I turned and turned in my narrow berth, but could not sleep. The atmosphere seemed stifling, in spite of the ventilators; and I dared not open the port-hole, fearing a sudden douche, for a wind had sprung up and we were rolling heavily. The jingle of the glasses on the toilet-stand, the vibration, the tramping of the sailors overhead, the roar of the funnels, all rendered sleep utterly impossible.
At last I could stand it no longer. I rose and dressed, putting on a big driving-coat. Then, with a thick shawl about my head, I went up on deck. The fresh air might perhaps do me good, I thought. At any rate, it was a remedy worth trying.
The night, so brilliant a couple of hours before, had become dark and stormy; the wind was so boisterous that I walked with difficulty; and the fact that the awnings had been reefed showed that Davis, the skipper, anticipated a squall.
The deck was deserted. Only on the bridge could I see, above the strip of sheltering canvas, two shadowy figures in oilskins, keeping watch. Save for those figures, I was utterly alone. On my way towards the stern I passed the small deck-house, which old Mr. Keppel had reserved as his own den.
The green silk blinds were always drawn across the port-holes, and the door always remained locked. No one ever entered there, although many had been the speculations regarding the private cabin when we had first sailed.
The millionaire himself had, however, given an explanation one day at luncheon.
"I always reserve, both in my houses and here, on board theVispera, one room as my own. I hope all of you will excuse me this. As you know, I have a good many affairs to attend to, and I hate to have my papers thrown into disorder."
Personally, I suspected him of having a lathe there, so that he might pursue his hobby of ivory-turning, but the majority of the guests accepted his explanation that this deck-house was his study, and that he did not wish them to pry there.
More than once Ulrica had expressed to me wonder regarding the reason the cabin remained always closed, and its curtains always drawn. Every woman dearly loves a mystery, and, like myself, Ulrica, when she discovered anything suspicious, never rested until she had found some theory or other.
She had one day mentioned the fact to Gerald, who, in my presence, had given what appeared to me the true explanation.
"It's merely one of the guv'nor's eccentricities. The fact is, that on the outward voyage from Portsmouth he bought some antique Moorish furniture and ivory carvings in Tangier, and has stored all his purchases in there until we return. I've seen them myself—beautiful things. He says he intends to sell them at a profit to a dealer in London," whereat we laughed.
Knowing how the old gentleman practised economy sometimes, I had accepted this as the truth.
But as, gripping the rail to prevent myself being thrown down by the rolling of the ship, I passed along the side of the deck-house, I was surprised to see a light within. The curtains of green silk were still drawn, but the light could nevertheless be seen through them, and it occurred to me strange that anyone should be there at that hour of the night. I placed my face close to the screwed-down port-hole, but the curtain had been so well drawn that it was impossible to see within. Then, moving quietly, I examined the other three round brass-bound windows, but all were as closely curtained as the first.
I fancied I heard voices as I stood there, and I confess that I attempted to distinguish the words, but the roar of the funnels and howlings of the wind drowned every other sound.
What if my host caught me prying? His private affairs were surely no business of mine. Remembering this, I was about to turn away, when suddenly I experienced an extraordinary desire to peep inside that forbidden chamber. I walked round it again, stealthily, for, as luck would have it, I was in thin slippers.
While standing there in hesitation, I noticed that upon the low roof was a small ventilator which had been raised to admit air. What if I could get a peep down there! It was an adventurous climb for a woman hampered by skirts. But I searched for means to mount, and found them in a low iron staple, to which some cords of the rigging were attached, and a brass rail which afforded rather insecure foothold. After some effort, I succeeded in scrambling to the top, but not before I found myself rather too much exposed to the eye of the officer on the bridge. Fortunately, I was behind him, but if he had occasion to turn round he would be sure to discover me.
Having risked so much, however, I was determined to make further endeavour. I leaned across the small roof, placed my face close to the open ventilator, and peered down into the locked cabin.
Next second I drew back with a start, holding my breath. A loud exclamation of dismay escaped me, but the sound was swallowed up in the noises of the boisterous night. The sight I witnessed below me in that small deck-house held me as rigid as if I had been petrified.
So heavily was the yacht rolling that I was compelled to hold firmly, lest I should lose my balance and roll down upon the deck.
My foothold was insecure, and the sight which presented itself as I peered within was so unexpected and startling, that in the excitement of the moment I loosened my grip, and narrowly escaped being pitched down headlong. From my position I unfortunately could not obtain a view of the whole interior, the ventilator being open only a couple of inches; but what I saw was sufficient to unnerve any woman.
The cabin was lit brilliantly by electricity, but the walls, instead of being panelled in satinwood, as were most of the others, were decorated in a manner more rich and magnificent than in any other part of the vessel. They were gilt, with white ornamentation in curious arabesques, while upon the floor was a thick Turkey carpet with a white ground and pattern of turquoise blue. The effect was bright and glaring, and at the first moment it occurred to me that the place was really a lady's boudoir. There was another aft, it was true, but this one had evidently been intended as a lounge for female guests. As I looked down, old Benjamin Keppel himself passed into that part of the cabin within the zone of my vision. His hat was off, displaying his scanty grey hair, and as he turned I caught a glimpse of his face. His countenance, usually so kind and tranquil, was distorted by abject fear; his teeth were set, his cheeks grey and bloodless. Both anger and alarm were depicted upon his rugged countenance. His appearance was mysterious, to say the least; but it was another object within that room which held me in speechless wonderment.
Near where he stood, lying in a heap at his feet, was a dark-haired, handsome woman, in a white silk robe—a stranger.
The old millionaire, with a sudden movement, flung himself upon his knees, and touched her face caressingly. The next instant he drew back his hand.
"Dead!" he gasped, in the thick voice of a man grief-stricken. "Dead! And she did not know—she did not know! It is murder!" he gasped, in a terrified whisper. "Murder!"
The wind howled about me weirdly, tearing at my clothes as if it desired to hurl me into the raging sea; while the yacht, steaming on, rose and plunged, shipping huge seas each time her bows met the angry waves.
For some moments the strange old man bent over the woman in silence. I was puzzled to discover her identity. Why had she been kept prisoner in that gilded cabin during the cruise? Why had we remained in total ignorance of her presence? I alone knew our host's secret. We had a dead woman on board.
Keppel touched the woman again, placing his hand upon her face. When he withdrew it, I saw that blood was upon it. He looked at it, and shudderingly wiped it off upon his handkerchief.
At the same instant a voice, that of a man, sounded from the opposite side of the cabin, saying:
"Don't you see that the ventilator is open up above? Shut it, or somebody may see us. They can see down here from the bridge."
"Think of her," the old man exclaimed, in a low voice. "Not of us."
"Of her? Why should I?" inquired the gruff voice of the unseen. "You've killed her, and must take the consequences."
"I——" gasped the old man, staggering with difficulty to his feet, and placing both hands to his eyes, as though to shut out from view that hideous evidence of his crime. "Yes," he cried, in an awe-stricken tone, "she is dead!"
"And a good job, too," responded the unseen man, in a hard and pitiless tone.
"No," cried Keppel angrily. "At least respect her memory. Remember who she was!"
"I shall remember nothing of this night's work," the other responded. "I leave all memories of it as a legacy to you."
"You coward!" cried Keppel, turning upon the speaker, his eyes flashing. "I have endeavoured to assist you, and this is your gratitude."
"Assist me?" sneered his companion. "Pretty assistance it's been! I tell you what it is, Benjamin Keppel, you're in a very tight place just now. You killed that—that woman there, and you know what the penalty is for murder."
"I know!" wailed the white-faced, despairing man.
"Well, if I might be permitted to advise, I'd make a clean sweep of the whole affair," said the man.
"What do you mean?"
"Simply this: we can't keep the body very long in this cabin without it being discovered. And when it is found, well, it will be all up with both of us. Of that there's but little doubt. I suggest this. Let us make at once for one of the Italian ports, say Leghorn, where you will land to transact some important business, and I'll land also. Then theVisperawill sail for Naples, to which port you will go by rail to rejoin her. On the way, however, the vessel disappears—eh?"
"Disappears! How? I don't understand."
"Is blown up."
"Blown up!" he cried. "And how about the guests?"
"Guests be hanged!"
"But there are eleven of them, beside the crew."
"Never mind them. There are the boats, and no doubt they'll all take care of themselves. Fools if they don't."
"I should feel that I'd murdered them all," the old man responded.
"In this affair we must save ourselves," declared the unseen man, very firmly. "There has been a—well, we'll call it an ugly occurrence to-night, and it behoves us to get clear out of it. If theVisperagoes down, the body will go down with it, and the sea will hide our secret."
"But I cannot imperil the lives of all in that manner. Besides, by what means do you suggest destroying the ship?"
"Perfectly simple. Just give orders to Davis in the morning to put in at Leghorn with all possible speed, and leave the rest to me. I'll guarantee that theVisperawill never reach Naples." Then he added: "But just shut that infernal ventilator. I don't like it being open."
Old Keppel, staggering, reached the cord, and in obedience to his companion's wish closed the narrow opening with a sudden bang. The woodwork narrowly escaped coming into contact with my face, and for some moments I remained there clutching at my unstable supports, and rudely buffeted by the gale.
As at any moment I might be discovered, I made haste to lower myself again to the deck, though not without difficulty, and then cautiously returned to my own cabin.
I had been soaked to the skin by the rain and spray, but though still in my wet things, I sat pondering over the mysterious crime I had discovered.
Who was that unseen man? Whoever he was, he held old Benjamin Keppel in his power, and to his diabolical plot would be due the destruction of theVispera, and the loss of perhaps every soul on board.
He had suggested an explosion. He no doubt intended to place on board some infernal contrivance which, after the lapse of a certain number of hours, would explode, and blow the bottom out of the yacht. Whoever that man was, he was a crafty villain. Providentially, however, I had been led to the discovery of the scheme, and I did not mean that the lives of my fellow-guests, or of the crew, should be sacrificed in order to conceal a crime.
A vision of that white dead face recurred to me. It was a face very handsome, but to my remembrance I had never seen it before. The mystery of the woman's concealment there was altogether extraordinary. Yet it scarcely seemed possible that she should have remained in hiding so long without a soul on board, save Keppel, being aware of her presence. She had been fed, of course, and most probably the steward knew of her presence in that gilded deck-house. But she was dead—murdered by an inoffensive old gentleman, who was the very last person in the would I should have suspected of having taken human life.
And why had he stroked her dead face so caressingly? Who, indeed, was she?
My wet clothes clung to me coldly and clammily. I now exchanged them for a warm wrap, entered my berth, and tried to rest. Sleep was, however, impossible in that doomed ship, amid the wild roaring of the tempest and the thunder of the waves breaking over the deck above. Once it occurred to me to go straight to Ulrica and tell her all I had seen and heard, but on reflection I resolved to keep my own counsel, and narrowly watch the course of events.
The mystery of the hidden man's identity grew upon me, until I suddenly resolved to make a further endeavour to discover him. The voice was deep and low, but the roaring of the wind and hissing of escaping steam had prevented me hearing it sufficiently well to recognise whether it was that of one of our fellow-guests. I slipped on a mackintosh, returned to the deck, and crept towards the cabin, wherein reposed the remains of the mysterious woman in white. But soon I saw that the light had been switched off. All was in darkness. The guilty pair had gone below to their own berths.
Through the whole night the storm continued, but the morning broke brightly, and the tempest, as is so frequently the case in the Mediterranean, was succeeded by a dead calm, so that when we sat down to breakfast we were steaming in comparatively smooth water.
"Have you heard?" said Ulrica to me, after we had been exchanging our sleepless experiences. "Mr. Keppel has altered our course. He has some pressing business to attend to, so we are going into Leghorn."
"Leghorn!" exclaimed Lord Eldersfield at my elbow. "Horrid place! I was there once. Narrow streets, dirty people, primitive sanitation, and a sorry attempt at a promenade."
"Well, we don't stay there long; that's one comfort," said Ulrica. "Mr. Keppel is going ashore and he'll rejoin us at Naples."
I looked down the table and saw that the face of the old millionaire was pale, without its usual composure. He was pretending to be busily occupied with his porridge.
"Are we going on straight to Naples, Keppel?" inquired Eldersfield.
"Certainly," answered our host. "I much regret that I'm compelled to take you all out of our original course, but I must exchange some telegrams with my agent in London. We shall be in Leghorn to-night, and if you are all agreed, you may sail again at once."
"I'd like to see Leghorn," declared Ulrica. "People who go to Italy always leave it out of their itinerary. I've heard that it is quite charming in many ways. All the better-class Italians from Florence and Rome go there for the bathing in summer."
"Which, I fear, isn't much of a recommendation," observed his lordship, who was, I believe, Ulrica's pet aversion.
"The bathing itself is declared by all the guide-books to be the best in Europe," she answered.
"And the heat in summer greater than in any other place on the Continent of Europe. Its imports are rags from Constantinople and codfish from Newfoundland. No wonder its scents do not all come from roses."
"Certainly not. Of course, if you know the place you are welcome to your own opinion. I don't know it."
"When you do, Miss Yorke, you'll share my opinion. Of that I feel certain," he laughed; and then continued his meal.
The question was shortly decided by vote whether theVisperashould remain at Leghorn or not. By the majority of the guests, Leghorn was supposed to be merely a dirty seaport, and although I, who knew the place well, tried to impress upon them that it possessed many charms not to be found in other Italian towns, it was decided that the yacht should only remain there a day, and then go straight on to Naples.
This decision was disconcerting. I had to prevent the trip southward, and the problem of how to do so without arousing suspicion was an extremely difficult one to solve. If the vessel sailed from Leghorn, then she was doomed, together with every soul on board.
The great broad plain which lies between marble-built Pisa and the sea was flooded by the golden Italian sunset, and the background of the serrated Apennines loomed a dark purple in the distance as we approached the long breakwater which protects Leghorn from the sea.
Leaning over the rail, I gazed upon the white sun-blanched Tuscan town, and recognised the gay Passeggio, with its avenue of dusky tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses, with their greenpersiennes, and Pancaldi's, and other baths, built out upon the rocks into the sea. Years ago, when at the convent, we had gone there each summer, a dozen or so girls at a time, under the care of Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so from the intolerable heat of July in the Val d'Ema. How well I remembered that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, best known to those happy, light-hearted, improvident Livornesi by its ancient name, the Passeggio! And what long walks we girls used to have over the rocks beyond Antignano, or scrambling climbs up to the shrine of the miracle-working Virgin at Montenero! Happy, indeed, were those summer days with my girl friends—girls who had now, like myself, grown to be women—who had married, and had experienced all the trials and bitterness of life. I thought of her who was my best friend in those past days—pretty, black-haired, unassuming Annetta Ceriani, from Arezzo. She had left the college the same week as myself, and our parting had been a very sad one. In a year, however, she had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Romolo Annibale Cesare Sigismondo, Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles, was "principe Romano, principe di Pinerolo, conte di Lucca, nobile di Monte Catini." Truly, the Italian nobility do not lack titles. But poor Annetta! Her life had been the reverse of happy, and the last letter I had received from her, dated from Venice, contained the story of a woman heart-broken.
Yes, as I stood there on the deck of theVispera, approaching the old sun-whitened Tuscan port, many were the recollections of those long-past careless days which crowded upon me—days before I had known how weary was the world, or how fraught with bitterness was woman's love.
Already the light was shining yellow in the square old lighthouse, although the sun had not altogether disappeared. Half-a-dozen fine cruisers of the British Mediterranean Squadron were lying at anchor in line, and we passed several boats full of sun-tanned men on the way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the British sailor is always a welcome guest in Leghorn.
The situation was becoming desperate. How was I to act? At least, I should now ascertain who had been the old man's companion in the deck-cabin on the previous night, for he and this stranger would no doubt go ashore together.
Old Mr. Keppel was standing near me, speaking again to the captain, giving him certain orders, when Gerald, spruce as usual in blue serge, came up and leaned at my side.
"Ulrica says you know Leghorn quite well. You must be our guide. We're all going ashore after dinner. What is there to amuse one in the evening?"
"There is opera at the Goldoni always. One pays only four lire for a box to seat six," I said.
"Impossible!" he laughed incredulously. "I shouldn't care to sit out music at that price."
"Ah, there I must differ," I replied. "It is as good as any you'll find in Italy. Remember, here is the home of opera. Why, the Livornesi love music so intensely that it is no unusual occurrence for a poor family to make shift with a piece of bread and an onion for dinner, so as to save the fifty centesimi ingresso to the opera. Mascagni is Livornese, and Puccini, who composed La Boheme, was also born close here. In 'cara Livorno,' as the Tuscan loves to call it, one can hear the best opera for five-pence."
"Compare that with prices in London!"
"And our music, unfortunately, is not so good," I said.
"Shall we go to this delightfully inexpensive opera to-night? It would certainly be an experience."
"I fear I shall not," I answered. "I'm not feeling very well."
"I'm extremely sorry," he said, with quick apprehension. "Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, nothing, thank you," I answered. "I feel a little faint, that's all."
We had already anchored just inside the breakwater, and those very inquisitive gentlemen—the Italian Customs officers—had come on board. A few minutes later the bell rang for dinner, and all descended to the saloon, eager to get the meal over and go ashore.
On the way down Ulrica took me aside.
"Gerald has told me you are ill, my dear. I've noticed how pale and unlike yourself you've been all day. What's the matter? Tell me."
"I—I can't. At least, not now," I managed to stammer, as I hastened to slip from her side.
I wanted to be alone to think. Keppel's companion of the previous night, the man to whom the conception of that diabolical plot was due, was still on board. But who was he?
I ate nothing, and was ready to take my seat in the first boat that went ashore. I had excused myself from making one of the party at the opera, after giving all necessary directions, and, on pretence of going to a chemist's to make a purchase, I separated myself from Ulrica, Gerald, and Lord Eldersfield in the Via Grande, the principal thoroughfare.
How next to act I knew not. No doubt Keppel's intention was to send on board some explosive destined to sink theVisperato the bottom with all on board. At all hazards, the yacht must not sail. Yet, how was it possible that I could prevent it without making a full statement of what I had overheard?
I entered the pharmacy and purchased the first article that came into my mind. Then, returning into the street, I wandered on, plunged in my own distracting thoughts. Keppel had gone alone to the telegraph office in a cab.
The soft, balmy Italian night had fallen, and the white streets and piazzas of Leghorn were filled, as they always are at evening, with the light-hearted crowds of idlers; men with their hats stuck jauntily askew, smoking, laughing, gossiping; and women, dark-haired, black-eyed, the most handsome in all Italy, each with a mantilla of black lace or some light-coloured silk as head-covering, promenading and enjoying thebel frescoafter the toil and burden of the day. None in all the world can surpass in beauty the Tuscan women—dark, tragic, with eyes that flash quickly in love or hatred, with figures perfect, and each with an easy-swinging gait that a duchess might envy. It was Suor Angelica who had once repeated to me the verse written about them by an old Florentine poet:
"S'è grande, è oziosa,S'è piccola, è viziosa;S'è, bella, è vanitosa;S'è brutta, è fastidiosa."
Every type, indeed, is represented in that long, single street at night—the dark-haired Jewess, the classic Greek, the thick-lipped Tunisian, the pale-cheeked Armenian, and the beautiful Tuscan, the purest type of beauty in all the world.
Once again, after several years, I heard, as I walked onward, the soft sibilations of the Tuscan tongue about me, the gay chatter of that city of sun and sea, where, although half the population is in a state of semi-starvation, hearts are still as light as in the days when "cara Livorno" was still prosperous. But alas! it has sadly declined. Its manufactures, never very extensive, have died cut; its merchant princes are ruined, or have deserted it, and its trade has ebbed until there is no work for those honest, brown-faced men, who are forced to idle upon the stone benches in the piazza, even though their wives and children are crying for bread.
The splendid band of the garrison was playing in the great Piazza Vittorio, in front of the British Consulate, where the Consular flag was waving, because the warships were in the port. The music was in acknowledgment of the fact that the British Marine Band had played before the Prefecture on the previous evening. The Consulate was illuminated, and on the balcony, in company with a large party, was the Consul himself, the popular Jack Hutchinson—known to every English and American resident throughout Tuscany as the merriest and happiest of good fellows, as well as a distinguished author and critic. I recognised him, looking cool in his suit of white linen, but hurried on across the great square, feeling that no time should be lost, and yet not knowing what to do.
The mysterious assassination of poor Reggie, and the curious events which followed, coupled with the startling discovery I had made on the previous night, had completely unnerved me. As I tried to reflect calmly and logically, I came to the conclusion that it was eminently necessary to ascertain the identity of the man who held the millionaire beneath his thumb—the man who had suggested the blowing up of the yacht. This man intended, without a doubt, to leave the vessel under cover of night; or, if he were actually one of the guests, he could, of course, easily excuse himself and leave the others, as I had done.
The mystery of the deck cabin was puzzling.
I alone held knowledge of the dastardly plan formed to blow up the yacht, and was determined that the vessel should not sail again before I had warned my fellow-guests. But how?
I had watched the old millionaire narrowly, and had plainly detected his nervous agitation, and his anxiety for the cruise to be brought to an end. As far as I myself was concerned, I had no intention of again sailing in theVispera, and would certainly not allow Ulrica to continue the voyage. That the yacht was doomed was plain. Even at that moment old Mr. Keppel was sending mysterious telegrams, in all of which I scented some connection with the tragedy that had occurred on board. It struck me that the wisest course would be to attach myself to my host as much as possible, and narrowly watch his movements. With that intention, therefore, I turned back and walked as far as the great Piazza Carlo Alberto, where the central telegraph office was situated. On the stone seats around the spacious square hundreds of people were sitting and gossiping beneath the stars, for the Italian of the working-class loves to gossip at night, when the day's toil is over, and the cool breeze comes in from across the sea.
I met Keppel emerging from the office, and with some surprise he greeted me. I told him that I had been making some purchases, while the others had gone to the opera, whereupon he suggested that we, too, should take a cab to the Goldoni and join the party there.
This we did. The old man was unusually chatty and affable, and during our drive told me he had decided that theVisperashould lie in Leghorn for the next five or six days, as he was expecting letters from England in reply to the telegrams he had just despatched.
This surprised me. If he and his unknown accomplice wished to get rid of traces of their crime by blowing up the vessel, it seemed only probable that they would do so at the earliest possible moment. Again, a second point was an enigma. How was it that the Customs officers, who had searched the yacht, and had, of course, entered the mysterious deck-house, had not discovered the crime?
Keppel was a very shrewd old fellow, but it was my duty to prevent the consummation of the dastardly plot which his accomplice had suggested. With this object in view, I made a point of remaining as near him as possible.
In the investigation of matters such as these a woman is in many ways handicapped. A man can go hither and thither in search of truth, and act in a manner for which a woman can find no excuse.
At the Goldoni, an enormous theatre, rather dingy with age, but nevertheless comfortable, Verdi'sAidawas being performed, and when we entered the box occupied by our party, Ulrica greeted me with enthusiasm.
"You were quite right, Carmela, dear. The music is really wonderful. I had no idea that they had opera of such high quality in a small Italian town. The tenor is a great artist."
"Ah!" I laughed. "I was sneered at when I dared to say that there was anything of interest in Leghorn. You have at least found an evening's amusement equal to any you'll find in London. Pretty toilettes you won't find, as at Covent Garden, but good opera you can always hear."
"I quite agree with Miss Rosselli," declared Gerald, as he rose to give me his seat. "Leghorn is a charming place. And what lovely women! I've never in all my life seen such a galaxy of beauty."
"Oh, then you have noticed them already!" I said, smiling at his enthusiasm.
Every Englishman who goes to Leghorn is enthusiastic over the beauty of the Livornese women, the well-cut, regular features, the dark flashing eyes, the artistically-dressed hair, the great gold-loop ear-rings, and the soft santuzza, or silken scarf, with embroidered ends, wound about the head and secured by great pins, the finishing touch to a thoroughly artistic adornment.
As the Englishman walks down the Via Grande, they, promenading in couples or threes, arm in arm, turn and laugh saucily at him as he passes. Yes, they are a light-hearted, careless people, the Livornesi, even though the poverty is terrible. Hundreds would die of sheer starvation yearly were it not for those kind Capuchins, Fra Antonio, Padre Sisto, Padre Antonino, and the others, who daily distribute bread to all who ask for it at the convent gate. The good friars have no funds, but Fra Orazio, a lay brother, and the youngest of them, goes daily from house to house of the middle classes and the wealthy, begging a trifle here and a trifle there with which to buy the bread and the necessaries for soup for the starving. And who does not know Fra Orazio in Leghorn? In his brown habit, a dark-haired, black-bearded man of forty, with a round, jovial face tanned by the sun, his rotund figure is as well known as the equestrian statue of Vittorio Emanuele in the Piazza.
The theatre was crowded, the cheaper parts being packed by men and women of the poorer classes, who had made that day one of semi-fasting in order to be able to pay theingresso, and hear the music of their belovedmaestro. The audience was an enthusiastic one, as it generally is in Italy—as quick to praise as it is to condemn—and that night the principal singers were recalled time after time. In the Italian theatre there is a lack of luxury; sometimes even the floor is unswept, and there is dust in the boxes; nevertheless, all these drawbacks are counterbalanced by the excellence of the performance.
To the millionaire's guests that performance was a revelation, and when we left on the conclusion of the opera to return to the port and go on board, Leghorn was voted by all to be quite an interesting place. Indeed, when our host stated that he intended to remain there a few days owing to the necessities of his business, no one demurred.
Ulrica suggested at breakfast next morning that some of us should run up to Florence on a flying visit, it being only sixty miles distant, while somebody else urged the formation of a party to go and see the famed leaning tower at Pisa. For my part, however, I had resolved that I would go wherever my host went. Several times that morning I passed and repassed the deck-cabin, but those green silk blinds were closely drawn across the brass-bound port-holes, and the door was carefully locked.
What a terrible mystery was contained therein! If only my fellow-guests were aware that on board the vessel was the body of an unknown woman who had been foully and brutally murdered! And yet a distinct suspicion had now seized me that the Customs officers, having searched and found nothing, the body must have been secretly disposed of. Perhaps it had been weighted and sunk during the silent watches of the night.
Yet, if this had actually been done, what possible reason was there to destroy the yacht and sacrifice the lives of those on board? I had thought it all over very carefully in the privacy of my own small cabin, where the morning sunshine, dancing upon the water lying just below my port-hole, cast tremulous reflections upon the roof of the cosy little chamber. No solution of the problem, however, presented itself. I was utterly bewildered. A thousand times I was tempted to confide in Ulrica, yet on reflection I saw how giddy she was, and feared that she might blurt it out to one or other of her friends. She was sadly indiscreet where secrets were concerned.
About ten o'clock I found the old millionaire lolling back in a deck-chair, enjoying his morning cigar according to habit, and in order to watch him, I sank into another chair close to his. TheVisperawas lying within the semi-circular mole; and so, while protected from the sudden gales for which that coast is so noted, there was, nevertheless, presented from her deck a magnificent panorama of the sun-blanched town and the range of dark mountains beyond.
"The young Countess Bonelli, who was at school with me, has invited us all to her villa at Ardenza," I said, as I seated myself. "You will accompany us this afternoon, won't you, Mr. Keppel?"
"Ardenza? Where's that?" he inquired.
"The white village there, along the coast," I answered, pointing it out to him. "I sent a message to the Countess last night, and half an hour ago I received a most pressing invitation for all of us to drive out to her villa to tea. You'll come? We shall accept no excuses," I added.
"Ah, Miss Rosselli," he grunted, "I'm getting old and crochety; and to tell you the plain truth, I hate tea-parties."
"But you men won't drink tea, of course," I said. "The Countess is most hospitable. She's one of the best known of the younger hostesses in Florence. You probably know the Bonelli Palace in the Via Montebello. They always spend the spring and autumn at their villa at Ardenza."
And so I pressed the old man until he could not refuse. I watched him very narrowly during our conversation, and became more than ever convinced that his increased anxiety and fidgety behaviour were due to the pricks of conscience. More than once I felt sorely tempted to speak straight out, and demand of him who and where was the woman who had been concealed in that gilded deck-house?
But what would it profit to act ridiculously? Only by patience and the exercise of woman's wit could I hope to learn the truth.
His reluctance to go ashore increased my suspicions. He had at breakfast announced his intention of not landing before evening, as he had some correspondence to attend to; but this seemed a mere excuse to remain behind while the others went out exploring the town. Therefore I was determined that he should accompany us, and I had urged Ulrica to add her persuasive powers to mine.
The afternoon was one of those brilliant ones which are almost incessant on the Tuscan coast. About three o'clock we all landed, including the old millionaire, and in cabs were driven along the promenade and out by the city gate along the oleander grove to Ardenza, the first village eastward beyond Leghorn on the ancient Strada Romana, that long highway which runs from Marseilles to Rome.
All in the party were delighted with the drive along that wide sea-road, which for miles is divided from the actual rocks by a belt of well-kept gardens of palms and oleanders, forming one of the handsomest and most beautiful promenades in the South of Europe.
I have often thought it curious that the ubiquitous British traveller has never discovered Ardenza. He will, no doubt, some day, and then the fortune of the charming little retreat will be made. Time was, and not very long ago, when Nervi, Santa Margherita, and Rapallo were unknown to those fortunate ones who follow the sun in winter; yet already all those little places are rapidly becoming fashionable, and big hotels are springing up everywhere. The fact is, thathabituésof the South, becoming tired of the artificiality and flagrant vice of the French Riviera, and of the terrible rapaciousness of hotel-keepers and tradesmen in that most ghastly of all Riviera resorts, San Remo, are gradually moving farther eastward, where the sunshine is the same, but where the people are charming and as yet unspoilt by the invading hordes of the wealthy; where the breezes are health-giving, where the country is both picturesque and primitive, and where the Aspasia of the boulevard and thechevalier d'industrieare alike absent.
Ardenza is a large village of great white villas in the Italian style—mansions they would be called in England. Some face the splendid tree-lined promenade, but many lie back from the sea in their own grounds, shut out from the vulgar gaze by walls high and prison-like. There is no mean street, for it is essentially a village of the wealthy, where the great houses, with their wonderful mosaic floors, are the acme of comfort and convenience, where both streets and houses are lit by electricity, and where society is extremely sociable, and yet select.
There is neither shop nor hotel in the place, but a quarter of a mile away is the old village called Ardenza di Terra, to distinguish it from that by the sea, a typical Italian village, with its old-world fountain, round which the women, gay in their bright kerchiefs, gossip; its picturesque bridge, and its long white high-road which leads up to Montenero, that high, dark hill on which stands the church with its miracle-working Virgin. Both Byron and Shelley knew and appreciated the beauties of the place. The former had a villa close by, which is, alas! now falling to decay; while Shelley frequently visited Antignano, the next village along the old sea-road.
Better than San Remo, better than Bordighera, better than Alassio, Ardenza will one day, when enterprising hotel-keepers discover it, and the new direct railway from Genoa to Rome is constructed from Viareggio to Cecina, become a rival to Nice. At present, however, the residents are extremely conservative. They never seek to advertise the beauties or advantages of the place, for they have no desire that it should become a popular resort. Nevertheless, I dare to assert here that the sea-bathing is perhaps the finest in Europe, that no promenade of any English watering-place equals it, and that its climate, save in the month of August, is one of the best of any place on the Mediterranean shore.
No wonder, then, that rich Italians have built their villas in so lovely a spot, or that they go there to escape the fogs of the Arno, or the dreaded malaria of Rome.
The Countess Velia met me at the port, and carried Ulrica and myself home in her smart victoria. We had not met for quite three years, and I saw that the rather plain Velia of convent days had now grown into a strikingly handsome woman. Her husband, she told us, was unfortunately in Venice.
The Villa Bonelli we found to be one of the largest in Ardenza, a huge white mansion, with bright greenpersiennes, standing back in its own grounds behind a large gate of ornamental iron, the spikes being gilded, in accordance with the usual style in Italy. Velia received her guests in the greatsalonupholstered in azure silk, and then we wandered through the ground floor of the spacious mansion, passing the smallersalons, and at last strolled out into the garden, where tea was served in the English style under the shadow of the orange trees. Velia had never been able to master English, and, as few of her guests beside myself spoke Italian, her conversation was of necessity limited. Nevertheless, after a five weeks' cruise, resulting in the cramped sensation one usually experiences while yachting, tea-drinking and rambling in that beautiful garden, with its wealth of flowers, were delightful occupations enjoyed by all, even by old Mr. Keppel, whose chief wonder seemed to be at the magnificence of the house, which appeared to be almost entirely constructed of marble. The mosaic floors, too, were splendid, worked in dark green and white, in imitation of those in the Thermæ Antoninianæ at Rome. The Bonellis were an ancient family, one of the few Florentine nobles who were still wealthy. Their ancestral castello was above Pracchia in the Apennines, between Florence and Bologna, and Velia had several times since her marriage given me pressing invitations to stay with her there.
At the convent we had always been close friends. She was the daughter of the Marchese Palidoro of Ancona, and once I had spent the Easter vacation with her at her home on the Adriatic shore. Ulrica and the others found her a charming little woman, and, of course, admired the two-year-old little Count, who was brought down from his kingdom in the nursery, to be kissed and admired by us.
The men drank Marsala—always offered in the afternoon in an Italian house—and smoked in the garden, while we women wandered wherever we liked. Those of my companions who had not before seen the interior of an Italian villa were interested in everything, even to the culinary arrangements, so different from those in England. The Italian cook makes his dishes over some half-a-dozen small charcoal fires about the size of one's hand, which he keeps burning by a kind of rush fire-screen, the English grate being unknown.
We had been there a couple of hours, and to all of us the change had been pleasant after so long a spell at sea. Velia was sitting apart in the garden, and we were chatting, she telling me of the perfect tranquillity of her married life. Rino was, she declared, a model husband, and she was perfectly happy; indeed, her life was a realisation of those dreams that we both used to have long ago in the old neglected garden of the convent, when we walked together hand-in-hand at sundown.
She recalled those days to me—days when I, in my childish ignorance, believed the world outside to be filled with pleasant things. We had not met since we had parted at the convent, she to enter Florentine society and to marry, and I to drift about the world in search of a husband.
"Suor Teresa's counsels were so very true," she said to me, as we recalled the grey-eyed Sister who had been our foster-mother. "Haven't you found them so, just as I have, even though you have lived in England, your cold, undemonstrative England, and I here, in Italia?"
"Suor Teresa gave us so much good advice. To which of her precepts do you refer?" I asked.
"Don't you recollect how she was always saying that, as women, the first thing of importance was always to be content to be inferior to men—inferior in mental power in the same proportion as we are inferior in bodily strength. Facility of movement, aptitude and grace, the bodily frame of woman may possess in a higher degree than that of man; just as in the softer touches of mental and spiritual beauty her character may present a lovelier aspect than his. Yet the woman will find, Suor Teresa used to say, that she is by nature endowed with peculiar faculties—with a quickness of perception, facility of adaptation, and acuteness of feeling, which fit her especially for the part she has to act in life, and which, at the same time, render her, in a higher degree than man, susceptible both to pain and pleasure. These, according to our good Sister, are our qualifications as mere women."
"Yes," I said, "I remember now. Some of Suor Teresa's counsels I've followed, but others, I fear, I threw to the winds. She was a good woman—a very good woman, Suor Teresa. Do you remember how she used to lecture us girls, and say: 'When you are women of the world, how wide is the prospect which opens before you—how various the claims upon your attention—how vast your capabilities—how deep the responsibility which those capabilities involve! In the first place, you are not alone; you are one of a family—of a social circle—of a community—of a nation. You are a being whose existence will never terminate, who must live for ever, and whose happiness or misery through that endless future which lies before you will be influenced by the choice you are now in the act of making.' Do you remember the kind of lectures she used to give us?"
"Perfectly well," answered Velia. "But she is dead, poor woman; she died of fever last summer."
"Dead!" I echoed
A pang of regret shot through my heart, for I remembered how sweet and kind she had always been, how just and how devout in all her religion. To her I owed many stimulating ideas about good and evil, few of which, I fear, remained long enough in my memory. It was she who taught me to love the virtuous and the good, and the recollection of those early days of her tender guidance formed a bright spot in my life, to which, I suppose, the mind will take me back at intervals as long as existence lasts.
Velia was about my own age, and at the convent we had treated one another as if we were sisters. Therefore when we fell to talking of those old days before the courses of our lives ran so far apart, my memory drifted back to those home-truths which Suor Teresa and her fellow-nuns had striven to instil into our rather fickle minds.
My fellow-guests left about five o'clock, for they had arranged to continue on the sea-road and ascend to the famed pilgrimage church of Montenero—one of the sights of Western Tuscany. As I had made a pilgrimage there in my school-days, at Velia's invitation I remained behind to dine with her, promising Ulrica to return on board later in the evening.
In the glorious blaze of crimson sunset which flooded the broad, clear Mediterranean, causing the islands of Gorgona, Capraja, and Corsica to stand out in purple grandeur in the infinite blaze of gold, I sat upon the marble terrace, lolling in a long cane chair, and chatting with the Countess.
How different had been our lives, I reflected. She, married happily, surrounded by every comfort that wealth could provide, a child which was her idol, and a husband whom she adored; while I, one of those unattached women who form the flotsam of society, world-weary, forlorn, and forsaken, was beaten hither and thither up and down Europe by every gust of the social wind.
I contrasted our lives, and found my own to be a hollow and empty sham. Of all the passions which take possession of the female breast, a passion for society is one of the most inimical to domestic enjoyment. Yet how often does this exist in connection with an amiable exterior! It is not easy to say whether one ought most to pity or to blame a woman who lives for society—a woman who reserves all her good spirits, all her pretty frocks, her animated looks, her interesting conversation, her bland behaviour, her smiles, her forbearance, her gentleness, for society. What imposition does she not practise upon those who meet her there! Follow the same individual home; she is impatient, fretful, sullen, weary, oppressed with headache, uninterested in all that passes around her, and dreaming only of the last evening's excitement, or of what may constitute the amusement of the next; while the mortification of her friends at home is increased by the contrast her behaviour exhibits in the two different situations, and her expenditure upon comparative strangers of feelings to which they consider themselves to have a natural and inalienable right. I was terribly conscious of my own failings in this respect, and in society Ulrica had been my chief example.
I hated it all, and envied the woman who sat there chatting with me so merrily.
There, in the fading afterglow, when the sun had disappeared behind the distant headland, I told her, in reply to her question, of my love and its disillusionment. I told her his name—Ernest Cameron—and at mention of it I thought I detected her dark brows grow narrow for an instant. But surely it was only fancy, for these two had certainly never met.
"You have all my sympathy, Carmela," she said, in her soft Italian, when I had told her the truth. "You have suffered, poor child. Your words tell me so."
"Yes," I responded frankly. "I have suffered, and am still suffering. Another woman stole his love from me, and I am left deserted, forlorn; outwardly a smart figure as you see me, but within my heart is the canker-worm of hatred."
"He may return to you," she said. "His fancy may be a mere passing one. Men are so very fickle."
"No," I declared quickly, "it is all ended between us. I loved only once—loved him with all the charm of a first attachment. She who entertains this sentiment lives no longer for herself. It was so in my case. In all my aspirations, my hopes, my energies; in all my confidence, my enthusiasm, my fortitude, my own existence was absorbed in his interests. But now I am despised and forgotten."
She was so sympathetic that more than once I was tempted to confide to her the whole of the strange facts and the mysteries that were so puzzling to me. But I hesitated—and in my hesitation resolved to keep my own counsel.
We dined together, taking our wine from the big rush-coveredfiascoof Chianti placed in its swinging stand, according to the custom of Tuscany; eating various dishes peculiarly Italian, and being waited upon by two maids who spoke in that quaint but musical dialect of the Tuscan shore.
Throughout the meal my thoughts wandered from my surroundings to the dastardly plot formed to destroy theVispera. Where, I wondered, was old Mr. Keppel? For aught I knew, both he and his unseen accomplice were engaged in buying explosives for the purpose of causing the contemplated disaster.
Velia believed my preoccupation to be due to our conversation before dinner, and I allowed her to continue in that belief.
Dinner in an Italian household is a very different meal to the Frenchtable d'hôteor the English evening meal. The courses are varied, and from theanti-pastito thedolci, all is new to the English palate. Those who have lived sufficiently long in Italy to become imbued with its charm know well how difficult it is to relish the substantial English cooking when one goes on a visit to the old country; just as difficult as it is to enjoy the grey skies and smoky cities of money-making Britain after the brightness and sunshine of the garden of Europe.
At ten o'clock, after we had idled in thesalonwith our coffee and certosa—aliqueurmade by the old monks of the Certosa, outside Florence, and not obtainable beyond the confines of Tuscany—Velia's brougham came round, and reluctantly I took leave of her.
Our reunion had certainly been full of charm, for in those hours I had allowed myself to forget my present position, and had, in thought, drifted back to the placid days of long ago that had been passed within the high grey walls of the ancient convent.
"Good-bye, Carmela," Velia said, holding my hand in hers warmly after I had entered the carriage. "Remember your promise to return here before you sail. I shall expect you."
I repeated my promise gaily, and then giving her a final "Addio, e buona notte," I was driven out of the great gates and into the night.
The road from Ardenza to Leghorn, a magnificent drive by day, is not very safe at night. The trees lining it form a refuge for any thieves or footpads, and because of this it is patrolled continually by a pair of mounted carbineers.
At length we came to the great iron gates of the city, which stretch across the wide highway, flanked on either side by huge porticos, in which are stationed the officers of the dazio, as theoctroiin Italy is called.
Every article entering an Italian city is inspected with a view to the imposition of taxes, hence every conveyance, from the country cart of the contadino laden with vegetables for the market, to the private brougham, is stopped at the barrier, and the occupant is asked to declare what he or she has with him.
In front of the barrier the brougham was brought to a halt, and one of the dazio guards, in his peaked cap and long overcoat with silver facings, opened the door, inquiring whether I had anything liable to be taxed.
"Niente," I responded, and was preparing to resettle myself for the journey, when the man, looking rather hard at me in the semi-darkness, said:
"The signorina is named Rosselli, I believe?"
"Yes," I replied, surprised at the man's knowledge of my name.
He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat for a moment, produced a letter, and then handed it to me in quite a surreptitious manner, saying in a low tone:
"This is for the signorina."
Then he banged to the door with a great show of officiousness, without waiting for me to thank him, and we drove forward along the deserted promenade.
As it was quite dark within the carriage, I was unable to read the communication that had so suddenly been handed to me.
What, I wondered, did it contain? Who had taken the precaution to bribe one of the dazio guards to hand it to me?
Surely it must contain something of the highest importance and strictest privacy.
At the outlying suburb of San Jacopo the street-lamps began, and tearing open the strange note, I found it to contain some lines penned in a rather uneducated hand.
As the coachman was driving at a good pace, I had some difficulty in deciphering the words by the light of the street-lamps as their rays flashed in, and as rapidly disappeared. The words I read, however, were decidedly curious. Written in Italian, rather faintly, be it said, the note ran as follows:
"The bearer will give you this in strictest secrecy. Do not return on board the yacht, but first call at Number 12, Via Magenta, ground floor, where you will meet a friend whose interests are identical with your own. Dismiss your carriage near the port, and take a cab to the address indicated. Come, without fear, and without delay."
The invitation was, to say the least of it, a peculiar one. Although a woman, I am not naturally timid, especially in Italy, where I know the language, and know the peculiarities of the people. My first feelings, however, were those of suspicion. Why could not the writer have approached me openly, without taking the elaborate precaution of sending me the missive by the hand of the dazio guard? Again, I was not acquainted with the Via Magenta, and suspected it to be in a low quarter of the city. There are several parts of Leghorn into which a woman would certainly not care to venture after dark.
The suggestion that I should not return to the yacht read to me as a warning, especially in the light of the knowledge I had gained of old Keppel's intentions. Could it be possible that it was intended that theVisperashould sail before morning and go straight to her doom?
I sat back in the carriage, thinking it all over. Finally, I came to the conclusion that the writer of the letter, whoever he was, must, like myself, be aware of the truth. Our interests, he declared, were identical. That statement was in itself interesting, and filled me with a curiosity which increased as I reflected. I glanced again at the sheet of common notepaper in my hand, and my suspicions were again aroused by the fact that there was no signature. The note was anonymous, and no one, especially a woman, has any sympathy with anonymity.
Should I disregard the warning, cast the letter out of the carriage window, and return on board; or should I act according to its instructions?
I was engaged in a very serious and difficult inquiry, which had baffled experienced police officials, be it remembered. In every direction I scented suspicion, now that the old millionaire, the man in whose integrity I had so firmly believed, was proved to be the author of a foul and dastardly crime. The whole affair was as startling as it was incomprehensible. The enigma was complete.
Ever since the time when I had been so cleverly tricked by the pseudo-detectives in Nice, I had been on the alert to discover some clue which might lead me to a knowledge of the manner in which poor Reggie had met with his death. That there was a deep-laid conspiracy on foot was manifest, but in what direction to seek for an explanation, I knew not. The mystery of this strange affair unnerved me.
The city of Leghorn is bisected by the Via Grande, its principal street, which runs from the great Piazza Carlo Alberto in a straight line down to the port. At the bottom of this thoroughfare I stopped the brougham, alighted, and sent the conveyance back to Ardenza. The steps at which I knew the yacht's boat would be awaiting me were a considerable distance away, and I had no fear of detection by any person who knew me. At that hour all my fellow-guests would undoubtedly be back on board; therefore if I kept the strange appointment, I might return to the yacht within an hour, and no one need be the wiser.
From the open casement of one of the high, not over-clean houses facing the port, where boatmen and dock-labourers lived, sounded the sweet twanging of a mandoline, while a voice sang an old Tuscan serenade:
"O! Nina mia—o giovinetta,Lunica speme—delta mia vita;Deh! perchè vivi—così solettaIn questa tetra—stanza romita?Vieni, vieni!Vieni, deh! vieni a me d'accanto.Io t'amo tauto, io t'amo tanto!"
I listened, and as those words of passionate love fell upon my ears I tried to shut them out. They recalled too vividly the days when I myself had been wooed by a man whom I loved.
The writer of the mysterious note had declared our interests to be mutual. This fact aroused my interest, causing me, in my eagerness to learn the truth, to disregard my usual caution. Hailing one of the small open cabs which are characteristic of every Italian town, I gave the man the address mentioned in the letter.
Contrary to my expectations, the Via Magenta proved to be one of the principal streets down which the electric tramway passed, and Number 12 was, I found, a large, old palace of six stories, once the residence of some count or marquis, but now, as a result following the ruin of its original owners, it was evidently let out in flats. The big doors, ponderous and iron-studded, as they nearly always are in Italy—a relic of those turbulent days when every palazzo was a miniature fortress—were closed when I alighted; but finding a row of bells, I rang the one marked "terreno" (ground floor), whereupon the door was unbolted by the occupant of the apartment, and I immediately found myself just inside a huge, dark hall, where the noise made by me in stumbling over a step echoed loudly. There is always something uncanny in the way an Italian door is opened at night by an unseen hand, for one naturally expects to see a person standing behind it. As a matter of fact, the opening is effected by a mechanical contrivance which can be operated at will in any of the apartments. Thus the occupants remain undisturbed until the visitor arrives at their door.
I had turned, and was about to ask the cabman to give me some wax vestas in order that I might find my way, when a door opened at the further end of the hall, and against the light from within I saw the silhouette of a young Italian girl about fifteen years old. She came forward, looking at me inquiringly, and then, as though she recognised my features from a description that had been given her, she exclaimed:
"It is the Signorina Rosselli! Pass, signorina, pass!" and she led the way into the apartment, closing the door behind her. The place was spacious, sparely furnished, but not particularly clean. The cheap paraffin lamp upon the table of the small room at the back of the house to which I was conducted was smoking, blackening the glass, and filling the place with suffocating fumes. The stone floor of the apartment was without carpet, and all the furniture it contained was a cheap table, two or three old rush-bottomed chairs, and a tall linen-press of a bygone day. There was a damp, earthy smell, which did not help to make the place any more inviting. Indeed, I had scarcely set foot in it before I became seized with suspicion and regretted that I had come.
The girl, a tall, black-eyed Livornese, who wore a bodice of cream-coloured cotton and a stuff skirt of dark crimson, was evidently a serving-maid, for she drew forward one of the chairs, inviting me to be seated.
"I presume I am expected here?" I inquired in Italian.
"Si, signorina," was the girl's reply, "the signore will be with you in a moment. Please be seated. I will tell him."
She disappeared, closing the door after her.
The whole affair was mysterious. Grim and forbidding by day, an old Italian palazzo at night never inspires the stranger with confidence. Its great chambers are full of ghosts of the past, and one's imagination quickly conjures up visions of those old burghers who were such good haters; of the gay young cavaliers who rode to a joust or a skirmish with equal nonchalance; and of those richly-clad dames who caused all the great tragedies that were enacted within these dark, prison-like walls.
Little time was, however, allowed me for reflection, for almost immediately the door opened, and there entered a dwarfed and ugly little old man, with a queer wizened face, deeply wrinkled, and a grey beard, bushy and untrimmed. His appearance was so comical that I could scarcely suppress a smile.
"Ah, signorina!" he cried, in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, "I am glad you have come. I feared that you might not get the letter, and the matter is highly important."
"You are the writer of the letter?" I suggested.
"Ah, no, signorina," the old fellow squeaked. "Unfortunately, I cannot write—I can only make a cross." He spoke Italian, with a strong southern accent, and struck me as being of the lower class. To me it was strange that the queer old fellow should inhabit part of a palace of that description. "I did not write the letter," he went on, "but I wished to speak with you upon an important matter."
"I am all attention," I responded. "Permit me to mention that I have a cab waiting outside, and my time is precious."
"You are anxious to return on board the yacht, eh?" he grunted, with a strange expression upon his puckered face.
"I must join my friends within an hour," I said.
"Your friends?" he echoed, with strange emphasis upon the final word. "You are best apart from such as they."
"Why?" I inquired, surprised at the old fellow's sudden declaration. He was evidently aware of some fact which it was desirable that I should know.
"There are strong reasons why the signorina should not return on board," he declared, with a mysterious air.
"As well as reasons why I should not number the Signor Keppel and his guests among my friends?" I asked.
"The signorina guesses right," he answered, with a sinister smile.
"Then I presume that I may be permitted to know those reasons?" I suggested. "One cannot well break off a friendship without some motive."
"Your own safety is sufficient motive, surely?" he argued.
"I am not in fear, and as far as I am aware there is no danger," I declared, endeavouring to show a bold front, and hoping that the old fellow would soon become more explicit. He apparently alluded to the conspiracy to blow up the yacht in order to hide old Keppel's secret.
"But our interests are mutual," he said, glancing at me sharply.
"How?"
"You are seeking to elucidate a mystery. So am I. You are endeavouring to discover the person who assassinated the young Signor Inglese at the Grand Hotel at Nizza. So am I."
"You!" I cried in surprise. "For what reason are you interesting yourself in the matter?"
"I have a motive—a very strong one," he answered. "We ought to unite our efforts with a view to solving the mystery."
"The police have already failed," I remarked, inwardly ridiculing the idea that any assistance could be rendered by the queer old fellow living there in that dismal and silent palazzo. Surely a man with such a grotesque countenance could never act the amateur detective with success!
"The police!" he sneered, when I mentioned them. "They are useless. They act by rule, and here, in Italy, may be bribed with a handful of cigars. The police! They are not worth the value of a dried fig, the whole of them."
"Then you favour independent effort, such as I myself am making?"
"Most certainly," croaked the old fellow. "It may appear strange to you that, working in the same direction as yourself, I am aware of all you have already done."
"I don't understand," I exclaimed in surprise.
"I mean that I have been watching, just as you have. I know all that has happened—everything. That is why we should combine our efforts."
"But what can you know of my inquiries?" I exclaimed dubiously. "We have never met before."
"No, signorina, that is true," he laughed. "And we should not have met now, were it not for the fact that events have occurred to render our meeting necessary. To show you that I am aware of the efforts you have already made, I will describe to you how the money stolen from the young Inglese was returned to you, and then cunningly secured by trickery. I will tell you, too, of certain matters which occurred in Nice, and which you, no doubt, believe are only known to yourself."
And then he went on to describe to me events and conversations which had taken place in Nice, in such detail as to make it plain that the old fellow had been well acquainted with my movements, and knew all the efforts I had made to solve the tantalising problem.
He spoke of Ernest, too, with a strange familiarity, which made me believe that they had been acquainted. He showed himself to be intimate with the doings of the man I loved, knowing both his past movements and his present whereabouts.
"He is at Aix-les-Bains," he said, in reply to my question. "At the 'Hotel d'Europe.'"
"And she?"
"The signorina pains herself unnecessarily," the old man responded, with a slight touch of sympathy in his voice. "But if she desires to know, the person to whom she refers was, perhaps is still, at Aix—'Hotel Lamartine.'"
"He has gone there to play, I suppose?"
"Yes. She assists him, and has wonderful luck, just as she had at Monte Carlo. You remember?"
"Yes," I responded. "But were you actually there?"
He smiled, and from his face I knew that he also had witnessed that woman's fortune.
"And now?" I asked.
"From reports that have reached me, it seems that her luck has not deserted her. They made acoupat baccarat three nights ago, and won eighty thousand francs between them."
My teeth met and clenched themselves hard. The woman who had stolen my love held Ernest Cameron in her toils. He believed that her presence at the tables brought him good fortune. And yet I loved him so—better than life! The old man's words brought to my mind a flood of recollections belonging to the idyllic days of a love now dead.
Ah! if we had married, I would have been a much better woman, I reflected bitterly. To love is such a very different thing from a desire to be beloved. To love is woman's nature—to be beloved is the consequence of her having properly exercised and controlled that nature. To love is woman's duty—to be beloved is her reward.
But where was my reward?