hesitated. Again the look of pain and suffering swept like a wave across her face.
"They told me my sister was dead," she murmured. "I had to take their word for it."
"And you believed it? You believe it still? I hope you will pardon me for my persistent questions, but it is quite necessary that I should put them. Do you feel quite convinced?"
Once more Mrs. Delahay hesitated. Once more she seemed to shrink as if in physical pain.
"How can I know? How can I tell?" she asked. "Did I not say that I had been a prisoner all those years? This would account for the fact that I know nothing about that Flavio tragedy. Are you going to tell me that it is one and the same family to whom my sister and myself were attached?"
"Indeed, I do," Lance went on. "Your Count Flavio had two sons. When he died his elder son came into the title and estates. That was the man who was afterwards poisoned by his wife; at least, a great many people think so. And his wife's name was Carlotta. Her surname was Descarti. My dear Mrs. Delahay, it is impossible to believe that this is a coincidence."
"I quite agree with you," Mrs. Delahay said, in a low voice. "They seem to have deceived me about my sister, and my parents told me that she was dead. I suppose they meant that she was dead to the family. She must have made her escape, and married her lover after all. I was less fortunate. But what you say absolutely overwhelms me. The man that my sister loved was a splendid specimen of humanity; he was kind-hearted and generous; in every sense of the word he was a gentleman. And I can vouch for my sister's many good qualities. To say that she poisoned him is absurd. Why, she simply worshipped him. But, tell me, what opinion did the world form as to the merits of this extraordinary case?"
'"I want to spare you as much pain as possible," Lance murmured. "But your sister was held up to execration as a fiend in human form. One servant after another gave evidence to this effect. They seemed to think that your sister was not altogether sane--but why should I torture you with these details? What I really came here to tell you is this. The Italian detective, Berti, who had the case in hand, is in England at the present moment, and he has seen you. He declares that you are Countess Flavio. You can see how seriously this accusation may tell against you--later on."
Lance uttered the last two words reluctantly enough, but Mrs. Delahay saw their full significance.
"Oh, I know what you mean," she said. "You mean that I have placed myself in a perilous position. But there is one thing I can assure you--I am not the Countess Flavio. If necessary, when the time comes, I can prove this in a manner which would set even that Italian policeman's suspicions at rest. It is very kind of you to take all this trouble on my behalf. I suppose you want me to tell the whole truth, and say why I denied being away from the hotel the other night, when three people can come forward and show that my statement is false. Well, it was false. I don't mind going as far as that. But more I cannot and will not say, except that I am an innocent woman who has been a prey to cruel misfortune all her life."
There was determination as well as sadness in the words. Lance could see that he was merely wasting his time.
"Think it well over," he said; "give it every consideration. I will call and see you again in the morning."
No reply came from Maria Delahay. She merely held out her hand, and Lance took his leave without another word. Then the woman dropped into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.
Why did Fate persecute her in this way, she asked herself. Why had her life been such a misery for the past twenty years. Surely all this was a terrible price to pay for a childish indiscretion. And yet, though the years had been long and burdensome, it seemed but a brief step back to the happy, sunny days when she and her sister had been children playing in the woods at home and getting every drop of enjoyment out of life. Then they had hardly comprehended the feud that existed between the Descartis and the Flavios. Indeed, they had looked upon it as rather a silly business altogether and a distinct nuisance to mutual friends and neighbours. They had begun to notice, too, that the sons of old Flavio were good to look upon, and finally one day a slight adventure in the woods had thrown the young people together.
The thing had begun in a harmless fashion enough. They met again, and yet once more. They fell in the way of discussing the family quarrel and making light of it. From then on the path was pleasant and easy enough, and one day the two girls awoke to the fact that they were both deeply in love with the sons of their hereditary enemy. It was at this point that stern old Descarti discovered the great secret.
What happened after that Maria Descarti hardly knew. There was a terrible storm of rage and passion, sleepless nights, and tear-bedewed pillows, and then such a life of greyness and despair that the girls had never dreamt of. When at length she ventured courage to ask after her sister, she was told that the latter was dead. She took this statement literally, and she resigned herself to the inevitable.
The prison doors were open at length, but only on the death of her parent, and there she was at forty years of age, helpless and friendless, with no knowledge of the world, and nothing to aid her besides her brush and pencil. The struggle was indeed a hard one, and it looked like ending at length when she came in contact with Louis Delahay. She had no strong passion to give him, nothing but the tranquil affection of approaching middle age.
She had been perfectly candid in the matter, and Delahay knew exactly what he had to expect. Perhaps the prospect of tranquil happiness was far better than the rosy dreams of youth. And all this was now shattered by the unexpected tragedy.
Maria Delahay had reached this point in her thoughts; then her mind wandered on to what Lance had recently told her. And so, after all, her sister was alive. This knowledge had not reached Maria Delahay tonight. She had suspected it for some days, and it had come about in quite a prosaic way.
She could see it now quite clearly in her mind. The pleasant-mannered chambermaid had come into the sitting-room soon after Delahay had gone out on that fatal evening. She had evidently taken a liking to her visitor. Maria could see her now as she fussed about the room.
"Is there anything you want?" she asked.
"You seem to have forgotten me," the girl said. "I waited upon you when you were here last spring."
"Last spring!" Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. "Why, surely, you have made a mistake. I have never been here before."
"Oh, madam," the girl said reproachfully, "you are making fun of me. You came here by yourself, and stayed for the best part of a week. You had very few visitors, and you used to talk to me a good deal. . . . Only the name is different. You used to have Carlotta, not Maria, on the envelopes I brought up to you."
Mrs. Delahay started. With difficulty she restrained her feelings, for the chambermaid's innocent words had let a flood of light in a dark place. In the happy old days people were constantly mistaking her for her sister. Was it possible that her sister was still alive? Was it possible that she had been deceived all this time? A little dissimulation might be the means of getting the truth from the voluble chambermaid.
"You have sharp eyes," she said, "and, no doubt, a good memory. How long did I stay here, and where did I go afterwards?"
"It was a little over a week," the girl said. "And then you went away to Number Seventeen, Isleworth Road, Kensington. I remember the address because I have a sister in service who used to live next door. Perhaps madam does not want to be remembered? There are many reasons why it is prudent not to know too much."
"I am glad to see you are so discreet," Mrs. Delahay smiled. "There is no reason to mention this to anybody else, you understand?"
Left alone to herself, Maria Delahay had summed up the situation clearly and logically. Beyond all doubt her sister was still alive. Beyond all doubt Carlotta had been staying at the Grand Hotel within the past twelve months. She, too, seemed to have had her misfortunes, misfortunes more keen and cruel than even those of her younger sister. It was very strange that Maria should learn the truth in this fashion. It was stranger still that she should discover the house to which Carlotta had gone on leaving the hotel. Up to this moment Maria had no idea of going out herself. She intended to go straight to bed and await her husband's return.
Now a strange restlessness came over her. She felt it impossible to remain imprisoned within those four walls. There was no likelihood of Louis Delahay's return for the next two hours. Why, then, should she not go out and take a cab as far as Isleworth Road? It was very late, of course, but then London was a late place, and a midnight call no novelty.
Allowing herself to act on the impulse of the moment, Maria walked downstairs, and out into the Strand. Hailing a cab, she was driven to Isleworth Road, where she gave orders for the driver to stop. The locality was a respectable one, and there were lights in a good many of the houses; but at number seventeen Mrs. Delahay met with disappointment. The house was not empty, though the blinds were down, and there was not a light to be seen. The dingy nature of the steps and the tarnished look of the brasswork testified to the fact that neither had received any attention of late. As Maria stood there ringing the bell for the third time, in the faint hope of making somebody hear, a policeman came along.
"You are wasting your time there, lady," he said civilly enough. "The people are not at home. I think they are coming back at the end of the week, because my instructions to keep a special eye on the house don't go beyond Saturday."
Maria thanked the officer and went back in a cab. She would have liked to have asked more questions, but she restrained her natural curiosity. After all, it was not a far cry to Saturday, and even then she might meet with a disappointment. In all probability her sister had left London long ago.
Maria was thinking all these things over now that Walter Lance had gone. She wondered that her sister had so completely passed out of her mind. But, then, she had had so many terrible anxieties to weigh her down. She could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy. She paced up and down the room in a vain attempt to get away from herself. The clocks outside were striking the hour of midnight, but the roar of the Strand was going on still as if it were high noon. A sudden resolve came to the woman. She would go out at once and try her luck at Isleworth Road again.
She took no cab this time. She knew the way. As she walked along she was conscious of the fact that she was being followed. She smiled bitterly to herself. What had those people to be afraid of? Did they think she was going to run away?
Her heart gave a great leap as she saw the lights gleaming behind the drawn blinds at No. 17. She had only to ring once, then the door was promptly opened by a typical English servant, who waited for the visitor to speak.
"I think there is a lady here I want to see," Maria stammered. "At least she was here for some time in the spring. You see, she is my sister, and we have not met for twenty years. It may appear strange, but I don't even know her name."
It seemed to Maria that this was a proper precaution on her part. Though her explanation sounded weak enough, to her great relief she saw the servant smile and open the door a little wider.
"That is all right, madam," the servant said. "I can see that you are my mistress's sister by the likeness. Will you please come this way."
The next five minutes seemed like an hour to Maria. Then the door opened, and a tall, dark woman came in. The two looked at one another for quite a minute in absolute silence. It was so strange to meet after all these years, so sad for both to see how the other had altered. Then Maria Delahay moved forward, and the two women kissed each other almost coldly.
"Why did you come here?" the Countess said. "How did you manage to find me out? I thought you were dead."
"I thought you were dead, too, till the other night," Maria said. "I was told that twenty years ago. I should not be here at all but for an amazing chance. You will remember that you were staying at the Grand Hotel some time in the spring, and it so happens that my rooms are on the same floor as yours, and that the same chambermaid is still there. When she welcomed me as an old customer I guessed by instinct that you were still alive. And if you only knew it, there is a providence behind this thing."
Countess Flavio appeared to be listening in a dull, mechanical kind of way. There was no disguising the fact that she was both distressed and disconcerted to find herself face to face with her long-lost sister again. "You know nothing of my history?" she asked. "Not till tonight," Maria said. "I have recently been listening to it. I knew nothing. How could I know anything? When our dream of happiness came so suddenly to an end I became practically a prisoner in that dreadful old house of ours near Naples. I was told that you were dead, and I believed the story. I knew nothing of your existence till a day or two ago. I was utterly ignorant of the fact that you had had such a dreadful time. Not that I would believe anything they say, Carlotta, because I know what you were in the old days. But however dreadful your experiences have been, you, at any rate, snatched a brief happiness. You married the man of your choice. How did you manage to escape?"
"Oh, don't ask me," Carlotta Flavio said bitterly. "If you only knew everything you would see that you were far better off in your prison than I was with my liberty. Do you know that I was five times tried for my life? Do you know that for four years I was the most execrated woman in South Italy? But I am not going into that now. I want to know what brings you here this evening. Why you should come at such an inconvenient time?"
"But why inconvenient?" Mrs. Delahay protested. "We were fond of one another in the old times. And what more natural than I should seek out my sister at the first opportunity? But you are changed. Doubtless your misfortunes have soured you. I have had my misfortunes, too. Of course you have heard lately a good deal about Mr. Louis Delahay--I mean the unfortunate artist who was found murdered in his studio the other night?"
Countess Flavio started. Her lips grew white.
"Who has not heard of it?" she said. "The papers are full of the tragedy. People are talking about nothing else. But you are not going to tell me that there is any connection----"
"Indeed, I am," Maria went on. "As I said just now, for years I was no better than a prisoner. I should be a prisoner still if our parents had lived. Then, finally, when I found my freedom, I made a discovery that there was absolutely no money left. I was forced to get my own living. I had nothing beyond my brush, and things were going from bad to worse with me when I made the acquaintance of Louis Delahay. We always liked one another from the first, and when he asked me to marry him I gladly consented. It seemed to me that the way was opening up for a happy middle-age. It seemed to me that Fate had got tired of persecuting me at last. I married Louis Delahay and we came back to England."
"You married Delahay?" the Countess said mechanically, "and you came back to England? I am trying to realise it. I read the account of the inquest. I know that people are saying that Delahay's wife is responsible for his death; but I did not dream then that it was my own sister whom folks were condemning. I cannot believe it now. But why did you go out that evening. If you had remained in your room nobody would have been----"
"I left the hotel to come here," Maria replied. "But I found that you were not in London. And now I am going to tell you why it is that I have refused to speak, why it is that I have allowed people to regard me as a perjurer. You say you read the account of the inquest. Do you recollect what a poor creature called Stevens said? He swore, and, what is more, he believed every word he said, that he saw Louis and myself together in Fitzjohn Square early on that fatal morning. Come, if you read the paper carefully, you must have seen that. It was the most sensational piece of evidence given at the inquest. The man picked me out in court, and said positively that he had seen me with Louis. But he didn't, as you know perfectly well."
"As I know perfectly well?" the Countess stammered. "What have I got to do with it? Where do I come in?"
Maria Delahay threw up her hands with an impatient gesture. There was a steady gleam in her eyes now. She had lost all her listless manner.
"I was not there," she said, "because I was somewhere else. That James Stevens saw someone with my husband on that morning is absolutely certain. It is absolutely certain, too, that he did not see me. Then who did he see whose likeness to me is so great as to deceive a pair of keen eyes under a brilliant electric light? It was you,you, Carlotta, who were walking with my husband at that hour in the morning. Now tell me what it all means."
"On, this is terrible," the Countess stammered.
"Of course it is," Maria Delahay cried. "Why don't you be candid with me? I have told you what my name is, and, besides, you already knew. When you saw my husband on that fatal night your likeness to me would have struck him at once, and explanations would have followed. Then why are you trying to deceive me now?"
"I hardly know what I am saying," the Countess replied. "The whole thing is such a terrible complication. I don't want to deceive you, Maria, and I will tell you all I can. You might believe me or not, but when I read of the death of Louis Delahay, for the moment I had quite forgotten you. You see it was a great shock to me when you came in just now, especially as I had not seen you for so many years. But I am getting muddled up again. I am beginning to wonder which of us is which. It seems to me that all this miserable business is merely the result of the strong likeness which exists between us."
"Never mind that," Mrs. Delahay cried. "If you will remember, in my evidence I said my husband had gone out, that he did not return all night, and that I found him dead in Fitzjohn Square in the morning. I was out of the hotel for nearly two hours trying to find you, after I had been so strangely put on your track by the chambermaid. Perhaps it was a foolish thing on my part to conceal my absence, but, of course, I never guessed the result of my folly. It never occurred to me till afterwards that my absence from the hotel could be so easily proved. Even that did not matter so much. And when the witness Stevens swore that he saw me with my husband at a time when I had said I was in my hotel, things began to look serious for me. I know perfectly well that I may be arrested at any moment on a charge of murdering my husband. How true that charge will be I leave you to judge for yourself. But the mystery was no longer a mystery to me when Stevens told the court most positively that he had seen me with my husband. I did not know that Louis was acquainted with you. He never mentioned your name, but directly Stevens had finished I knew that it must have been you who was with my husband; and now I must ask you to give me an explanation."
"That is an easier matter than it seems," Countess Flavio said. "I knew Louis Delahay, though he had no acquaintance with me."
"That sounds impossible," Maria murmured.
"Oh, I know it does, but it is true all the same; and to make my story plain I shall have to go back nearly eighteen years. The events which led to my making Louis Delahay's acquaintance took place near Florence at the time I mentioned."
"That is strange," Mrs. Delahay murmured. "I was in Florence about then, too. Yes, I know I told you that I was practically a prisoner all those years, but there were times when I had a certain latitude. I was very ill about that time, and the doctor ordered me to Florence, saying that it was good for me to see people and mix with crowds. I was supposed to be there by myself, but there was no movement of mine which was not noted. I never took even the shortest walk without being dogged and spied upon. The people who called themselves my servants were, in reality, my gaolers. But why do I worry you with these trivial details when there is so much of importance to say? Go on with your story."
"Well, as I was saying," the Countess explained, "I was in Florence with my husband. We had been married then something like three years. We had rather a lonely villa on the outskirts of the town. Ours was not a happy life; indeed, it was most miserable. I daresay there were faults on my side, too; but one night we had a violent quarrel, and, on the spur of the moment, I made up my mind to run away. I managed to get all my jewels together. I managed to leave the house in darkness and steal through the grounds to the road. I was dressed all in black, and I remember the night was very thick. Just as I was congratulating myself on my escape my husband overtook me. He was beside himself with passion. He laid violent hands upon me. I believe he would have killed me if I had not managed to wrench myself free and make for the road. What we said I do not know, but I suppose our voices must have carried far, for I had only got a little down the road, with my husband in hot pursuit behind me, when a man emerged from the cottage and caught me by the arm. At first I thought he was one of my husband's tools, but the first words that he said reassured me."
"'Do not be afraid,' he whispered. 'I was trespassing on the Count's property just now, and I heard all that was said. That man is dangerous, and it is necessary that I should protect you for the present. Come in here with me.'"
"He did not wait for me to consent. He fairly lifted me from the ground into the blackness and seclusion of the cottage. It was all done in less time than it takes to tell. A moment later I heard my husband go raging down the road, and then I knew that my life was saved. Mind you, it was altogether too dark to see my rescuer. It would have been imprudent to strike a light. I stayed for some little time until I regained my composure, after which I made up my mind to return home again. It would never do for people to think that a Descarti was a coward, and, besides, there were other considerations. I would go back home again and give my husband one more chance, especially as I had a friend in the house in the person of Luigi Silva, who had followed me on my marriage. At the same time, I did not forget the dictates of prudence. It might be still necessary for me to seek an asylum, and my instinct told me that I could trust the man by my side. On the spur of the moment I implored him to take care of my jewels for me. He demurred for a time on the score that he was a perfect stranger to me, then, finally, he consented, at the same time taking from his pocket a card, which he said contained his name and address. And thus the strange interview ended, thus we parted, never to meet again till that fatal night we came together in Fitzjohn Square. I know the story sounds incredible."
"Not to me," said Mrs. Delahay, sadly. "Nothing could be incredible to a woman who has gone through what I have. But go on. You went back home again, after entrusting your jewelry to a perfect stranger whose face you had never seen."
"Indeed, I did. And we should never have known one another even if we had met. I went back to the villa, and afterwards we returned to our estate. But it was not for long. A month or two later my husband was found dead in bed, and it was proved beyond question that he had been poisoned. Then began a time for me--a time of terror and anxiety so great that I sometimes marvelled that I retained my reason. For four years the torture lasted, and then, at length, I was free. I was in so strange and morbid a condition that the sight of a human face was hateful to me. I wanted to go off and live on some distant island until I recovered my nerve and strength again. I succeeded at length in finding the place I needed, and for twelve or thirteen years I led a life of absolute seclusion in a little cottage high up the Italian Alps. I had taken a certain amount of money with me, but I woke up to the fact one day that my means were exhausted. You must know that I fled straight away, as soon as the last trial was finished, and that all those years I never saw a single face that was familiar to me. But by the end of that period I was quite myself again. I felt a strange longing to go into the world and see what life was like once more. Besides, there was my child to consider."
"Your child?" Mrs. Delahay cried. "This is the first time you have mentioned a child. Do you mean to say that you could part with your own flesh and blood in that callous way?"
The Countess' expression hardened for a moment.
"She was his child as well as mine," she whispered.
"Well, what of that? I fail to see that it makes any difference. Your husband might have been a passionate man, but, apart from that, everybody spoke exceedingly well of him. He was immensely popular. He was clever and generous. He had hosts of friends--I know that through an English nobleman, who was greatly attached to the Count. Everybody spoke well of him."
"Oh, I know, I know," the Countess said, with a bitter smile. "The catalogue of his virtues was trumpeted high enough at the trial, and I was no more than an inhuman wretch, not fit to live, certainly not fit to have a husband like Count Boris Flavio. But you shall hear my story presently. You shall hear what my witness has to say. At any rate, I hated my husband with a deep and abiding hate, so that I could not bear to look upon the face of his child. You may say that all this is unnatural and inhuman, but you little know what I had to put up with. Still, twelve or fourteen years will heal most wounds, and when I came back into the world I was possessed with a longing to see my daughter. I did not like to go back to the old place again, so I sent to make inquiries. Imagine my feelings when I heard that my daughter, Vera, had been kidnapped during the time of the first trial, and that she had never been seen again. That is two years ago now. I managed to communicate with Luigi Silva, and he was just as astonished and surprised as I was. Naturally, he thought that I had made arrangements with Vera, and that she was with me all the time. One of my reasons for coming to England was to try and find my child. My other reason was to see Mr. Louis Delahay and get my jewels back from him. This was quite imperative, as I am at my wits' end for money."