Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.The Villa Du Lac.“Look here, Sammy!” I exclaimed, when we were together in our little den a few minutes later, “what’s the good of beating about the bush? Why don’t you tell me straight out what you have against her?”“My dear fellow! surely it isn’t for me to cast a slur upon any lady’s character. I merely warn you that she has a very queer reputation—that’s all.” And he stretched out his legs and blew a cloud of smoke from his lips.“Every woman seems to enjoy a reputation more or less queer nowadays,” I declared. “Have you ever come across a woman about whom something detrimental was not whispered by her enemies? I haven’t.”“Perhaps you’re right there, Godfrey,” was my friend’s reply. “You discovered the truth concerning Ina Hardwick, and that was a hard blow for you, eh? But didn’t I give you a hint long before which you refused to take?”“And now you give me a hint regarding Lucie Miller. Well, tell me straight out—who and what she is.”“First tell me why she came to see you.”“She certainly didn’t come to see me,” I protested. “She came to see the stranger—she’s a friend of the dead man’s.”He turned, knit his brows, and stared straight into my face.“A friend of Massari’s! Who told you so?”“She did.”Sammy smiled incredulously. He was a man who had passed through life having singularly escaped all the shadows that lie on it for most men; and he had far more than most what may be termed the faculty for happiness.“H’m. Depend upon it she came here more on your account than to visit the mysterious Italian.”“But she saw Miss Gilbert and asked for Massari!” I exclaimed. “It was Miss Gilbert who called me and introduced me. I took her up to the dead man’s room, and the sight of him was a terrible shock to her. She’s not exactly his friend; more his enemy, I think.”“How could she know Massari was here, pray?”“Ah! I don’t know that. The Italian was probably followed here after his arrival at Charing Cross.”“Did she explain why the fellow came here?”“Yes, she told me various things that have utterly stupefied me,” I answered. “She hints that the Italian and the woman Ina Hardwick were in league to take my life.”“Your life?” he cried. “What absurd romance has she been telling you? Why you didn’t know Massari until yesterday!”“That’s just it. But nevertheless there’s some truth in what she alleges. Of that I’m quite convinced.”“Why?”“For several reasons. One is because she is aware of one curious incident in my life, one of which even you, Sammy, are in ignorance. It is my secret, and I thought none knew it. Yet Massari was aware of it, and she also knows something about it, although, fortunately, not the whole of the details.”Sammy twisted his small, fair moustache, and was puzzled.“She actually knows a secret of yours, eh? Then depend upon it she intends to profit by it. Be careful of her, that’s all, Godfrey. She may have known Massari, for she’s mixed up with a very queer lot. But it’s quite evident that she came really to see you. Did she enlist your sympathies in any way; did she ask you to do anything for her—any service, I mean?”For a few moments I hesitated; then, in order to further convince him, I told him all that had occurred, and repeated her strange story of how the man we knew as Massari had refused to tell the truth and liberate her.“He probably had sufficient reason,” declared Sammy, in a hard voice, quite unusual to him. “The truth, however, is quite plain. She has spread out her net for you, and you bid fair to fall an easy prey, old fellow.”“But, my dear chap, I’m pretty wary. Remember I’m thirty-two and am past the adolescence of youth.”“She’s uncommonly good-looking. You’ve told me so yourself. Admiration is the first stage always,” he sneered.“But tell me what you know of her,” I urged. “Where did you first come across her?”“At Enghien, just outside Paris, nearly three years ago. They lived in a rather fine villa, the grounds of which went down to the lake. You know Enghien—a gay little place, with pretty villas and a casino on the lake. Brunet, the dramatic critic of theTemps, introduced her father to me in the American bar at the Grand, and he invited me to go down to his place and dine. I did so, and found several other male guests, men of the smartest sporting set in Paris—mostly Frenchmen. At first I believed Mr Miller was a person of means, but one day a man who said he had known him, told me that he was a ‘crook’. I admit I could not discover what was the source of his income. I only knew that his friends were mostly rich racing men andchevaliers d’industrie, and that he frequently gave very delightful dinners. Though she never dined with her father’s friends, Lucie was often to be seen. She seemed then to be a mere slip of a girl of nineteen or so, extremely pretty, with her dark hair dressed low and tied with a broad bow of black ribbon. The men who frequented the place always addressed her as ‘Bébé,’ and would sometimes take her boxes of chocolate. One evening after dinner somebody suggested a hand at cards, when suddenly I caught Miller doing a trick, and I stood up and openly denounced him. It may have been foolish of me, but I spoke without reflecting. He denied my accusation fiercely, and was supported by his friends. Therefore I took my hat and left the house, now convinced that the fellow was a ‘crook’. After that I made inquiries about him of a man who had been in the Parissûretéwhom I know very well, with the result that I found the Englishman enjoyed half a dozen aliases and was undoubtedly a queer character. His associates were mostly persons known to the police. Even his butler at the villa was a man who had ‘done’ five years for burglary. The theory of my friend, the ex-detective, was that he was allied with a gang of international thieves, those clever gentry of means who operate in the principal cities throughout Europe, and who are so ingenious that they in most cases outwit the police. Though there was not sufficient evidence to justify any direct allegation it was strongly suspected that the source of Mr Miller’s wealth at that moment was the proceeds of a very cleverly planned robbery at the Commercial Bank in Bordeaux. When I told my friend how I had denounced Miller’s trick, he looked grave and said: ‘That was very injudicious. Those people might seek revenge.’ I laughed in derision, but he was so serious, and so strongly urged me to be careful, that I began to repent my boldness in making the charge. Miller and his friends were, so my friend told me, a dangerous lot.”“But if Lucie has the misfortune to have a father who is a scoundrel, it surely is no reason why she herself should be bad?” I remarked.“You can’t touch pitch without being soiled, my dear fellow. Think of the life of a young girl among such a crowd as that! Ah! you’ve never seen them—you can have no idea what they’re like.”“But what direct charge do you allege against her?” I asked. “Speak quite plainly, for I’m neither her friend nor her enemy. She has to-day told me certain things that have held me bewildered, and naturally I’m all curiosity to ascertain something concerning her.”“Well,” he said, casting himself again into the big chair and smoking vigorously, “it was like this. One day about a month afterwards there came to stay with me at the Continental a wealthy young Chilian, Manuel Carrera by name, whom I had first met when, two years before, we had fought side by side in the streets of Valparaiso during the revolution. He and I were partisans of the Government, of which his father was Minister of the Interior. Now that the Government had been restored he occupied a very important post in the Treasury, and had come to Paris to transact some business with the Banque de France. At first we were together every evening, and very often the greater part of the day, but of a sudden he seemed to prefer to go about Paris alone, for he had, he told me, met some other friends. For a fortnight or so I had very little of his company; but one afternoon he surprised me by saying that he was going down to Enghien to make a call. I offered to accompany him, saying that I could amuse myself at a café while he was calling, and that we might afterwards dine together at the Casino. Truth to tell, I had not been to Enghien since that well-remembered night, and I wanted to see whether the Villa du Lac was still occupied. To my surprise, his destination proved to be that very villa. He left me and entered the big gates before I had time to warn him of Miller, therefore I turned on my heel and took a cab to the café of the Casino situated on the opposite shore of the lake. Where I sat, at one of the little ‘tin’ tables beneath the trees, the water stretched before me, and beyond a green, well-kept lawn and the big white villa were shining through the trees. I lit a cigar and sat wondering. Suddenly across the lawn I saw two figures strolling slowly. One was a slim young girl in a white muslin dress girdled with pale blue, her companion a man in grey flannels and a panama. Then the truth was plain. My friend had fallen in love with Lucie Miller. His frequent absences were thus accounted for. I watched them as they sat together upon the garden seat facing the lake, and saw that he was telling her something to which she was listening very attentively, her head bowed as though in deep emotion. Was he declaring his love, I wondered? For fully half an hour they sat there, when at last he rose, threw off his coat, and then both stepping into the boat at the bottom of the lawn he slowly rowed her away up the lake until behind the island they passed from my sight.”Sammy was silent, thinking deeply. A sigh escaped him.“And then?”“What happened immediately afterwards will probably never be known,” he said, in a hard, hoarse voice. “I only know that somewhere about nine o’clock that same evening Carrera’s despatch-box in his room at the Continental was opened with its proper key, and Chilian Government securities which he had only that day redeemed from the bank and intended to carry back to Valparaiso as well as a lot of negotiable bonds were all abstracted, together with a large sum in French bank-notes—the value altogether being about eighty thousand pounds. At midnight the poor fellow lay in the same room with a bullet in his brain. He realised how he had been tricked; how the key had been taken from his jacket pocket while he had taken the fair Lucie out upon the lake, and in a fit of chagrin and despair he took his revolver and ended his life.”“He committed suicide!” I gasped. “Didn’t you see him after he went out upon the lake; didn’t you warn him?”“No. I meant to. But, alas! I was too late. I waited an hour at the Casino; then returned to Paris; and imagine my horror when I discovered next morning what had happened.”“What did you do?”“I went at once to the Prefecture of Police and gave information. With three detectives I went down to Enghien, but we found the Villa du Lac uninhabited. The mysterious Mr Miller and his pretty daughter had already flown. That was three years ago, and from that afternoon until half an hour ago I have never set eyes upon the dark-eyed girl who so cleverly assisted her father in his ingenious schemes.”“But are you sure she is the same?” I asked. “You admit that she has changed.”“She has. She’s grown more beautiful, but she is the same, my dear fellow—the same. Is it any wonder that I hate her?”

“Look here, Sammy!” I exclaimed, when we were together in our little den a few minutes later, “what’s the good of beating about the bush? Why don’t you tell me straight out what you have against her?”

“My dear fellow! surely it isn’t for me to cast a slur upon any lady’s character. I merely warn you that she has a very queer reputation—that’s all.” And he stretched out his legs and blew a cloud of smoke from his lips.

“Every woman seems to enjoy a reputation more or less queer nowadays,” I declared. “Have you ever come across a woman about whom something detrimental was not whispered by her enemies? I haven’t.”

“Perhaps you’re right there, Godfrey,” was my friend’s reply. “You discovered the truth concerning Ina Hardwick, and that was a hard blow for you, eh? But didn’t I give you a hint long before which you refused to take?”

“And now you give me a hint regarding Lucie Miller. Well, tell me straight out—who and what she is.”

“First tell me why she came to see you.”

“She certainly didn’t come to see me,” I protested. “She came to see the stranger—she’s a friend of the dead man’s.”

He turned, knit his brows, and stared straight into my face.

“A friend of Massari’s! Who told you so?”

“She did.”

Sammy smiled incredulously. He was a man who had passed through life having singularly escaped all the shadows that lie on it for most men; and he had far more than most what may be termed the faculty for happiness.

“H’m. Depend upon it she came here more on your account than to visit the mysterious Italian.”

“But she saw Miss Gilbert and asked for Massari!” I exclaimed. “It was Miss Gilbert who called me and introduced me. I took her up to the dead man’s room, and the sight of him was a terrible shock to her. She’s not exactly his friend; more his enemy, I think.”

“How could she know Massari was here, pray?”

“Ah! I don’t know that. The Italian was probably followed here after his arrival at Charing Cross.”

“Did she explain why the fellow came here?”

“Yes, she told me various things that have utterly stupefied me,” I answered. “She hints that the Italian and the woman Ina Hardwick were in league to take my life.”

“Your life?” he cried. “What absurd romance has she been telling you? Why you didn’t know Massari until yesterday!”

“That’s just it. But nevertheless there’s some truth in what she alleges. Of that I’m quite convinced.”

“Why?”

“For several reasons. One is because she is aware of one curious incident in my life, one of which even you, Sammy, are in ignorance. It is my secret, and I thought none knew it. Yet Massari was aware of it, and she also knows something about it, although, fortunately, not the whole of the details.”

Sammy twisted his small, fair moustache, and was puzzled.

“She actually knows a secret of yours, eh? Then depend upon it she intends to profit by it. Be careful of her, that’s all, Godfrey. She may have known Massari, for she’s mixed up with a very queer lot. But it’s quite evident that she came really to see you. Did she enlist your sympathies in any way; did she ask you to do anything for her—any service, I mean?”

For a few moments I hesitated; then, in order to further convince him, I told him all that had occurred, and repeated her strange story of how the man we knew as Massari had refused to tell the truth and liberate her.

“He probably had sufficient reason,” declared Sammy, in a hard voice, quite unusual to him. “The truth, however, is quite plain. She has spread out her net for you, and you bid fair to fall an easy prey, old fellow.”

“But, my dear chap, I’m pretty wary. Remember I’m thirty-two and am past the adolescence of youth.”

“She’s uncommonly good-looking. You’ve told me so yourself. Admiration is the first stage always,” he sneered.

“But tell me what you know of her,” I urged. “Where did you first come across her?”

“At Enghien, just outside Paris, nearly three years ago. They lived in a rather fine villa, the grounds of which went down to the lake. You know Enghien—a gay little place, with pretty villas and a casino on the lake. Brunet, the dramatic critic of theTemps, introduced her father to me in the American bar at the Grand, and he invited me to go down to his place and dine. I did so, and found several other male guests, men of the smartest sporting set in Paris—mostly Frenchmen. At first I believed Mr Miller was a person of means, but one day a man who said he had known him, told me that he was a ‘crook’. I admit I could not discover what was the source of his income. I only knew that his friends were mostly rich racing men andchevaliers d’industrie, and that he frequently gave very delightful dinners. Though she never dined with her father’s friends, Lucie was often to be seen. She seemed then to be a mere slip of a girl of nineteen or so, extremely pretty, with her dark hair dressed low and tied with a broad bow of black ribbon. The men who frequented the place always addressed her as ‘Bébé,’ and would sometimes take her boxes of chocolate. One evening after dinner somebody suggested a hand at cards, when suddenly I caught Miller doing a trick, and I stood up and openly denounced him. It may have been foolish of me, but I spoke without reflecting. He denied my accusation fiercely, and was supported by his friends. Therefore I took my hat and left the house, now convinced that the fellow was a ‘crook’. After that I made inquiries about him of a man who had been in the Parissûretéwhom I know very well, with the result that I found the Englishman enjoyed half a dozen aliases and was undoubtedly a queer character. His associates were mostly persons known to the police. Even his butler at the villa was a man who had ‘done’ five years for burglary. The theory of my friend, the ex-detective, was that he was allied with a gang of international thieves, those clever gentry of means who operate in the principal cities throughout Europe, and who are so ingenious that they in most cases outwit the police. Though there was not sufficient evidence to justify any direct allegation it was strongly suspected that the source of Mr Miller’s wealth at that moment was the proceeds of a very cleverly planned robbery at the Commercial Bank in Bordeaux. When I told my friend how I had denounced Miller’s trick, he looked grave and said: ‘That was very injudicious. Those people might seek revenge.’ I laughed in derision, but he was so serious, and so strongly urged me to be careful, that I began to repent my boldness in making the charge. Miller and his friends were, so my friend told me, a dangerous lot.”

“But if Lucie has the misfortune to have a father who is a scoundrel, it surely is no reason why she herself should be bad?” I remarked.

“You can’t touch pitch without being soiled, my dear fellow. Think of the life of a young girl among such a crowd as that! Ah! you’ve never seen them—you can have no idea what they’re like.”

“But what direct charge do you allege against her?” I asked. “Speak quite plainly, for I’m neither her friend nor her enemy. She has to-day told me certain things that have held me bewildered, and naturally I’m all curiosity to ascertain something concerning her.”

“Well,” he said, casting himself again into the big chair and smoking vigorously, “it was like this. One day about a month afterwards there came to stay with me at the Continental a wealthy young Chilian, Manuel Carrera by name, whom I had first met when, two years before, we had fought side by side in the streets of Valparaiso during the revolution. He and I were partisans of the Government, of which his father was Minister of the Interior. Now that the Government had been restored he occupied a very important post in the Treasury, and had come to Paris to transact some business with the Banque de France. At first we were together every evening, and very often the greater part of the day, but of a sudden he seemed to prefer to go about Paris alone, for he had, he told me, met some other friends. For a fortnight or so I had very little of his company; but one afternoon he surprised me by saying that he was going down to Enghien to make a call. I offered to accompany him, saying that I could amuse myself at a café while he was calling, and that we might afterwards dine together at the Casino. Truth to tell, I had not been to Enghien since that well-remembered night, and I wanted to see whether the Villa du Lac was still occupied. To my surprise, his destination proved to be that very villa. He left me and entered the big gates before I had time to warn him of Miller, therefore I turned on my heel and took a cab to the café of the Casino situated on the opposite shore of the lake. Where I sat, at one of the little ‘tin’ tables beneath the trees, the water stretched before me, and beyond a green, well-kept lawn and the big white villa were shining through the trees. I lit a cigar and sat wondering. Suddenly across the lawn I saw two figures strolling slowly. One was a slim young girl in a white muslin dress girdled with pale blue, her companion a man in grey flannels and a panama. Then the truth was plain. My friend had fallen in love with Lucie Miller. His frequent absences were thus accounted for. I watched them as they sat together upon the garden seat facing the lake, and saw that he was telling her something to which she was listening very attentively, her head bowed as though in deep emotion. Was he declaring his love, I wondered? For fully half an hour they sat there, when at last he rose, threw off his coat, and then both stepping into the boat at the bottom of the lawn he slowly rowed her away up the lake until behind the island they passed from my sight.”

Sammy was silent, thinking deeply. A sigh escaped him.

“And then?”

“What happened immediately afterwards will probably never be known,” he said, in a hard, hoarse voice. “I only know that somewhere about nine o’clock that same evening Carrera’s despatch-box in his room at the Continental was opened with its proper key, and Chilian Government securities which he had only that day redeemed from the bank and intended to carry back to Valparaiso as well as a lot of negotiable bonds were all abstracted, together with a large sum in French bank-notes—the value altogether being about eighty thousand pounds. At midnight the poor fellow lay in the same room with a bullet in his brain. He realised how he had been tricked; how the key had been taken from his jacket pocket while he had taken the fair Lucie out upon the lake, and in a fit of chagrin and despair he took his revolver and ended his life.”

“He committed suicide!” I gasped. “Didn’t you see him after he went out upon the lake; didn’t you warn him?”

“No. I meant to. But, alas! I was too late. I waited an hour at the Casino; then returned to Paris; and imagine my horror when I discovered next morning what had happened.”

“What did you do?”

“I went at once to the Prefecture of Police and gave information. With three detectives I went down to Enghien, but we found the Villa du Lac uninhabited. The mysterious Mr Miller and his pretty daughter had already flown. That was three years ago, and from that afternoon until half an hour ago I have never set eyes upon the dark-eyed girl who so cleverly assisted her father in his ingenious schemes.”

“But are you sure she is the same?” I asked. “You admit that she has changed.”

“She has. She’s grown more beautiful, but she is the same, my dear fellow—the same. Is it any wonder that I hate her?”

Chapter Six.The Truth about the Stranger.I sat staring at my friend, unable to utter a word.In the past twenty-four hours, through no fault or seeking of my own, I had suddenly been plunged into a maze of mystery, and there had been revealed to me a grave personal peril of which I had been in utter ignorance.What the sweet, open-faced girl had divulged to me had caused me much amazement, yet this extraordinary story of Sammy’s was utterly dumbfounding. I could not bring myself to believe that the girl who had so simply confessed to me her distress had wilfully assisted her father in robbing young Carrera, thereby causing him to take his life. To me it was utterly incredible.Yet the fact that she had any connection with the mysterious Italian now lying dead above caused me to ponder. She knew the secret of that incident in quiet old Pisa. Yes. She was a mystery.Had she told me the actual truth? That was the question which greatly puzzled me.Through the following day and the next when, with Sammy, I followed the Italian to his lonely grave at Highgate, I recalled every incident of that strange sequence of circumstances, and longed again to see and question her.Sammy, with that easy irresponsibility which was one of his chief characteristics, declared that Lucie, for obvious reasons, would not show herself again. But, on the other hand, I argued that if his allegation that she had come to Granville Gardens in order to meet me were correct, then she would return. She had, I pointed out, no suspicion that he was there and had recognised her. Therefore there was nothing to prevent her seeking me.The whole circumstances were both romantic and puzzling.The very man who she had alleged had plotted with the woman Hardwick against me had entrusted his most valuable possessions to me. Why? Had the small kindness I had shown him turned his heart towards me? Certainly he had paid me for my services—the sum of two hundred pounds.Once or twice I wondered how I stood legally. The man was dead, yet I had a faint suspicion that I had no legal right whatsoever to administer his estate. There might be a will somewhere, and if legatees came forward I might one day find myself in a very queer and awkward position.But I told Sammy nothing of this. I deemed it best to preserve silence both as regards the money and the curious packet that I was to keep three years.A week went by. The man who had given his name as Massari had been interred, the expenses paid, and life at Mrs Gilbert’s had resumed its normal quiet. Indeed, not until three days after the funeral were the other guests let into the tragic secret of the stranger’s sudden death. Then for a day or two the whole place was agog and various theories formed. In London a foreigner is always viewed with a certain amount of suspicion, perhaps on account of our insular proclivities, perhaps because the majority of Londoners know no other language beyond a smattering of elementary French.Often and often, when alone in our little den at the back of the house, Sammy and I discussed the curious affair, but neither of us was able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.To be in order, I called in a solicitor named Price whom I knew, and a week after Massari’s death we opened his portmanteaux together and examined the contents.They presented several surprises. Sammy was, of course, with us, taking an eager interest in the affair and helping to examine the documents which we found. He was of little use, however, for they were mostly in Italian, a language of which both my companions were almost entirely ignorant.The first fact I established was that the name of the deceased was not Massari but Giovanni Nardini. This surprised us all, for Nardini was very well-known in Italy, having held the portfolio of Justice in the Ministry overthrown only a week before, and having made himself conspicuous in his perpetual war with the Socialist party in the Chamber. Only two days ago I had read telegrams from Rome in the morning papers saying that there were serious charges against the Minister of appropriating the public funds while in office, and that the Government were considering what steps they should take for his prosecution.I had never connected the notorious Minister of Justice Nardini with the stranger who had died so suddenly. Yet had not Lucie Miller told me that he was a person well-known in Italy?“He was a thief who absconded, that’s very evident,” Sammy remarked dryly. “We shall perhaps find something interesting presently.”The lawyer Price and myself were seated at the table in the room where the ex-Minister had died, and we both carefully examined paper after paper, I reading aloud a rough translation.Many of the documents were, I recognised, of extreme importance to the Government. Some were the official records of sentences pronounced by the Tribunal upon various persons and had evidently been extracted from the archives of the Ministry.“I wonder what he intended to do with these?” Price remarked presently. “Perhaps his idea was to sell them to the persons who had been condemned to enable them to destroy the record.”“Or perhaps he held them for the purposes of levying blackmail?” Sammy suggested. “No man, if he were leading an honest life, would like to have his police record hawked about.”“But here,” I said, holding up a paper, “here are the confidential notes of the President of the Court of Assizes at Milan concerning two very important cases, showing the lines on which the prosecution was to be conducted. These would surely be of the utmost value to the prisoners, for upon them they could form a complete defence. The prosecution is a political one, and the weak points in the evidence are indicated and commented upon. Yes,” I added, “all these official documents have been carried off because they could easily be turned into money. We shall be compelled to restore them to the Italian Government.”“His Excellency, when he fled from Rome, took care to carry away all he could that was of value,” remarked the solicitor. “Fate, however, very quickly overtook him before he had time to negotiate any of the documents.”The letters occupied us some considerable time. They were in two packets secured by broad elastic bands, and all were, without exception, letters from poor unfortunate victims who were in his clutches financially and who begged for further time in which to pay. Some of them, written in illiterate calligraphy, were heartrending appeals for wife, family, honour—even life. They were the collection of a hard-hearted man whose delight it was to crush and oppress rich and poor alike. The letters showed that. More than one was full of bitter reproach and withering sarcasm, revealing plainly that what the English girl had said concerning him was the actual truth.And yet in my short acquaintance with him prior to his decease I had never dreamed that his character was as such.Nevertheless at that moment, as I afterwards discovered, the Italian press was full of bitter abuse of the man who for the past four years or so had been one of the most popular in Italy. But he had been found out, and in ignorance of his death they were now hounding him down and appealing to the Government to arrest and prosecute him.We had nearly completed our investigation, Price taking a careful inventory of the contents of the portmanteaux, when I discovered an envelope in which was a large yellow printed form filled in with a quantity of microscopic writing.Within was a folded sheet of grey notepaper—a letter in Italian which I read eagerly, holding my breath, for what was contained there staggered me.My companions watched my change of countenance in wonder. And well, indeed, they might, for it was the appeal of a desperate woman, a letter that revealed to me an amazing truth—a letter signed “Lucie.”And when I had finished reading it, I sat there, staring as the written lines danced before my eyes, amazed, unable to utter a single word in response to their questions.

I sat staring at my friend, unable to utter a word.

In the past twenty-four hours, through no fault or seeking of my own, I had suddenly been plunged into a maze of mystery, and there had been revealed to me a grave personal peril of which I had been in utter ignorance.

What the sweet, open-faced girl had divulged to me had caused me much amazement, yet this extraordinary story of Sammy’s was utterly dumbfounding. I could not bring myself to believe that the girl who had so simply confessed to me her distress had wilfully assisted her father in robbing young Carrera, thereby causing him to take his life. To me it was utterly incredible.

Yet the fact that she had any connection with the mysterious Italian now lying dead above caused me to ponder. She knew the secret of that incident in quiet old Pisa. Yes. She was a mystery.

Had she told me the actual truth? That was the question which greatly puzzled me.

Through the following day and the next when, with Sammy, I followed the Italian to his lonely grave at Highgate, I recalled every incident of that strange sequence of circumstances, and longed again to see and question her.

Sammy, with that easy irresponsibility which was one of his chief characteristics, declared that Lucie, for obvious reasons, would not show herself again. But, on the other hand, I argued that if his allegation that she had come to Granville Gardens in order to meet me were correct, then she would return. She had, I pointed out, no suspicion that he was there and had recognised her. Therefore there was nothing to prevent her seeking me.

The whole circumstances were both romantic and puzzling.

The very man who she had alleged had plotted with the woman Hardwick against me had entrusted his most valuable possessions to me. Why? Had the small kindness I had shown him turned his heart towards me? Certainly he had paid me for my services—the sum of two hundred pounds.

Once or twice I wondered how I stood legally. The man was dead, yet I had a faint suspicion that I had no legal right whatsoever to administer his estate. There might be a will somewhere, and if legatees came forward I might one day find myself in a very queer and awkward position.

But I told Sammy nothing of this. I deemed it best to preserve silence both as regards the money and the curious packet that I was to keep three years.

A week went by. The man who had given his name as Massari had been interred, the expenses paid, and life at Mrs Gilbert’s had resumed its normal quiet. Indeed, not until three days after the funeral were the other guests let into the tragic secret of the stranger’s sudden death. Then for a day or two the whole place was agog and various theories formed. In London a foreigner is always viewed with a certain amount of suspicion, perhaps on account of our insular proclivities, perhaps because the majority of Londoners know no other language beyond a smattering of elementary French.

Often and often, when alone in our little den at the back of the house, Sammy and I discussed the curious affair, but neither of us was able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

To be in order, I called in a solicitor named Price whom I knew, and a week after Massari’s death we opened his portmanteaux together and examined the contents.

They presented several surprises. Sammy was, of course, with us, taking an eager interest in the affair and helping to examine the documents which we found. He was of little use, however, for they were mostly in Italian, a language of which both my companions were almost entirely ignorant.

The first fact I established was that the name of the deceased was not Massari but Giovanni Nardini. This surprised us all, for Nardini was very well-known in Italy, having held the portfolio of Justice in the Ministry overthrown only a week before, and having made himself conspicuous in his perpetual war with the Socialist party in the Chamber. Only two days ago I had read telegrams from Rome in the morning papers saying that there were serious charges against the Minister of appropriating the public funds while in office, and that the Government were considering what steps they should take for his prosecution.

I had never connected the notorious Minister of Justice Nardini with the stranger who had died so suddenly. Yet had not Lucie Miller told me that he was a person well-known in Italy?

“He was a thief who absconded, that’s very evident,” Sammy remarked dryly. “We shall perhaps find something interesting presently.”

The lawyer Price and myself were seated at the table in the room where the ex-Minister had died, and we both carefully examined paper after paper, I reading aloud a rough translation.

Many of the documents were, I recognised, of extreme importance to the Government. Some were the official records of sentences pronounced by the Tribunal upon various persons and had evidently been extracted from the archives of the Ministry.

“I wonder what he intended to do with these?” Price remarked presently. “Perhaps his idea was to sell them to the persons who had been condemned to enable them to destroy the record.”

“Or perhaps he held them for the purposes of levying blackmail?” Sammy suggested. “No man, if he were leading an honest life, would like to have his police record hawked about.”

“But here,” I said, holding up a paper, “here are the confidential notes of the President of the Court of Assizes at Milan concerning two very important cases, showing the lines on which the prosecution was to be conducted. These would surely be of the utmost value to the prisoners, for upon them they could form a complete defence. The prosecution is a political one, and the weak points in the evidence are indicated and commented upon. Yes,” I added, “all these official documents have been carried off because they could easily be turned into money. We shall be compelled to restore them to the Italian Government.”

“His Excellency, when he fled from Rome, took care to carry away all he could that was of value,” remarked the solicitor. “Fate, however, very quickly overtook him before he had time to negotiate any of the documents.”

The letters occupied us some considerable time. They were in two packets secured by broad elastic bands, and all were, without exception, letters from poor unfortunate victims who were in his clutches financially and who begged for further time in which to pay. Some of them, written in illiterate calligraphy, were heartrending appeals for wife, family, honour—even life. They were the collection of a hard-hearted man whose delight it was to crush and oppress rich and poor alike. The letters showed that. More than one was full of bitter reproach and withering sarcasm, revealing plainly that what the English girl had said concerning him was the actual truth.

And yet in my short acquaintance with him prior to his decease I had never dreamed that his character was as such.

Nevertheless at that moment, as I afterwards discovered, the Italian press was full of bitter abuse of the man who for the past four years or so had been one of the most popular in Italy. But he had been found out, and in ignorance of his death they were now hounding him down and appealing to the Government to arrest and prosecute him.

We had nearly completed our investigation, Price taking a careful inventory of the contents of the portmanteaux, when I discovered an envelope in which was a large yellow printed form filled in with a quantity of microscopic writing.

Within was a folded sheet of grey notepaper—a letter in Italian which I read eagerly, holding my breath, for what was contained there staggered me.

My companions watched my change of countenance in wonder. And well, indeed, they might, for it was the appeal of a desperate woman, a letter that revealed to me an amazing truth—a letter signed “Lucie.”

And when I had finished reading it, I sat there, staring as the written lines danced before my eyes, amazed, unable to utter a single word in response to their questions.

Chapter Seven.Describes some Confidential Documents.I had no right to divulge the girl’s secret to my two companions. I recognised this in an instant.She had told me in confidence, and here was plain proof of what she had explained.“What is it?” asked Price. “Something that surprises you?”“Well, yes,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “It’s a letter from a woman.”“From Lucie Miller!” cried Sammy, whose sharp eyes had caught the signature. “What does she say? Tell us,” he asked eagerly.“No,” I said firmly. “Recollect that whatever or whoever this man is, he is dead. Therefore let his private affairs rest. It is surely no concern of ours.”“No—of yours, perhaps,” my friend laughed. “Remember what I told you about her.”“I recollect every word.”“And yet you are all the time anxious to meet her again, Godfrey! Do you know, I really believe the girl has captivated you—like she has so many others.”“You don’t take me for a fool—do you?” I snapped, rather annoyed. “She was in distress and I am wondering if she has yet extricated herself.”Price made inquiry as to whom we were discussing, but in a few quick sentences I satisfied his curiosity.“I should be very sorry if she ever comes here again,” declared Sammy. “I have no wish to meet her. The memory of my poor friend Carrera is far too painful.”“You believe, then, that his death was due to her—that she induced him to leave his jacket upon the lawn?”“I make no direct charge, my dear fellow. I only say that she’s daughter of one of the most ingenious ‘crooks’ in Europe—a member, if not the actual leader, of one of the cleverest of the international gangs. They are possessed of ample means, and the police are no match for their ingenuity.”“You have your opinion, my dear old chap; I have mine,” I said, glancing round the room and recollecting vividly how she had stood there and looked upon the white drawn face of the man who had refused to extricate her from her deadly peril.He took up the yellow paper, glanced it over, and put it down again without being able to make anything out of it.I said I would translate it later, and placed it aside, together with the strange letter of appeal.Neither of my companions was very well satisfied, I could see. They wished to know what the mysterious Lucie had written, while I, on my part, was equally determined not to tell them. It was surely not fair to her to divulge what had been meant for Nardini’s eye alone; therefore, I intended to keep possession of the letter, and to hand it to her to destroy, should we ever meet again.Now that I recall those hours following the stranger’s decease and the English girl’s mysterious visit I cannot even now explain why I so suddenly commenced to take an interest in her. She was beautiful, it was true, but man-of-the-world that I was, and a constant wanderer across the face of Europe, I knew dozens of women quite as graceful, if not even more beautiful. Besides, there was the dark stigma upon her which Sammy had alleged, and which, by what I had now discovered, seemed fully borne out.No. I think the mystery of the affair was responsible for my undue interest in her. Sammy, of course, put it down to her personal attractions, but he was decidedly and distinctly in error. She had told me of her perilous position, and of the dead man’s refusal to assist her. Therefore it was but natural that I was curious to know how she fared.Again, was she not in some mysterious way acquainted with a secret of my own life? Perhaps it was also that fact which caused me a longing to know the real truth concerning her.There was certainly nothing of the adventuress about her. She was quiet, refined, graceful, neatly dressed, and spoke with easy, well-bred accents that were essentially those of a lady.I do not think my worst enemy has ever declared me to be impressionable where women were concerned, for truth to tell, an incident that had occurred four years before had soured my life, and caused my resolution to ever remain a bachelor.Ah! It was all over—the old story of the mad passion of a man for one who proved—well, unworthy. Ah! how I had adored my Ella; how I worshipped the very ground upon which she trod; how I would have conquered the very world for her sake. Yes. I saw her now, so young in her white muslin dress with her gold-brown hair falling upon her shoulders, her laughing blue eyes, and the red rose in her breast as we walked that June afternoon along those white English cliffs with the blue Channel at our feet. That never-to-be-forgotten afternoon we pledged our love, our hot lips met in their first fierce caress, our hearts beat in unison. She was my all in all. For months we lived in a world that was entirely our own—a bright rosy world of high ideals and ineffable sweetness, for we loved, ay we loved in a manner, I believe, that man and maiden never loved before. Even the remembrance of it now was sweet and yet—ah! so intensely bitter.But why need I trouble you with that incident of long ago? Suffice it to say that my little Ella preferred money to a man’s love, and she became engaged to a stout, grey-haired fellow old enough to be her father. Six months later she sickened, and then I heard that she was dead. Ah! the blow was to me terrible! I became from that day a changed man.Since my little Ella preferred money to my love, I had again been wandering hither and thither, a careless, aimless man, just as I had wandered before meeting her. If I had had a profession it would have been different, but my father committed the unpardonable folly of leaving me comfortably off, therefore I simply developed into an idler, preferring life at the gay continental resorts—now in Monte Carlo, now in Paris, now in Rome, or elsewhere, just as my inclinations led me—to the dull humdrum existence of chambers in London. Ella—Ella! I thought of none save of my sweet dead love, now lost to me for ever.Therefore, when Sammy hinted that I had become bewitched by Lucie Miller I firmly and frankly denied such assertion. Four years is a breach in a man’s life, but even four years had not caused me to forget my first and only true passion—the passion that had ended so tragically. Sometimes life does not count by years. Some suffer a lifetime in a day, and so grow old between the rising and the setting of the sun.When Price had concluded the inventory of the dead man’s papers, I sorted out all those which had any official bearing. Perhaps I ought to have communicated at once with the Italian Consulate, seeing that the dead man was an Italian subject, but at the time it never occurred to me. The papers which had so evidently been abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in Rome I tied up in a bundle and placed them apart. The others, with the exception of the yellow folio and the letter of appeal, we replaced in the portmanteaux.Later that afternoon, when alone, I drew out the letter again and re-read it. Translated into English it was as follows:—“Your Excellency Signor Nardini—For the last time I throw myself upon your charity and ask you to speak and clear me of this disgraceful allegation they have made against me. You alone know that I am entirely innocent. You alone know that on the evening of the affair I was at the Villa Verde. Therefore, how could I have been in Rome? How can I be culpable? A single word from you will vanquish these lying, unscrupulous enemies of mine who have thus attacked my honour and seek to connect me with an affair of which I swear I am in utter ignorance.“Surely you will not refuse to make this one single declaration to save me! Reflect well all that it means to me—this disgraceful accusation against my honour. I know your reluctance. You fear that your own admission that I was at your villa out at Tivoli on that night may give rise to some scandalous gossip. But will you not risk it in order to save a woman’s life? Shall I not suffer more than you—a man? Yet I am quite ready to face the scandal of our names being connected in order to free myself from this most disgraceful charge. Say what you wish concerning me—tell all you know, if it suits your purpose—only I pray of you to shield me from these fierce, relentless enemies of mine.“I, a defenceless and desperate woman, beg of you to speak the truth and clear me. Will you not hear my appeal?“To-morrow, at noon, I shall call upon you personally for a reply.“Speak—speak, I beg of you most humbly and with all my heart. You are the only person who can save me, and I pray that God in His justice may direct your action of mercy. Lucie.”Was not the truth plainly written there? Surely she had not misled me in her motive in coming to England, to make one final appeal to the man whose lips had, alas! been closed by death!I re-read the piteous letter, sighing the while. Every word of it showed her mad desperation at being unable to prove her innocence of this mysterious allegation. The reason of the man’s silence was now obvious. If he had spoken he would have had to tell the truth—which from her letter appeared to be an unpleasant one and likely to cause scandal. Yet she asserted that she was fearless of anything the world might say; therefore did not that very fact suggest that there was no ground for any scandal?Then I opened the yellow official paper which had been preserved with the letter of appeal.Headed “Amministrazione di Pubblica Sicurezza” and bearing the number 28,280, it was, I saw, the Italian police record regarding an Englishman named James Harding Miller, son of William Miller, born at Studland, in Dorsetshire, widower, and resident in Rome. After the name and the statement that he was sometimes known as Milner, a minute description was given of the person whom the record concerned, and in that column headed “Connotati,” or personal appearance, was the following:—Statura: alto.Corporature: secco.Colorito: bruno.Capelli: castagna.Barba: c.Occhi: c.Naso: greco.Bocca: reg.Fronte: guista.Segni: porta lenti.The meaning of this was that Mr Milner, or Miller, was tall of stature, dark complexion, chestnut beard, hair and eyes, Greek nose, and that he habitually wore pince-nez. In fact upon the back of the document were pasted four photographs, taken in different positions, and probably by different photographers.The information contained in the record was, however, of more interest to me, and I read it through very carefully from end to end.Briefly, what was chronicled there was to the effect that the Englishman Miller had on several occasions been suspected of being implicated in various schemes of fraud in association with certain persons against whom were previous convictions. It appeared that so strong were the suspicions concerning him in the case of an extensive fraud upon French’s bank in Florence by means of forged securities two years before that Miller was arrested, but after exhaustive inquiries was allowed his freedom as there was insufficient evidence.The lines of even writing went on to state: “The man’s daughter, Lucie Lilian Miller, is constantly with him, and may participate in his schemes. There is, however, no direct allegation against her.” Miller, it continued, evidently possessed a secret source of income which was believed to be derived from dishonest sources, though the actual truth had not yet been discovered. The record ended with the words added as a postscript in another handwriting: “After exhaustive inquiries made by the Questura in Rome, in Florence and in Leghorn, it is now established beyond doubt that the Englishman is in active communication with a clever international association of ‘sharpers’.”After reading that I was compelled to accept the truth of Sammy’s statement. The man Miller had evidently plotted and obtained the securities in the young Chilian’s despatch-box.Yet had Lucie, I wondered, any knowledge of that dastardly conspiracy which had ended in a tragedy?

I had no right to divulge the girl’s secret to my two companions. I recognised this in an instant.

She had told me in confidence, and here was plain proof of what she had explained.

“What is it?” asked Price. “Something that surprises you?”

“Well, yes,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “It’s a letter from a woman.”

“From Lucie Miller!” cried Sammy, whose sharp eyes had caught the signature. “What does she say? Tell us,” he asked eagerly.

“No,” I said firmly. “Recollect that whatever or whoever this man is, he is dead. Therefore let his private affairs rest. It is surely no concern of ours.”

“No—of yours, perhaps,” my friend laughed. “Remember what I told you about her.”

“I recollect every word.”

“And yet you are all the time anxious to meet her again, Godfrey! Do you know, I really believe the girl has captivated you—like she has so many others.”

“You don’t take me for a fool—do you?” I snapped, rather annoyed. “She was in distress and I am wondering if she has yet extricated herself.”

Price made inquiry as to whom we were discussing, but in a few quick sentences I satisfied his curiosity.

“I should be very sorry if she ever comes here again,” declared Sammy. “I have no wish to meet her. The memory of my poor friend Carrera is far too painful.”

“You believe, then, that his death was due to her—that she induced him to leave his jacket upon the lawn?”

“I make no direct charge, my dear fellow. I only say that she’s daughter of one of the most ingenious ‘crooks’ in Europe—a member, if not the actual leader, of one of the cleverest of the international gangs. They are possessed of ample means, and the police are no match for their ingenuity.”

“You have your opinion, my dear old chap; I have mine,” I said, glancing round the room and recollecting vividly how she had stood there and looked upon the white drawn face of the man who had refused to extricate her from her deadly peril.

He took up the yellow paper, glanced it over, and put it down again without being able to make anything out of it.

I said I would translate it later, and placed it aside, together with the strange letter of appeal.

Neither of my companions was very well satisfied, I could see. They wished to know what the mysterious Lucie had written, while I, on my part, was equally determined not to tell them. It was surely not fair to her to divulge what had been meant for Nardini’s eye alone; therefore, I intended to keep possession of the letter, and to hand it to her to destroy, should we ever meet again.

Now that I recall those hours following the stranger’s decease and the English girl’s mysterious visit I cannot even now explain why I so suddenly commenced to take an interest in her. She was beautiful, it was true, but man-of-the-world that I was, and a constant wanderer across the face of Europe, I knew dozens of women quite as graceful, if not even more beautiful. Besides, there was the dark stigma upon her which Sammy had alleged, and which, by what I had now discovered, seemed fully borne out.

No. I think the mystery of the affair was responsible for my undue interest in her. Sammy, of course, put it down to her personal attractions, but he was decidedly and distinctly in error. She had told me of her perilous position, and of the dead man’s refusal to assist her. Therefore it was but natural that I was curious to know how she fared.

Again, was she not in some mysterious way acquainted with a secret of my own life? Perhaps it was also that fact which caused me a longing to know the real truth concerning her.

There was certainly nothing of the adventuress about her. She was quiet, refined, graceful, neatly dressed, and spoke with easy, well-bred accents that were essentially those of a lady.

I do not think my worst enemy has ever declared me to be impressionable where women were concerned, for truth to tell, an incident that had occurred four years before had soured my life, and caused my resolution to ever remain a bachelor.

Ah! It was all over—the old story of the mad passion of a man for one who proved—well, unworthy. Ah! how I had adored my Ella; how I worshipped the very ground upon which she trod; how I would have conquered the very world for her sake. Yes. I saw her now, so young in her white muslin dress with her gold-brown hair falling upon her shoulders, her laughing blue eyes, and the red rose in her breast as we walked that June afternoon along those white English cliffs with the blue Channel at our feet. That never-to-be-forgotten afternoon we pledged our love, our hot lips met in their first fierce caress, our hearts beat in unison. She was my all in all. For months we lived in a world that was entirely our own—a bright rosy world of high ideals and ineffable sweetness, for we loved, ay we loved in a manner, I believe, that man and maiden never loved before. Even the remembrance of it now was sweet and yet—ah! so intensely bitter.

But why need I trouble you with that incident of long ago? Suffice it to say that my little Ella preferred money to a man’s love, and she became engaged to a stout, grey-haired fellow old enough to be her father. Six months later she sickened, and then I heard that she was dead. Ah! the blow was to me terrible! I became from that day a changed man.

Since my little Ella preferred money to my love, I had again been wandering hither and thither, a careless, aimless man, just as I had wandered before meeting her. If I had had a profession it would have been different, but my father committed the unpardonable folly of leaving me comfortably off, therefore I simply developed into an idler, preferring life at the gay continental resorts—now in Monte Carlo, now in Paris, now in Rome, or elsewhere, just as my inclinations led me—to the dull humdrum existence of chambers in London. Ella—Ella! I thought of none save of my sweet dead love, now lost to me for ever.

Therefore, when Sammy hinted that I had become bewitched by Lucie Miller I firmly and frankly denied such assertion. Four years is a breach in a man’s life, but even four years had not caused me to forget my first and only true passion—the passion that had ended so tragically. Sometimes life does not count by years. Some suffer a lifetime in a day, and so grow old between the rising and the setting of the sun.

When Price had concluded the inventory of the dead man’s papers, I sorted out all those which had any official bearing. Perhaps I ought to have communicated at once with the Italian Consulate, seeing that the dead man was an Italian subject, but at the time it never occurred to me. The papers which had so evidently been abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in Rome I tied up in a bundle and placed them apart. The others, with the exception of the yellow folio and the letter of appeal, we replaced in the portmanteaux.

Later that afternoon, when alone, I drew out the letter again and re-read it. Translated into English it was as follows:—

“Your Excellency Signor Nardini—For the last time I throw myself upon your charity and ask you to speak and clear me of this disgraceful allegation they have made against me. You alone know that I am entirely innocent. You alone know that on the evening of the affair I was at the Villa Verde. Therefore, how could I have been in Rome? How can I be culpable? A single word from you will vanquish these lying, unscrupulous enemies of mine who have thus attacked my honour and seek to connect me with an affair of which I swear I am in utter ignorance.“Surely you will not refuse to make this one single declaration to save me! Reflect well all that it means to me—this disgraceful accusation against my honour. I know your reluctance. You fear that your own admission that I was at your villa out at Tivoli on that night may give rise to some scandalous gossip. But will you not risk it in order to save a woman’s life? Shall I not suffer more than you—a man? Yet I am quite ready to face the scandal of our names being connected in order to free myself from this most disgraceful charge. Say what you wish concerning me—tell all you know, if it suits your purpose—only I pray of you to shield me from these fierce, relentless enemies of mine.“I, a defenceless and desperate woman, beg of you to speak the truth and clear me. Will you not hear my appeal?“To-morrow, at noon, I shall call upon you personally for a reply.“Speak—speak, I beg of you most humbly and with all my heart. You are the only person who can save me, and I pray that God in His justice may direct your action of mercy. Lucie.”

“Your Excellency Signor Nardini—For the last time I throw myself upon your charity and ask you to speak and clear me of this disgraceful allegation they have made against me. You alone know that I am entirely innocent. You alone know that on the evening of the affair I was at the Villa Verde. Therefore, how could I have been in Rome? How can I be culpable? A single word from you will vanquish these lying, unscrupulous enemies of mine who have thus attacked my honour and seek to connect me with an affair of which I swear I am in utter ignorance.

“Surely you will not refuse to make this one single declaration to save me! Reflect well all that it means to me—this disgraceful accusation against my honour. I know your reluctance. You fear that your own admission that I was at your villa out at Tivoli on that night may give rise to some scandalous gossip. But will you not risk it in order to save a woman’s life? Shall I not suffer more than you—a man? Yet I am quite ready to face the scandal of our names being connected in order to free myself from this most disgraceful charge. Say what you wish concerning me—tell all you know, if it suits your purpose—only I pray of you to shield me from these fierce, relentless enemies of mine.

“I, a defenceless and desperate woman, beg of you to speak the truth and clear me. Will you not hear my appeal?

“To-morrow, at noon, I shall call upon you personally for a reply.

“Speak—speak, I beg of you most humbly and with all my heart. You are the only person who can save me, and I pray that God in His justice may direct your action of mercy. Lucie.”

Was not the truth plainly written there? Surely she had not misled me in her motive in coming to England, to make one final appeal to the man whose lips had, alas! been closed by death!

I re-read the piteous letter, sighing the while. Every word of it showed her mad desperation at being unable to prove her innocence of this mysterious allegation. The reason of the man’s silence was now obvious. If he had spoken he would have had to tell the truth—which from her letter appeared to be an unpleasant one and likely to cause scandal. Yet she asserted that she was fearless of anything the world might say; therefore did not that very fact suggest that there was no ground for any scandal?

Then I opened the yellow official paper which had been preserved with the letter of appeal.

Headed “Amministrazione di Pubblica Sicurezza” and bearing the number 28,280, it was, I saw, the Italian police record regarding an Englishman named James Harding Miller, son of William Miller, born at Studland, in Dorsetshire, widower, and resident in Rome. After the name and the statement that he was sometimes known as Milner, a minute description was given of the person whom the record concerned, and in that column headed “Connotati,” or personal appearance, was the following:—

Statura: alto.Corporature: secco.Colorito: bruno.Capelli: castagna.Barba: c.Occhi: c.Naso: greco.Bocca: reg.Fronte: guista.Segni: porta lenti.

Statura: alto.Corporature: secco.Colorito: bruno.Capelli: castagna.Barba: c.Occhi: c.Naso: greco.Bocca: reg.Fronte: guista.Segni: porta lenti.

The meaning of this was that Mr Milner, or Miller, was tall of stature, dark complexion, chestnut beard, hair and eyes, Greek nose, and that he habitually wore pince-nez. In fact upon the back of the document were pasted four photographs, taken in different positions, and probably by different photographers.

The information contained in the record was, however, of more interest to me, and I read it through very carefully from end to end.

Briefly, what was chronicled there was to the effect that the Englishman Miller had on several occasions been suspected of being implicated in various schemes of fraud in association with certain persons against whom were previous convictions. It appeared that so strong were the suspicions concerning him in the case of an extensive fraud upon French’s bank in Florence by means of forged securities two years before that Miller was arrested, but after exhaustive inquiries was allowed his freedom as there was insufficient evidence.

The lines of even writing went on to state: “The man’s daughter, Lucie Lilian Miller, is constantly with him, and may participate in his schemes. There is, however, no direct allegation against her.” Miller, it continued, evidently possessed a secret source of income which was believed to be derived from dishonest sources, though the actual truth had not yet been discovered. The record ended with the words added as a postscript in another handwriting: “After exhaustive inquiries made by the Questura in Rome, in Florence and in Leghorn, it is now established beyond doubt that the Englishman is in active communication with a clever international association of ‘sharpers’.”

After reading that I was compelled to accept the truth of Sammy’s statement. The man Miller had evidently plotted and obtained the securities in the young Chilian’s despatch-box.

Yet had Lucie, I wondered, any knowledge of that dastardly conspiracy which had ended in a tragedy?

Chapter Eight.“The Mysterious Mr Miller.”On the following day, about noon, I took a cab to the Italian Embassy, that fine stone-built mansion in Grosvenor Square.A tall footman with powdered hair asked me into the great reception-room where, at one end, hung a great portrait of the late King Humbert, the other end of the room opening upon a large conservatory where stood a grand piano. It was a sombre apartment, furnished with solid, old-fashioned taste and embellished with a number of photographs of noteworthy persons presented to the popular Ambassador and his wife in the various cities wherein His Excellency had represented his sovereign.Like most London reception-rooms, it looked its best at night under the myriad electric lamps. At noon, as I sat there, it looked a trifle too dull and gloomy. Presently one of the staff of the Embassy, a short, pleasant-faced, elderly Italian of charming manner, and speaking perfect English, greeted me courteously and inquired the object of my request to see His Excellency.“I have called,” I said, “in order to give some confidential information which may be of interest to His Excellency. The fact is I have been present at the death of the ex-Minister for Justice Nardini.”“His death!” exclaimed the pleasant official. “What do you mean? Is he dead?”“He died here, in London, and unrecognised. It was only on searching his papers that I discovered his identity. He came to an obscure boarding-house in Shepherd’s Bush, giving the name of Massari, but on the following day he died. He had for a long time been suffering from an internal complaint and suddenly collapsed. The effort of the rapid journey from Rome and the anxiety were evidently too great for him.”“This is astounding! We had no idea he was here! There were orders given for his arrest, you know,” remarked the Embassy archivist, for such I afterwards found him to be—a trusted official who for many years has held that position, and is well-known and popular in the diplomatic circle in London. “But,” he added suddenly, “how were you enabled to establish his identity?”“By these,” I answered, drawing out a packet of official papers from my pocket, opening them and handing him one of them to read.The instant his eyes fell upon it he started, turned it over, and looked up at me amazed.“I presume you know Italian?” he asked quickly.I nodded in the affirmative.“Then you are aware what these papers are—most important Government documents, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in Rome?”“I know,” I replied briefly. “That is why I secured them, and why I have brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not be allowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain much confidential information regarding certain well-known persons.”“Of course,” he said. “His Excellency will, I’m sure, be extremely indebted to you for acting with such discretion. Had they fallen into the hands of the London police they might have been copied, and the secret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would be most detrimental to our prestige, if the public knew that confidential reports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to hand for any one to read.”“I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint,” I said. “My own opinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levy blackmail by their means.”But the official only shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. It was not likely that he would condemn his own compatriot, even though at heart he despised both the man and his dishonest methods.Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent to ejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain persons in high positions in Rome which amazed him.“At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, Mr Leaf, you will leave these with me,” he suggested. “We shall send them back under seal to Rome.”“Of course, that was my intention,” I said. And then, in reply to some further questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardini had died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of her strange story of the dead man’s mysterious hatred of myself. I only apologised that I had not thought of communicating with the Italian Consulate, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documents might partly atone for my remissness.“There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead man’s belongings to interest us?” he asked seriously. “You have, of course, made careful search?”“Yes. I have had an inventory made by a solicitor. There is nothing else,” I answered; and after giving my courteous friend my club address, and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks, and departed.My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appeal to the fugitive had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and held me mystified.Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther. Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasn’t going to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead and buried, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me the truth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.But it did not suffice me.That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her future in his hands showed me that she was in dire straits. What could be the allegation against her?As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that it was not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an official letter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evident that they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspapers were still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding ex-Minister.I recollected that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt “living in the country,” but she had not told me in what locality, and “the country” was a big place in which to search, more especially as I did not know the lady’s name. She had told me also that she lived in Leghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehow I held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.The police record gave Miller’s place of birth as Studland, in Dorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, I should be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody would know some facts concerning the family. From theGazetteerI discovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far from Swanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy, I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotel which faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, and an hour later I descended at the inn in Studland village.It was a quiet, quaint old-world place, I found, with a queer ancient little church hidden away among the trees at the back. In the bar-parlour of the “Lion” I ordered some tea, and then, in the course of a chat with the stout, cheery old publican I casually inquired after some friends of mine named Miller.“Oh! yes,” he said. “Old Miss Miller lives ’ere still—at the Manor ’Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came down the hill from Swanage way. They’re one of the oldest families ’ere in Studland. One of the Millers—Sir Roger ’e was called—was governor of Corfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so I’ve ’eard say.”“Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor?” I remarked.“Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but ’e’s always abroad, so ’is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the ’ouse and looks after it.”“Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller?” I asked.“Yes. That’s ’im. They calls ’im the mysterious Mr Miller. ’E always was a wild rascal when ’e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman could do nothing with him, so ’e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostly ever since.”“Has he any children?”“A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about ’er, and say she’s very nice. She’s often ’ere.”“He’s well off, I suppose?”“Oh, dear no, sir,” declared the innkeeper. “The Millers are as poor as church mice. The value of land’s gone down so of late years. The old place is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an’ it’s a pity—a thousand pities.”All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous old fellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulated myself upon the success of my first investigation.“When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?”“Oh! It’s a long time now ’e ’aven’t been in Studland. Once, about three years ago, ’e came without any luggage they say—and stayed over a twelvemonth. ’E’s a queer man. ’E never speaks to the likes of us.”I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire after her niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshine until I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge gate, and then, after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of a large old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling and time-mellowed—a typical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a small park.A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered into a quaint old oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which was undoubtedly Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces with age. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deep diamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring the delightful vista when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, and turning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, with bony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brown beard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats over his boots.“Mr Leaf?” he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. “I am Miss Miller’s brother,” he explained. “My name is James Harding Miller. Do you wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and has sent me to make her apologies.”I started when he introduced himself.I was actually face to face with the ingenious scoundrel whom Sammy had denounced, and whom the Italian police so strongly suspected to be the leader of one of the cleverest gangs of malefactors in Europe.

On the following day, about noon, I took a cab to the Italian Embassy, that fine stone-built mansion in Grosvenor Square.

A tall footman with powdered hair asked me into the great reception-room where, at one end, hung a great portrait of the late King Humbert, the other end of the room opening upon a large conservatory where stood a grand piano. It was a sombre apartment, furnished with solid, old-fashioned taste and embellished with a number of photographs of noteworthy persons presented to the popular Ambassador and his wife in the various cities wherein His Excellency had represented his sovereign.

Like most London reception-rooms, it looked its best at night under the myriad electric lamps. At noon, as I sat there, it looked a trifle too dull and gloomy. Presently one of the staff of the Embassy, a short, pleasant-faced, elderly Italian of charming manner, and speaking perfect English, greeted me courteously and inquired the object of my request to see His Excellency.

“I have called,” I said, “in order to give some confidential information which may be of interest to His Excellency. The fact is I have been present at the death of the ex-Minister for Justice Nardini.”

“His death!” exclaimed the pleasant official. “What do you mean? Is he dead?”

“He died here, in London, and unrecognised. It was only on searching his papers that I discovered his identity. He came to an obscure boarding-house in Shepherd’s Bush, giving the name of Massari, but on the following day he died. He had for a long time been suffering from an internal complaint and suddenly collapsed. The effort of the rapid journey from Rome and the anxiety were evidently too great for him.”

“This is astounding! We had no idea he was here! There were orders given for his arrest, you know,” remarked the Embassy archivist, for such I afterwards found him to be—a trusted official who for many years has held that position, and is well-known and popular in the diplomatic circle in London. “But,” he added suddenly, “how were you enabled to establish his identity?”

“By these,” I answered, drawing out a packet of official papers from my pocket, opening them and handing him one of them to read.

The instant his eyes fell upon it he started, turned it over, and looked up at me amazed.

“I presume you know Italian?” he asked quickly.

I nodded in the affirmative.

“Then you are aware what these papers are—most important Government documents, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in Rome?”

“I know,” I replied briefly. “That is why I secured them, and why I have brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not be allowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain much confidential information regarding certain well-known persons.”

“Of course,” he said. “His Excellency will, I’m sure, be extremely indebted to you for acting with such discretion. Had they fallen into the hands of the London police they might have been copied, and the secret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would be most detrimental to our prestige, if the public knew that confidential reports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to hand for any one to read.”

“I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint,” I said. “My own opinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levy blackmail by their means.”

But the official only shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. It was not likely that he would condemn his own compatriot, even though at heart he despised both the man and his dishonest methods.

Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent to ejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain persons in high positions in Rome which amazed him.

“At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, Mr Leaf, you will leave these with me,” he suggested. “We shall send them back under seal to Rome.”

“Of course, that was my intention,” I said. And then, in reply to some further questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardini had died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of her strange story of the dead man’s mysterious hatred of myself. I only apologised that I had not thought of communicating with the Italian Consulate, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documents might partly atone for my remissness.

“There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead man’s belongings to interest us?” he asked seriously. “You have, of course, made careful search?”

“Yes. I have had an inventory made by a solicitor. There is nothing else,” I answered; and after giving my courteous friend my club address, and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks, and departed.

My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appeal to the fugitive had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and held me mystified.

Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther. Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasn’t going to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead and buried, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me the truth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.

But it did not suffice me.

That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her future in his hands showed me that she was in dire straits. What could be the allegation against her?

As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that it was not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an official letter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evident that they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspapers were still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding ex-Minister.

I recollected that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt “living in the country,” but she had not told me in what locality, and “the country” was a big place in which to search, more especially as I did not know the lady’s name. She had told me also that she lived in Leghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehow I held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.

The police record gave Miller’s place of birth as Studland, in Dorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, I should be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody would know some facts concerning the family. From theGazetteerI discovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far from Swanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy, I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotel which faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, and an hour later I descended at the inn in Studland village.

It was a quiet, quaint old-world place, I found, with a queer ancient little church hidden away among the trees at the back. In the bar-parlour of the “Lion” I ordered some tea, and then, in the course of a chat with the stout, cheery old publican I casually inquired after some friends of mine named Miller.

“Oh! yes,” he said. “Old Miss Miller lives ’ere still—at the Manor ’Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came down the hill from Swanage way. They’re one of the oldest families ’ere in Studland. One of the Millers—Sir Roger ’e was called—was governor of Corfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so I’ve ’eard say.”

“Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor?” I remarked.

“Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but ’e’s always abroad, so ’is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the ’ouse and looks after it.”

“Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s ’im. They calls ’im the mysterious Mr Miller. ’E always was a wild rascal when ’e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman could do nothing with him, so ’e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostly ever since.”

“Has he any children?”

“A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about ’er, and say she’s very nice. She’s often ’ere.”

“He’s well off, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear no, sir,” declared the innkeeper. “The Millers are as poor as church mice. The value of land’s gone down so of late years. The old place is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an’ it’s a pity—a thousand pities.”

All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous old fellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulated myself upon the success of my first investigation.

“When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?”

“Oh! It’s a long time now ’e ’aven’t been in Studland. Once, about three years ago, ’e came without any luggage they say—and stayed over a twelvemonth. ’E’s a queer man. ’E never speaks to the likes of us.”

I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire after her niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshine until I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge gate, and then, after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of a large old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling and time-mellowed—a typical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a small park.

A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered into a quaint old oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which was undoubtedly Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces with age. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deep diamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring the delightful vista when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, and turning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, with bony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brown beard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats over his boots.

“Mr Leaf?” he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. “I am Miss Miller’s brother,” he explained. “My name is James Harding Miller. Do you wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and has sent me to make her apologies.”

I started when he introduced himself.

I was actually face to face with the ingenious scoundrel whom Sammy had denounced, and whom the Italian police so strongly suspected to be the leader of one of the cleverest gangs of malefactors in Europe.

Chapter Nine.Contains a Surprise.James Harding Miller was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan of most gentlemanly exterior. His grey face was deeply lined and bore that curious washed-out look of a man who had lived many years in a hot climate. After ten years or so the fiery Italian sun no longer tans the face of the northerner, but on the contrary his hair goes prematurely grey, and each year as the burning summer comes he is less able to withstand the heat of the “lion” days. His leanness, his foreign-cut clothes, and the slight gesticulation as he spoke all showed him to be a man more at home in the bright Italian land of song and sunlight than there, in an English village, the proprietor of that charming old home of his honourable ancestors.In reply to his question I was rather evasive, saying that I happened to be in Swanage, and had driven out to pay a complimentary call upon his sister. She was not to put herself out of the way in the least, I urged. I should remain in Swanage for some days and hoped to have the pleasure of calling again.Then turning and glancing around, I exclaimed:—“What a delightful old room! To me it is a real pleasure to enter a thoroughly English home, as this is.”“Why?” he inquired, eyeing me with some surprise. “Because I live almost always on the Continent, and after a time foreign life and foreign ways jar upon the Englishman. At least I’ve found it so.”“Ah!” He sighed, rather heavily I thought. “And I, too, have found it so. I quite agree with you. One may travel the world over, as I have done these past twenty years, yet there’s no place like our much-abused old England, after all.”“Oh, then you’ve been a rolling stone, like myself,” I remarked, delighted at the success of my ruse.“Yes. And I still am,” was his answer, given rather sadly. “Ever since my poor wife’s death, now nearly twenty years ago, I’ve been a wanderer. This place is mine, but I’m scarcely ever here. Why? I can’t for the life of me tell you. I’ve tried to settle down, but cannot. After a week here in this quiet rural dulness, the old fever sets up in my blood, a longing for action, a longing to go south to Italy—the country which seems to hold me in a kind of magnetism which I have never been able to resist.”“And I, too, love Italy,” I said. “Is it not strange that most of us who have lived any length of time in that country of blossoming magnolias and gentle vines always desire to return to it. We may abuse its defects, we may revile its people as dishonest idlers, we may execrate its snail-like railways and run down its primitive hotels, yet all the same we have a secret longing to return to that glowing land where life is love, where art is in the very atmosphere, where the sun brings gladness to the heaviest heart, and the night silence is broken by lovestornelliand the mandoline.”“You are right,” he said, gazing straight out of the old leaded window and speaking almost as though to himself. “Byron found it so, Shelley, Smollet, Trollope, the Brownings and hosts of others. They were fascinated by the fatal beauty of Italy—just as a man is so often drawn to his doom by the face of a beautiful woman. And after all we are but straws on the winds of the hour.”Then, turning to a cabinet, I bent and admired a fine old Lowestoft tea-set and a collection of old blue posset-pots, whereupon he said:—“Ah! I see you are interested in antiques. Do you care for pictures? I have one or two.”“I do. I should delight to see them,” I answered with enthusiasm; therefore he led me across the low old-fashioned hall with its great oak beams and open fireplace into a long gallery where the floor was polished, and along one side was hung a choice collection of masters of the Bolognese, Tuscan and Venetian schools.At a glance I saw that they were of considerable value, and as I walked along slowly examining them I half feared lest I might come face to face with the daughter of the house.Mine was a bold adventure, and surely it was fortunate for me that old Miss Catherine had a headache.Through room after room he conducted me with all the pride of a collector showing his treasures. Indeed, I was amazed to find such a perfect museum of Italian art hidden away in that picturesque old Manor House. “Yes,” he said presently, as we entered the long old-fashioned drawing-room upholstered in antique rose-pattern chintz, “I’ve collected in Italy for a good many years. One can pick up bargains, even now, in the less frequented towns, say Ravenna, Verona, Bologna or Rimini; while in Leghorn there are still lots of genuine Sheraton and Chippendale which was imported from England by the English merchants of that time. I once made a splendid find of seventeenth-century English silver—two porringers and some spoons—in the Ghetto in Leghorn.”I was at the moment looking at a circular Madonna on panel, evidently of the Bolognese school of the cinquecento, hanging at the end of the long pleasant old room when, in glancing round, my eye fell upon two small tables where stood photographs in frames.In an instant I bent over one and recognised it as that of the girl who had come to me so mysteriously at Shepherd’s Bush.“That is my daughter,” he remarked.“Curious,” I said, feigning to reflect. “I think I’ve met her somewhere abroad. Perhaps it was in Italy. Could it have been in Leghorn?”“You know Leghorn?”“I’ve been there many times. I know the Camerons, the Davises, the Matthews, and most of the English colony there.”“Then you may possibly have met her there,” he said. “We have a small flat on the sea-front, and my daughter often plays tennis.”“Of course!” I exclaimed, as though the mention of tennis brought back to me full recollection of the incident. “It was at tennis that I saw her—last season when I was at the Palace Hotel. I remember now, quite well. Our Mediterranean fleet were lying there at the time, and there were lots of festivities, as there are every summer. Is your daughter now in England?”“Oh, yes. She’s up in London, but returns to-morrow.”“And are you going back to Italy soon?” I inquired.“I hardly know. My movements are never very certain. I’m quite a creature of circumstances, and nowadays drift about with the wind of chance,” he laughed.“But this is a lovely old place,” I remarked. “If I had it I should certainly not prefer a flat in a sun-baked Italian town, like Leghorn.”“Circumstances,” he remarked simply, with a mysterious smile upon his grey face.What, I wondered, was his meaning?Did he really intend to convey that the circumstances of his dishonourable profession compelled him to hide himself in a small flat in that somewhat obscure town—obscure as far as English life went?When he learnt that I knew some of his friends in Leghorn he became enthusiastic, and began to discuss the town and its notabilities. What did I think of the English parson? And whether I did not think that seeing the small English congregation the church ought not to be removed to some town with a larger English colony. It was absurd to keep a parson there for half a dozen people.And while my sharp eyes were busy examining the photographs set among vases of fresh-cut flowers, I made replies and sometimes laughed at his witty criticisms of persons known to both of us in “the Brighton of Italy.”“What a contrast is the quiet rural life here, with all its old-world English tranquillity, to that of the gay, garish, sun-blanchedpasseggiataof Leghorn, with its bright-eyed women, its oleanders, its noise, movement, the glare and strident music of thecafé-chantants, and the brightness of the newly discovered spa,” I said.He sighed, pursing his lips.“Yes, Mr Leaf, you are quite right,” he answered. “I love Italy, but I confess I very often long to be back here at Studland, in my own quiet old home. Lucie is always begging me to forsake the Continent and return. But it is impossible—utterly impossible.”“Why impossible?” I asked, looking into his deeply furrowed face.“Well—there is a reason,” was his response. “A strong reason, one of health, which induces—nay, compels me to live abroad. And I greatly prefer Italy to any other country.”Little did he dream that I had that secret document of the Italian Detective Department in my possession, or that I had learnt the truth from my friend Sampson, the friend of the young Chilian Carrera.We were chatting on, having halted at the open window which looked across the old-fashioned garden with its rose arbours, moss-grown terrace and grey weather-beaten sundial, away to the park beyond, when I suddenly crossed to another table, whereon were other photographs.One of them I thought I recognised even in the distance.Yes! I was not mistaken! I took it in my trembling hand with a word of apology, and looked into the picture intently. Sight of it staggered me.“Who is this?” I asked hoarsely, and my host must, I think, have noticed the great change in my countenance.“A friend of my daughter’s, I think. Do you know her?”“I knew her,” I replied in a hard, low tone, for sight of that smiling face brought back to me all the bitter remembrance of a part that I would have fain forgotten. “It is Ella Murray!”“Ah!—yes, that’s her name. I recollect now,” he said; and I saw by his face that he was interested. “I think they were at school together.”Again I looked upon the portrait of my dear dead love, my eyes fascinated, for I beheld there, at her throat, the small brooch I had given her on her birthday, a green enamelled heart with two hearts in diamonds entwined upon it.Those sweet, wide-open eyes, clear blue and wondering like a child’s, gazed out upon me; her well-formed lips were slightly parted, as though she were speaking again, uttering those soft words that had so charmed me when she was mine, and mine only. I recollected the dress, too, one she had worn one night at dinner at the big country-house where we had been fellow-guests. Every feature of that lovely face was indelibly photographed upon my memory. Through those dark years, after that paroxysm of grief that had overtaken me when I discovered her false, I had, sleeping and waking, seen that smiling countenance as before my vision. Even in death Ella was still mine.That smile! Ah! did it not mock me? Had not Avarice and Death cheated me out of Happiness? A great darkness was over my mind, like the plague of an unending night.I set my teeth, swallowed the lump that arose in my throat, and with a sigh replaced the photograph upon the table.“A pretty face,” remarked the man whose police record was in my possession.“Yes, very,” I remarked casually.Ah! what a storm of bitter recollections surged through my burning brain.Had she but lived and loved how different would my own wasted, aimless life have been!Yes. She was, after all, my dear dead love—my Ella!

James Harding Miller was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan of most gentlemanly exterior. His grey face was deeply lined and bore that curious washed-out look of a man who had lived many years in a hot climate. After ten years or so the fiery Italian sun no longer tans the face of the northerner, but on the contrary his hair goes prematurely grey, and each year as the burning summer comes he is less able to withstand the heat of the “lion” days. His leanness, his foreign-cut clothes, and the slight gesticulation as he spoke all showed him to be a man more at home in the bright Italian land of song and sunlight than there, in an English village, the proprietor of that charming old home of his honourable ancestors.

In reply to his question I was rather evasive, saying that I happened to be in Swanage, and had driven out to pay a complimentary call upon his sister. She was not to put herself out of the way in the least, I urged. I should remain in Swanage for some days and hoped to have the pleasure of calling again.

Then turning and glancing around, I exclaimed:—“What a delightful old room! To me it is a real pleasure to enter a thoroughly English home, as this is.”

“Why?” he inquired, eyeing me with some surprise. “Because I live almost always on the Continent, and after a time foreign life and foreign ways jar upon the Englishman. At least I’ve found it so.”

“Ah!” He sighed, rather heavily I thought. “And I, too, have found it so. I quite agree with you. One may travel the world over, as I have done these past twenty years, yet there’s no place like our much-abused old England, after all.”

“Oh, then you’ve been a rolling stone, like myself,” I remarked, delighted at the success of my ruse.

“Yes. And I still am,” was his answer, given rather sadly. “Ever since my poor wife’s death, now nearly twenty years ago, I’ve been a wanderer. This place is mine, but I’m scarcely ever here. Why? I can’t for the life of me tell you. I’ve tried to settle down, but cannot. After a week here in this quiet rural dulness, the old fever sets up in my blood, a longing for action, a longing to go south to Italy—the country which seems to hold me in a kind of magnetism which I have never been able to resist.”

“And I, too, love Italy,” I said. “Is it not strange that most of us who have lived any length of time in that country of blossoming magnolias and gentle vines always desire to return to it. We may abuse its defects, we may revile its people as dishonest idlers, we may execrate its snail-like railways and run down its primitive hotels, yet all the same we have a secret longing to return to that glowing land where life is love, where art is in the very atmosphere, where the sun brings gladness to the heaviest heart, and the night silence is broken by lovestornelliand the mandoline.”

“You are right,” he said, gazing straight out of the old leaded window and speaking almost as though to himself. “Byron found it so, Shelley, Smollet, Trollope, the Brownings and hosts of others. They were fascinated by the fatal beauty of Italy—just as a man is so often drawn to his doom by the face of a beautiful woman. And after all we are but straws on the winds of the hour.”

Then, turning to a cabinet, I bent and admired a fine old Lowestoft tea-set and a collection of old blue posset-pots, whereupon he said:—

“Ah! I see you are interested in antiques. Do you care for pictures? I have one or two.”

“I do. I should delight to see them,” I answered with enthusiasm; therefore he led me across the low old-fashioned hall with its great oak beams and open fireplace into a long gallery where the floor was polished, and along one side was hung a choice collection of masters of the Bolognese, Tuscan and Venetian schools.

At a glance I saw that they were of considerable value, and as I walked along slowly examining them I half feared lest I might come face to face with the daughter of the house.

Mine was a bold adventure, and surely it was fortunate for me that old Miss Catherine had a headache.

Through room after room he conducted me with all the pride of a collector showing his treasures. Indeed, I was amazed to find such a perfect museum of Italian art hidden away in that picturesque old Manor House. “Yes,” he said presently, as we entered the long old-fashioned drawing-room upholstered in antique rose-pattern chintz, “I’ve collected in Italy for a good many years. One can pick up bargains, even now, in the less frequented towns, say Ravenna, Verona, Bologna or Rimini; while in Leghorn there are still lots of genuine Sheraton and Chippendale which was imported from England by the English merchants of that time. I once made a splendid find of seventeenth-century English silver—two porringers and some spoons—in the Ghetto in Leghorn.”

I was at the moment looking at a circular Madonna on panel, evidently of the Bolognese school of the cinquecento, hanging at the end of the long pleasant old room when, in glancing round, my eye fell upon two small tables where stood photographs in frames.

In an instant I bent over one and recognised it as that of the girl who had come to me so mysteriously at Shepherd’s Bush.

“That is my daughter,” he remarked.

“Curious,” I said, feigning to reflect. “I think I’ve met her somewhere abroad. Perhaps it was in Italy. Could it have been in Leghorn?”

“You know Leghorn?”

“I’ve been there many times. I know the Camerons, the Davises, the Matthews, and most of the English colony there.”

“Then you may possibly have met her there,” he said. “We have a small flat on the sea-front, and my daughter often plays tennis.”

“Of course!” I exclaimed, as though the mention of tennis brought back to me full recollection of the incident. “It was at tennis that I saw her—last season when I was at the Palace Hotel. I remember now, quite well. Our Mediterranean fleet were lying there at the time, and there were lots of festivities, as there are every summer. Is your daughter now in England?”

“Oh, yes. She’s up in London, but returns to-morrow.”

“And are you going back to Italy soon?” I inquired.

“I hardly know. My movements are never very certain. I’m quite a creature of circumstances, and nowadays drift about with the wind of chance,” he laughed.

“But this is a lovely old place,” I remarked. “If I had it I should certainly not prefer a flat in a sun-baked Italian town, like Leghorn.”

“Circumstances,” he remarked simply, with a mysterious smile upon his grey face.

What, I wondered, was his meaning?

Did he really intend to convey that the circumstances of his dishonourable profession compelled him to hide himself in a small flat in that somewhat obscure town—obscure as far as English life went?

When he learnt that I knew some of his friends in Leghorn he became enthusiastic, and began to discuss the town and its notabilities. What did I think of the English parson? And whether I did not think that seeing the small English congregation the church ought not to be removed to some town with a larger English colony. It was absurd to keep a parson there for half a dozen people.

And while my sharp eyes were busy examining the photographs set among vases of fresh-cut flowers, I made replies and sometimes laughed at his witty criticisms of persons known to both of us in “the Brighton of Italy.”

“What a contrast is the quiet rural life here, with all its old-world English tranquillity, to that of the gay, garish, sun-blanchedpasseggiataof Leghorn, with its bright-eyed women, its oleanders, its noise, movement, the glare and strident music of thecafé-chantants, and the brightness of the newly discovered spa,” I said.

He sighed, pursing his lips.

“Yes, Mr Leaf, you are quite right,” he answered. “I love Italy, but I confess I very often long to be back here at Studland, in my own quiet old home. Lucie is always begging me to forsake the Continent and return. But it is impossible—utterly impossible.”

“Why impossible?” I asked, looking into his deeply furrowed face.

“Well—there is a reason,” was his response. “A strong reason, one of health, which induces—nay, compels me to live abroad. And I greatly prefer Italy to any other country.”

Little did he dream that I had that secret document of the Italian Detective Department in my possession, or that I had learnt the truth from my friend Sampson, the friend of the young Chilian Carrera.

We were chatting on, having halted at the open window which looked across the old-fashioned garden with its rose arbours, moss-grown terrace and grey weather-beaten sundial, away to the park beyond, when I suddenly crossed to another table, whereon were other photographs.

One of them I thought I recognised even in the distance.

Yes! I was not mistaken! I took it in my trembling hand with a word of apology, and looked into the picture intently. Sight of it staggered me.

“Who is this?” I asked hoarsely, and my host must, I think, have noticed the great change in my countenance.

“A friend of my daughter’s, I think. Do you know her?”

“I knew her,” I replied in a hard, low tone, for sight of that smiling face brought back to me all the bitter remembrance of a part that I would have fain forgotten. “It is Ella Murray!”

“Ah!—yes, that’s her name. I recollect now,” he said; and I saw by his face that he was interested. “I think they were at school together.”

Again I looked upon the portrait of my dear dead love, my eyes fascinated, for I beheld there, at her throat, the small brooch I had given her on her birthday, a green enamelled heart with two hearts in diamonds entwined upon it.

Those sweet, wide-open eyes, clear blue and wondering like a child’s, gazed out upon me; her well-formed lips were slightly parted, as though she were speaking again, uttering those soft words that had so charmed me when she was mine, and mine only. I recollected the dress, too, one she had worn one night at dinner at the big country-house where we had been fellow-guests. Every feature of that lovely face was indelibly photographed upon my memory. Through those dark years, after that paroxysm of grief that had overtaken me when I discovered her false, I had, sleeping and waking, seen that smiling countenance as before my vision. Even in death Ella was still mine.

That smile! Ah! did it not mock me? Had not Avarice and Death cheated me out of Happiness? A great darkness was over my mind, like the plague of an unending night.

I set my teeth, swallowed the lump that arose in my throat, and with a sigh replaced the photograph upon the table.

“A pretty face,” remarked the man whose police record was in my possession.

“Yes, very,” I remarked casually.

Ah! what a storm of bitter recollections surged through my burning brain.

Had she but lived and loved how different would my own wasted, aimless life have been!

Yes. She was, after all, my dear dead love—my Ella!

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