Shopping was very far from the thoughts of Galva Baxendale as she made her way up the street that ran at right angles to the promenade. Tumultuous thoughts they were, in which the figures of Lieutenant Mozara and the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer played important parts.
She must have walked a considerable distance, for when she glanced at the tiny watch at her wrist she saw that it was eleven o'clock. At the same moment the sonorous chimes of a clock reached her, and glancing up she saw, between the gables of the houses at the end of the street, the white façade of Corbo Cathedral showing brightly in the sunlight.
It had been her first thought on arriving in San Pietro to pay a visit to the tombs of her ill-fated father and mother. Never having known them, she could not be expected to feel a very poignant or present grief, but the sadness of the story made a deep impression, and at times she tried to tell herself that within the storehouse of her memory there was a corner in which a black-bearded man, a-glitter with scarlet and gold, had place. A fancy, doubtless, and one that would have had no existence had she never left her Cornish home. But the knowledge that she had been born in the palace behind the town, helped the illusion, an illusion of a father, and she grappled it to her soul with all the strength of her loving nature.
Edward Sydney had, however, reasoning with the brain of your true conspirator, been firm. There was, to his mind, a grave risk to the living in a too demonstrative reverence for the dead. It is true he had agreed to one visit to the tombs, as ordinary tourists, and Galva gave a little shudder at the recollection.
She had looked through tear-dimmed eyes at the marble effigies of the monarchs, at the stern cameo of her father, and the cold beauty of her mother. In the latter figure the sculptor had with a cunning hand suggested the form of a little child beneath the drapery at the breasts. Galva had listened as in a dream to the little black-robed sacristan, whose duty it was to show the burial-place to visitors, as he had gabbled through the history of the tragedy. He described minutely the attack upon the palace and told of how the king and queen met their deaths. The baby princess Miranda had her share, too, in the history, and it was evident that no suspicion had ever come into the mind of the little sacristan that the body of the princess had not indeed been buried with the mother.
Galva noticed that the narrator carefully avoided mentioning the names of any who had taken part in the attack, and she found it hard to believe that such scenes could have ever taken place in this kingdom of gaiety and pleasure. There would have been a grim humour almost in this listening to the details of her own death when an infant, were the circumstances less pitiful. She had dropped a gold piece into the box for the masses for the dead, which the sacristan noticed, and he looked curiously at this pretty little tourist who gave so generously.
Then, there had been nothing to tell them from the ordinary sight-seers, and it was the only visit that Edward had thought expedient. And now, finding herself alone, she felt an uncontrollable desire to enter the cathedral and pray for a little while. She would not go against her guardian's wish, but would be content to kneel in the great nave and look through the oak screen that divided the mausoleum of the Estratos from the main body of the church.
The cathedral stood on the edge of the old part of the town, and Galva was struck by the difference in her surroundings. Apart from a group of green-veiled American tourists, who, guide-book in hand, were gazing up at the famous rose window over the central porch, she seemed alone with the natives of San Pietro. She looked in astonishment at the poor houses, with their broken roofs, and their windows stuffed with rags and brown paper, at the mean little shops and at the dirtiness and poverty-stricken look of the people. Little dark-eyed urchins, filthy in the extreme, rolled and played in the gutters unchecked by the untidy women who idled and gossiped in the doorways. The men loafing at the street corners were a lazy-looking set of ruffians, and the whole aspect was most depressing.
As Galva ascended the steps of the building between the rows of ragged and crippled beggars who daily congregated there to expose their miseries to the charitably inclined, a conviction came to her that all this hopeless poverty was the real result of the rule of the dissipated old monarch who lay dying up at the Palace. The new town of Corbo with its palatial hotels and wide boulevards was a whited sepulchre, behind which the sores of the true San Pietro festered in hiding.
As she walked slowly up the high-roofed nave she told herself that she was doing wrong to shirk her destiny, and that in the joys of Paris and Corbo she was apt to forget that she was God's anointed, and that these people were hers. The royal blood of the Estratos leaped in her veins as her duty was so plainly shown to her, and she took from her little handbag a rosary—for Galva had been brought up by Anna Paluda in the true Catholic faith—and registered a vow that with the Blessed Virgin's help she would be the salvation of her people, and would act to the utmost in her power in the high position to which she had been called.
She was in an ecstasy as she stood before the oak screen and let the ivory and rosewood beads slip through her little fingers. The sunlight pierced the emblazonry of the window set high above the tombs, and threw a pure orange stream of radiance upon the sculptured image of the babe at the breast, and the girl watching with parted lips took it for an omen.
Then as her sight grew more accustomed to the vague dimness of the cathedral she started and gazed into the gloom at the foot of her mother's sarcophagus. Dimly outlined against the tesselated pavement knelt the black-robed figure of a woman, a woman who, as she watched, rose to her feet and looking round timidly placed a spray of white blossoms full in the orange light.
With compressed lips and a heart bursting with compassion Galva drew back into the shadow of a little chapel as Anna Paluda, walking with bowed head, passed her and left the cathedral.
*****
It had been arranged that Señor Luazo and his nephew should dine that evening at Venta Villa, and Galva looked forward with no little trepidation to re-encountering the amorous lieutenant.
As she entered the drawing-room where Edward and Anna awaited the coming of their guests, the long mirror facing the door and between the two French windows showed her a picture of a radiant girl in a simple robe of a soft clinging blue material and with dark hair coiled turban-wise around a shapely head.
Edward looked up as she entered and smiled his admiration. He was fast growing accustomed to his changed mode of life, and he was beginning to take as a matter of course things which a few months ago he scarcely knew existed.
It was very pleasant to be standing there on the white bearskin rug in front of the fire waiting to extend the hand of welcome to Señor Luazo and Lieutenant Mozara. He smiled to himself grimly as he thought what either of these distinguished personages would think if they could look back a while and see a bowed little figure shuffling across London Bridge.
Seated in a low wicker chair Anna Paluda was watching with folded hands the flickering of the firelight on the Dutch tiles of the hearth. She looked very dignified in her black silk dress—Anna never wore colours—relieved by a touch of Honiton lace at throat and wrists.
The room was small, cosily so. The carpets and curtains were of a rich terra-cotta and the furniture was brocaded in a dull yellow. Delicate china showed richly in the shadowy recesses of a cabinet, and the little cluster of electric bulbs shaded in yellow silk gave a soft light. The two long windows, reaching to the floor, looked like panels of blue-black velvet in which the lights of the yachts anchored in the bay gleamed like diamonds. One could catch a glimpse also of a balcony on which were pots of shrubs and little green painted tables.
Galva was relieved to find that Mozara greeted her as usual. In fact, he was so attentive to her during dinner that she found herself wondering if she had not taken his remarks of the morning too seriously, and whether he had not been in fun half the time.
The dinner, well served and admirably cooked, was a success, and it was about ten o'clock when Mozara made an excuse to leave them, pleading another appointment. Galva had hoped that he wished the episode of the morning to be forgotten, but as she stood by the drawing-room door bidding him "good-night" he touched on the subject.
"Did you find the shop you wanted, Miss Baxendale?"
She felt the colour come to her cheeks, but the soldier was waiting for an answer.
"No, I'm afraid not—it was rather a disappointing morning."
"It was to me," he said; "but we are friends, I hope, Miss Baxendale, eh? Our appointment for to-morrow holds good, I hope?" And Galva had looked serious for a moment, then smiled sunnily in answer.
Once clear of Venta Villa, the lieutenant turned, and the arc lamps showed the cunning ferocity of his sallow face as he shook his fist at the house he had just left.
"Friends!" he hissed. "Yes, my work will be easier if we are friends."
Then he hurried on to keep his appointment with Dasso.
*****
After Galva and Anna had retired, Edward sat smoking with his guest in the little library of the villa. He thought it a good opportunity to talk over the state of affairs, and he opened by remarking on the rumours of the king's health that had been rife in Corbo the last few days.
The old gentleman stroked his long white beard meditatively for a moment.
"It cannot be long now," he said at last; "the good God ease his passing. The princess must hold herself in readiness, for at the moment the breath leaves the body of Enrico, Dasso, who has many friends in the army, will hasten to the Palace, and will cause himself to be proclaimed king. I know that, in this, he has a secret understanding with Spain herself. Miranda—I mean Galva—must be there also, Mr. Sydney; the people must choose."
"And what will Spain say to that?"
"Spain, my dear sir, is powerless where an Estrato is concerned. Enrico's nephew even must bow to her claim. Believe me there will be no difficulty; but it is better to be in time and not to allow Dasso to mount the throne at all. It might be harder to dislodge him once there, than we imagine."
The old man paused for a moment and drew his chair nearer to Edward.
"I saw him look at her very hard that evening they met at my house. They say," his voice sank to a whisper, "that Gabriel Dasso's was the hand that struck down the royal victims that night fifteen years ago. It is said that he and one other alone of all the band of conspirators went right through with it. That other, a Señor Orates, shot himself within a week."
"And the people—do they know this?"
Señor Luazo made an expressive gesture with his hands.
"Fifteen years is a long time, Mr. Sydney, and the people of San Pietro have a short memory. There are a few of us old ones, we who knew the king and his queen, who do not forget. We have been unconsciously awaiting this day for fifteen years. I wonder if Dasso saw any likeness when he looked at her? Thereisa likeness, elusive indeed, but at times I see the eyes of Queen Elene as I have seen them look on those she liked. If Dasso saw it too, he will be dangerous. I would like to come to an issue with Gabriel; regicide that he is, he is received everywhere. His crime has never been brought home to him, and in any case is regarded as a political one. It has made my blood boil, señor, to see him at my table."
Long after Señor Luazo had left, Edward sat gazing into the dying fire. The windows of the library looked inland, and by turning his head he could see the row of lights in the Palace windows. He thought of the dying king and of how the affair that looked at first like being a comedy, might at any moment now develop into a tragedy.
The doorway of Gabriel Dasso's house stood open and the gleam of yellow light that cut into the darkness showed old Pieto the groom holding by the bridle a horse that seemed by its steaming hide to have been hard ridden and but newly arrived. Lieutenant Mozaro slackened his steps as he mounted the hill, asking himself what visitor this could be that rode in haste to Dasso at so late an hour.
Remembering the business of his own visit he drew back into the shadow of the stable yard of a littleposadathat stood nearly opposite. It was striking eleven down in the town and the inn had done its business of the day, and, save for a little square of light in an upper storey, was in darkness. Gaspar leant against the gate-post and watched the horse standing with outstretched neck and drooping head, and the form of the groom silhouetted against the glow of the hall. Old Pieto looked now and again, with a show of impatience, within the house, thinking, no doubt, of the interrupted supper awaiting him below stairs.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed—it seemed longer to the man waiting in the stable yard—when the booted and spurred figure of a young man came out upon the doorstep. He stood there a moment drawing on his riding-gloves, and turned and spoke to the master of the house who stood behind him, just within the hall. The young rider took the reins from old Pieto and swung himself gracefully into the saddle. He bent down for a final word or two, then brought his horse sharply round and with a dig of the heels set him at the hill that led inland.
Mozaro was about to leave his retreat when he heard the window of the inn open. From his point of vantage in the shadow, he saw a head emerge—a round bullet-shaped head that took the attitude of listening. It remained motionless until the clatter of the horse's hoofs upon the cobbled street died away, then it turned a face full upon the spot where he stood, and Mozaro gave a start as he remembered that he had not put out his cigar. The face was a strange one to him, and he knew that Detti, the host of the Three Lilies, did not entertain many guests. Moreover, it was not the face of a native of San Pietro. A moment the stranger regarded him fixedly, then with a muttering in a language that was certainly not Spanish, but was undoubtedly a curse, the window was slammed shut and the light extinguished.
The lieutenant turned towards the house opposite. Old Pieto had disappeared, but Dasso still stood upon the doorstep looking anxiously along the road towards the town. As Mozaro came out of the shadow he gave a start, then greeted him eagerly. He drew him inside and closed the stout oaken door.
"There has been great news to-night," he said, and led the way to the library.
The two men seated themselves at the table on which was strewn a few official-looking papers.
"Enrico is worse, Gaspar; I have just heard from the Palace that he may go at any time. The doctors wonder at his vitality."
"Threatened men live long."
"Yes, and there's another proverb, I believe, about it being hard to kill a weed—Enrico may laugh at the doctors yet. But," went on Dasso, "we must be in readiness. Miss Baxendale must be secured or silenced."
Lieutenant Mozara looked straight in the elder man's eyes.
"You mean the Princess Miranda, Dasso."
The other looked up quickly.
"Ah, then you have heard?"
"I have heard enough to know that. I have played the spy well," and the sallow face lit up with an evil grin. "I have suspected the facts for two days now."
He drew his chair closer to Dasso's.
"And what is more, they are waiting for the same signal as you are. When the guns at the Palace boom out the death—well—it'll be the devil take the hindmost."
Gabriel Dasso rose and paced nervously up and down the room, biting his moustache. It seemed to him that here was a grave danger, and he cursed the luck that had brought Miranda to life at the time when his plans seemed so prosperous—when success seemed assured. Then a thought occurred to him and he pulled up sharp before the man who was sitting drumming his fingers on the table.
"It seems to me, Gaspar, that you have taken up my cudgels very thoroughly. Your expression when you spoke of her Royal Highness wasn't a very pretty one. You don't like the lady, eh?"
"No, curse her—I don't."
"So. That's how the land lies. That accounts for your keeping your suspicions to yourself for two days. It seems to me," and his voice grew hard, "that Lieutenant Gaspar Mozara has had a fish of his own to fry."
"You can keep your taunts, Gabriel. I neither understand them nor appreciate them. I am with you in this matter, body and soul—does not that suffice?"
"It is everything, my dear boy. We won't quarrel. Hate is a good weapon. I hope you have not put the princess out of temper with you?"
"Miranda and I are the best offriends. I thought it better that we should be. We motor together to-morrow morning. Doesn't that suggest anything to you, Gabriel?"
"My dear Gaspar, it suggests so many things that I'm bewildered."
"Will the news of Enrico's relapse reach the town to-night?"
"It's hardly likely—my source of information is a private one."
"I'm calling for the lady at nine. The news mustn't reach Venta Villa before then, or she will be kept in readiness."
For some little time neither of the men spoke, then Dasso leant over and whispered the plot that had occurred to his fertile and evil brain.
"You will call with the car at nine, as arranged. After a spin twice past the villa to allay any suspicion of the girl being long away, you will suggest a run to Alcador. The road is a good one, and you can open out to any speed. About ten miles out you will see—no doubt you know it—a castle, one tower of which shows up from a little forest of pines.
"You will here pretend that something is amiss with the engine. You will descend, and while she is watching you at the bonnet, a man will enter the tonneau from behind. A chloroform pad will do the rest. Pieto and his wife will be at the castle, which belongs to a distant relative of mine, to receive the guest."
"An excellent plan, señor, but what will they say to me?"
"That's only the first half of the plan. You will turn the car and run back to where four miles from here the road winds ledgewise, round the western spur of the Yeldo hills. There is a low stone wall here, and the curves are dangerous. You will stop here and alight, and set the empty car at full speed at this wall. It will give way easily, and the river, which runs at this spot in a series of falls and rapids, will do all that is needed in the way of evidence."
Mozara opened his mouth to speak, but Dasso held up a silencing hand, and went on: "You will then throw over the cloak and hat that the girl was wearing, and walk on to a cottage which you will see a little nearer the town. Here you will be met by a friend of mine who will transfigure you. Immediately afterwards a cart will leave the cottage containing poor Lieutenant Mozara. His arm will be in plaster of Paris, and his clothing will be torn to ribbons and blood-stained. A bandage will be wound around his poor head." Señor Dasso laughed. "His will have been a narrow escape.
"Search will be made and the wrecked car discovered. Sympathy will go out to the friends of the late Miss Baxendale, whose body will be stated to be in one of the deep holes which abound in the River Ardentella. And so for the second time this person's death will be announced."
"And what will you do with her ultimately?"
"In that we must be guided by circumstances. I see no reason why, if the lady be reasonable, she should not in the long run go free, if not—" he shrugged his shoulders—"I would be generous to her in the way of money, and once on the throne I fear nothing. Spain will see to that."
"And what of her friends?"
"I'll find a way to crush that worm Sydney, while as for the woman—I don't know who she is, a paid companion, no doubt—I don't think she counts."
To Mozara the scheme sounded good. He was not at all anxious to play the part of invalid for long, but, as Dasso pointed out, his injuries could turn out less serious than was at first supposed. Again, he did not like losing the car. But it was revenge that smoothed the way for him. He thought of the proud disdain that had shown in Miranda's face that morning, and it was enough.
An hour later old Pieto and a sour-looking woman, who, by the discourtesy he showed her, was presumably his wife, set out in a covered cart and made their way inland. Again, a little later, two men who had spent an hour with Señor Dasso left and took the same road.
Leading out of the town of Corbo, the Alcador road ascends steeply to the Palace Square, where, leaving the royal residence on its left, it winds away over a stretch of desolate brown moorland and cuts its way through the Yeldo Hills at the Quinlon Pass. Once through, the red fluted roofs of Alcador and the yellow belfry of its church lie spread out before one.
And all the way to the hills the road has for its constant companion the blue Ardentella, running first this side and then that. The many bridges where the road crosses the river are quaint old structures, the architecture of which plainly points to their origin being Moorish.
The casual traveller journeying on this road would pass the Casa Luzo without being aware of its existence. At one time the tower showed above the trees, a landmark for miles around, but that was long ago, and, as the stout stonework had crumbled into ruin, so had the forest spread in density, so that there was now little likelihood of the jagged tower that mingled with the tree tops being noted. True, there was a gateway, but there were no gates hanging on its hinges; only two gaunt pillars of stone, their bases hidden in a rank mass of herbage.
Count Ribero, in whose family the castle had been since Alfonso VI reigned over Spain, never visited his ancestral home, the gay young nobleman preferring the little villa on the shore at San Sebastian which had come to him from his mother. Dasso, therefore, by his distant cousin's invitation made free with the place for all purposes without compunction.
At his own expense he had made a few rooms inhabitable, and the hunting parties and carousals which he had held there had been until lately very popular amongst the gilded youth of the San Pietro army.
But of late years Dasso's orgies had been less frequent. Political ambitions had taken up the time of that enterprising gentleman, and the rooms were beginning to show the effects of non-usage. Large patches of damp were making their appearance on walls and ceilings, and the somewhat gaudy hangings and furniture were fast becoming the happy hunting ground of moth.
Old Pieto felt a thrill of superstitious awe as he turned the key in the massive lock. A chill wind pierced him as he threw open the great door and stepped into the gloomy hall. The lantern he carried threw shaking patches of ochre light on the flagged floor, and an army of rats and spiders scampered away at the approach of this intruder in their domains. One great fellow stood his ground, regarding the intruder with beady black eyes in which the rays of the lantern touched little pin points of flame. With a cry old Pieto flung the heavy door-key, and, squeaking, old King Rat disappeared.
A woman with a thin wrinkled face had been peering over the old man's shoulder, and now she followed him timidly into the hall, holding her skirts well above her ankles and looking fearsomely at the desolation around her. On her arm she carried a large basket, which she now set down at the foot of the staircase.
Old Pieto remembered the last occasion when he had been there, some two months ago, when a supper had been organized by Dasso to celebrate the benefit of La Belle Espanzo at the Casino, and as he opened the door of the dining-hall the scene came back to him in full force.
The long oaken table from which the cloth had been half snatched was still littered with thedébrisof the feast. The old manservant knew that he ought to have cleared it away, but it was a long journey from Corbo, and it had been put off. A tall epergne in the centre of the table had been overturned, and flowers, yellow and brittle, were tumbled together with the wrinkled mummies of fruit, and lay in a scattered heap on the oak floor. He remembered how the young bloods had toasted the lovely dancer, drinking champagne from her slipper. The little high-heeled satin drinking vessel still lay on the table, shapeless now and stained with wine. Pieto noticed that a giant spider web stretched from the dainty rosette of the shoe to the back of one of the carved chairs.
The sight of the disarray of wine bottles suggested the cellar to the old man, and, still carrying the lantern, he descended the broken stone steps at the end of the passage, reappearing almost immediately with a couple of tall thin-necked flasks.
He called his wife and bade her make a fire in the open grate, and soon the blaze shone merrily on the tarnished silver and glass on the table and threw weird and flickering shadows into the corners of the dark panelled walls.
The worthy couple, with chairs drawn up to the genial warmth, attacked the bottles gratefully. It was no joke for the master to pack them off to this spot in the dead of night. The journey had been a long and wearisome one, they had had to walk the last quarter of a mile, and it had rained a little as they came through the forest.
But there was work to do and to do quickly. Pieto was content to superintend operations, and he issued orders from his armchair, while Teresa cleared thedébrisfrom the table. The old fellow, warmed by the wine he had taken, entertained his wife with reminiscences of the feast. He rubbed his skinny hands together as he talked.
"Ah, that was a night, Teresa—the wine flowed like water—the best in the cellars, too. And the beautiful Espanzo—divine!" the old reprobate kissed the grimy tips of his fingers, "blue-black hair, and a mouth like a splash of wine—and—her eyes as she danced!"
The old woman seemed not to hear him, working steadily, piling the broken glass and fruit into the table-cloth and tying up the four corners. Her husband looked shrewdly at her from beneath his shaggy brows and rambled on.
"On the table, too, she danced, all among the wine and the flowers—and me, too. The gentlemen made me, old Pieto, dance with her, and, as we danced, she sang the tune—how did it go?—yes," and the ancient broke out into a wheezing treble of a weird and sensuous melody, ending in a harsh chuckle as his wife left the room, taking her bundle with her.
Candles had been set upright in the sconces and shed a soft light on the handsome old apartment, to which duster and broom soon gave a look of respectability. The old woman paused and surveyed her work.
"And where is she to be put?" she asked the figure by the fire, who, with goblet in hand, had fallen again to his humming.
"Eh—oh," and he pointed to the ceiling. "Above here, I suppose, for the present—the Duchess room. Hurry, Teresa, it'll be daylight soon. Put a fire up there, the room will be damp—ugh!"
"Ah, you can shiver, Pieto. Why don't you work and get warmth into your old blood? Get me a few logs from the outhouse, won't you? I don't like rats."
"Ay, I'll do that for you. Get you upstairs. I'll bring them up."
Pieto relit the lantern, and his shuffling footsteps died away down the stone passage. There was a creak of rusty bolts and a gust of the chill air that comes before the dawn flickered the candles in the dining-room.
Outside, the old man made his way across a paved court-yard, the stones of which were worn and cracked with age, and little blades of tender green showed between the crevices. One side of the yard was colonnaded, and the moonlight cut clear designs of shadow among the lichen-covered pillars. On the other three sides a high stone wall separated the house and yard from the forest. Pieto could see the sharp silhouettes of the tall pine tops against the star-strewn sky. The rain had ceased, and there was a delicious freshness in the air, and the woodland was alive with the tiny noises of the night.
A bat zigzagged before the man's eyes, and he hurried on his errand. He collected an armful of logs from a shed in the corner and hastened back to the fire. He did not forget to pay another visit to the cellar on his way.
By the time Teresa's labours were finished birds were calling to their mates, and the higher branches of the trees were flushed with the dawn. The dining-room showed ghostly as she entered it. Her husband was still before the nearly dead fire, his arms hanging inertly on either side, the finger-tips touching the floor. A broken glass lay at his feet, and the red wine had run into a little pool. The rays of the newly-risen sun struggled through the escutcheoned panes and cast a variegated sheen over all, and a candle which had outlasted its fellows shone with a pale sickly light. Teresa laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of her sleeping lord.
"Pig," she said.
A snore was strangled at its birth, and Pieto sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"I've been asleep," he said, as though the fact were one that called for amazement.
"You've been drunk, you mean. Get out to the yard, man, and to the pump, and go and lie down on the bed up-stairs. A nice thing," she went on, "if our visitor arrives and those who bring her find you like this. I still have work to do."
The old man looked sullen but did not answer. He ran his tongue round his parched mouth and did as he was bid, while his wife, upon whom this unwonted night-work seemed to have little or no effect, busied herself in the kitchen.
It was about mid-day when a cautious tap at the window brought her hastily to the front of the building. Lieutenant Mozara, his face white and drawn, stood leaning against one of the stone pillars that supported the portico.
"Is all ready? Where's Pieto?"
Murmuring some answer, Teresa ran back into the house, and in a moment returned with her husband. He was but half-awake, but at the sight of the lieutenant he pulled himself together. He saluted the officer, and together the two men ran through the belt of woodland which lay between the house and the road.
Gaspar had done his work well. The figure of Galva Baxendale lay stretched out on the little ribbon of grass that ran beside the road. The car stood vibrating beside her, and with an oath Gaspar ran to it and shut off the engine. Then without further delay the men lifted the unconscious girl and made their way back to the house.
The lieutenant waited only long enough to drain the glass of wine Teresa had poured out for him. His hand shook so that the liquor splashed upon the door-stone, and the glass rattled against his teeth as he drank.
It was evident that the old couple had had their instructions, for hardly a word passed between Mozara and them during the whole time. In the rest of the programme Pieto and his wife knew their parts.
When the captive was safely locked away in the room above, they set about making preparations for the meals of the day. Now and again the woman ascended the creaking stairs and listened at the door of the Duchess room. They had been given to understand that the effect of the chloroform would take some few hours to wear off, but dusk fell and still the victim gave no sign. Then night came down on the castle, and in the dining-room the candles were lit and shone on the sallow faces of the two old people who, with ears nervously strained, still waited and listened.
A night bird screamed in the forest behind them, echoing eerily around the still castle.
In a state of the deepest dejection Edward Povey listened to the story. At times during its recital he would raise his head and look at Gaspar Mozara. The lieutenant, when Edward's head was bent again, eyed his hearer narrowly.
He had told his tale well—circumstantially and yet with the feeling that Anna Paluda, who, sitting rigidly in her chair, never once removed her doubting eyes from his face, did not believe a word he was saying. He found it increasingly difficult to marshal his facts under the fire of those steady watching eyes. Hitherto, this grim lady in black had held no importance for him, but now, as he looked at her and felt her presence, she took on a new individuality. To Mozara it seemed as though an unconsidered pawn belonging to an opponent had crept unobserved up the chess-board of his plans and had become suddenly a force to be reckoned with.
The lieutenant was between two stools. He had told his tale, and was now anxious to be gone, but he felt that no sooner did he leave, so surely some piece of evidence, some vital point in the scheme would occur to him as having been left unsaid.
He had made his way to the little villa as soon as the third-rate medical man, whom Dasso had pressed into the plot, had given the lieutenant permission to get up, a sorrowful figure in deep mourning. His right arm was suspended in a sling of black silk and was tightly swathed in surgical bandages. He had sunk in well-simulated exhaustion into the big chintz-covered arm-chair in the drawing-room facing the sea, and had laid an ebony crutch beside him on the carpet. One leg had been carefully stretched out stiffly before him.
Edward, all unsuspecting, had assisted him in his movements and had opened the windows, letting in the bracing breeze that blew up from the bay. Anna Paluda, however, had merely inclined her head. When the lieutenant entered she had felt only a dull anger against the author of her poor Galva's death. It was only as his story progressed that she grew to doubt the truth of what she was listening to. Gaspar had begun with well-acted expressions of sympathy and with carefully considered phrases of self-condemnation. He told them that the blame of the accident had been entirely his in agreeing to Miss Baxendale's demands for increased speed. The road was one on which he had seldom travelled and they had rounded the spur of the hillside before he was aware of their danger. He had applied the brakes and turned the wheel to keep in the middle of the narrow road but the impetus had been too great. There had been a hideous skid as the car crashed almost broadside into the old and crumbling wall.
The lieutenant had remembered no more until he had come to his senses to find that he was being carried along on some kind of rough litter. The pain and the jolting had caused him again to lose consciousness, and when next he awoke he was in his uncle's house.
There had been no questions from his hearers. Anna had sat rigidly as before, and Edward, his head between his hands, rocked himself gently to and fro. From time to time he gave a little moan.
Gaspar had fixed his eyes on the centre of a rose pattern in the carpet, and had resumed his tale in a low, hopeless voice.
"My first thoughts were of Miss Baxendale and of how she had fared. For two days they would tell me nothing except that she was slightly hurt. I only heard yesterday the true state of affairs, how her cloak and hat had been found in the ravine near the Wrecked car. The river, they tell me, is deep here and weed-grown and there are great rocky holes. I——"
The lieutenant had risen with a choking sound in his throat as he recited these details. He leant heavily on his crutch, standing before Anna and Edward.
"This is as painful to me—as to you. I—I—can say no more." He advanced to the little bowed figure before him and held out a hesitating left hand.
"I would like to hear you say one word, sir. This affair will be with me to the day of my death. I am beyond the reach of Miss Baxendale's pardon, but not of yours. You will perhaps be leaving San Pietro and I would like a word to remember and look back on. It would be one spot of brightness in the darkness of my future."
Edward had taken the proffered hand and the lieutenant had bent low over it, pressing it to his lips. Then he turned for the harder task of facing Anna Paluda. But that lady had taken advantage of his back being turned to slip unnoticed away. Gaspar's relief at being spared the leave-taking was mixed with a disquieting feeling of a pending misfortune. He told himself that it would be long before he could forget the eyes of the lady in black.
Painfully, and with dragging step, Mozara left the house and made his way down the path to the boulevard. The fiacre which had been waiting for him was drawn up at the curb, and into it the wounded officer was helped by the driver, who, mounting his box, turned his horse and drove off in the direction of the Old Town.
Edward had sat where his visitor had left him, the prey to the most poignant sorrow and agony of mind. To his own rash and criminal act in personating another man all this tragedy was due. Although he had, at times, told himself that Miranda would not be seated upon a throne without some opposition, he had never imagined that danger threatened the girl herself. She was so beautiful and tender-hearted, so delightfully modern, that the idea of her being the centre of a plot of scheming scoundrels had barely occurred to him. That an accident should have been the cause of her death was a stunning blow to the little man who sat in the sunlit drawing-room, gazing blankly at the wall before him.
He rose at last with a sigh, and passed out through the French windows on to the balcony. Below him rolled the carriages and motors of the fashionable world of Corbo; from the smart café a little up the boulevard came the sound of strings of a gipsy orchestra and the laughter and chatter of the crowd of loungers who were taking their absinthe. Edward told himself that in the whole of San Pietro there was no house afflicted as was Venta Villa. The flowering shrubs on the balcony on which he stood, the gaudy red-striped awning over his head seemed to mock him, and he turned from the gay scene with a little sob. It was then that he saw Anna Paluda. She was sitting in a low wicker chair, and like him had been gazing out upon the boulevard and on to the blue of the bay beyond.
She beckoned Edward to come to her side, and standing there, one hand resting on the little iron railing, he listened while the lady told him of her disbelief in no undecided voice.
Edward's expression changed as he drank in her words, and the hand on the railing tightened its hold till the knuckles showed white patches of skin. The suggestion of doubt on what he had looked upon as an accepted tragedy was acting as balm upon his spirits, and all the hidden power of his brain was responding to the call and demanding action—deeds.
"And you say you watched him?"
"Yes, from this balcony. As he was getting into the cab, the driver who was helping him stumbled a little. I distinctly saw Señor Mozara put out hisrighthand and grasp the back of the hood. I had doubted before in my own mind, but this is certain. The lieutenant's right arm is as sound as his left, for all his surgical bandages. Again, why should so important a personage as the nephew of Señor Luazo call in the services of an unknown medical man, instead of the family practitioner?"
The lady paused for a moment, then went on fiercely—
"Oh! I can see it all now. Dasso, the cursed regicide, is at the bottom of this. I, who have suspected the man, have watched his friends. I have seen meaning looks, glances pass from evil eye to evil eye. Mr. Sydney—you will understand that I, too, have a quarrel with Dasso. The hand that struck down Queen Elene struck down my child—the baby at whose tomb I, her mother, have to sorrow in secret——"
Edward laid a hand lightly on the weeping woman's shoulder.
"And my sorrow, Anna, my anguish! Have you thought of that, of what it means to me, who have indirectly brought Miranda to this?"
Anna took his hand between both of hers and looked up at him through her tears.
"You have been kindness itself, Mr. Sydney. You had your duty to Mr. Baxendale and you have done it nobly."
The man turned away and thought of Kyser. Anna's trust in his integrity was almost too much for him to bear. Rapidly the little devils of pro and con invaded his conscience. Then and there he registered a silent vow that come what might he would go through with it. There was no turning back now; he would not add cowardice to his crime. If Miranda were still in the land of the living, his would be the hand that would save her and deal vengeance where it was due. He hoped that, if need be, he might die in the doing. He went into his bedroom and took from his trunk a leather writing-case, and from one of its pockets a letter. It had been handed to him as they left the hotel in Paris, and was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer. He had laughed as he read it and put it away in his case. Now he read it with all seriousness. It was merely a short note, in which the writer had set down boyishly his admiration for Miss Baxendale. He had heroically demanded that should that lady ever be in trouble, he should be called upon to come to her assistance. A letter addressed under cover to M. de Brea, the manager of the hotel, would always find the duke.
It was a letter breathing the spirit of knight errantry, such a letter as a love-sick boy of twenty would write. And yet, as Edward read the words under the changed conditions, they seemed to hold a deal of truth and manliness. The duke was a high-spirited young man, a little addicted, as Edward had seen, to the vices of his class, but he had liked and admired him in many ways.
There could be no harm, he told himself, in writing to him. Perhaps his grace had already forgotten that he had written such a letter; but Edward rather thought otherwise.
That evening after dinner he took a letter out and posted it himself. The outer envelope was addressed to—
M. de Brea,Manager,Ruttez Hotel,Rue Scribe, Paris;
the inner merely to—
His Grace le Duc de Choleaux Lasuer(by the courtesy of M. de Brea).