Tulloch left half an hour later, and Sammy, whose curiosity had been
aroused concerning the foreigner, entered the room and inquired after
the patient.
But hoping to learn more from the stricken man, I sent my friend back to
bed and remained there through the night, administering to the patient
what my friend Tulloch had ordered.
The long hours dragged on in silence. Only the ticking of the cheap
American clock broke the quiet. Lying upon his back the stranger fixed
his dark eyes upon me, until his hard gaze caused me quite an
uncomfortable feeling. It is unpleasant to have a dying man's eyes
fixed so attentively upon one. Therefore I shifted my chair, but even
then I could not escape that intent penetrating gaze. He seemed as if
he were reading my very soul.
If I spoke he answered only in low monosyllables. Whenever I attempted
to put a question he made a quick gesticulation, indicating his
impossibility to reply. And so passed the whole long vigil until day
broke in brightening grey, and the sun shone forth again.
Yet the man's hard stony stare was horrifying. Somehow it utterly
unnerved me.
Had Tulloch not declared that the fellow was dying, I should certainly
have left him; yet I felt it was my duty as a man to remain there, for
was I not the only person in that household acquainted with the Italian
tongue?
Ever and anon he clenched his teeth tightly and drew a long hard breath,
as though bitterly vengeful at thought of some incident of the past.
"_Accidenti_!" was an ejaculation that escaped his lips now and then,
and by it I knew that he was praying that an accident might befall his
enemies--whoever they were. He uttered the most bitter curse that an
Italian could utter.
Presently, about five o'clock, just as the sun's rays entering through
the opening between the dingy old rep curtains fell across the
threadbare carpet in a golden bar, he became quiet again.
"Ah, signore," he said gratefully, "it is really extremely good of you
to put yourself out on my account--a perfect stranger."
"Nothing, nothing," I assured him. "It is only what you would do for me
if I were ill in a foreign country where I could not speak the
language."
"Ay, that I would," he declared. And after a pause he added: "Nearness
to death causes us to make strange friendships--doesn't it?"
"Why?" I asked, somewhat puzzled.
"Well--in me, for instance, you are making a strange friend," he said,
with a queer, harsh laugh.
"Why strange?"
"Because you are utterly unaware of who or what I am."
"I know your name--that is all," I responded quietly. "You know the
name by which I choose to be known here. It is not likely that I should
disclose my real identity."
"Why not?"
"Because--well, there are strong reasons," was his vague answer, and his
mouth shut with a snap, as though he discerned that he had already said
too much. Then a moment later he added: "As I've already told you, you
have made a strange acquaintance in me. You will probably be surprised
if ever you really do ascertain the truth, which is, however, not very
likely, I think. At least I hope not."
I recollected that he had spoken of a secret--some woman's secret--which
he intended, at all hazards, to preserve. What was it, I wondered?
The thin drawn face upon the white pillow wore a wild, desperate
expression. The stranger had actually laughed in triumph at the
suggestion of death. A man must be desperate ere he can face the open
grave with a smile upon his lips.
After a few minutes he raised his thin yellow finger beckoning me
closer, and in a fainter voice said:--
"You are the only friend I have in this great capital, Signor Leaf,"--
for at table I had told him my name and something about my wandering
life on the Continent--"you will not allow them to bury me as a pauper?
There is money--see, in that left-hand top drawer--over there. Will you
get my purse?"
I rose, opened the drawer he indicated, and handed him a bulky red
morocco wallet, one of those in which Italians carry their paper
currency.
He opened it and I saw that it was crammed with hundred-franc and even
thousand-franc notes. In the wallet there was probably over a thousand
pounds.
"Will you take charge of it?" he asked, handing it back. "I shall never
want it again. Pay all the expenses, and I would ask of you one favour.
Upon the stone over my grave put no name--only the words: `In Memory of
one who was Unfortunate'--that is all."
"And the balance of the money--to whom shall I hand that?"
He thought a few moments, his eyes fixed upon the low, smoke-blackened
ceiling.
"If there is no just claimant within one year take five thousand francs
as a souvenir of me, and present the remainder to a hospital--whatever
hospital in London you think the most deserving. You will also find the
directions for obtaining certain securities deposited in Italy. Obtain
them and deal with them as you deem advisable."
"But have you no relations?" I inquired, foreseeing a great difficulty
in carrying out these verbal instructions.
"Relations! Bah! what are relations?" he cried excitedly. "Only an
infernal encumbrance. I suppose I have some somewhere--everybody has
more or less."
"And don't you know where yours are?"
"No, nor do I wish to know," he snapped. "I am alone--you understand--
entirely alone. And, moreover, I trust that if you are my friend, as
you seem to wish to be, you will so far respect my memory as not to
believe all that will probably be said against me. To you only I admit
that I am not what I have represented myself to be--that is all. I
accept your kindness, but, alas! with considerable shame."