"You were once, about three years ago, in Pisa--at the Minerva, I
think?"
I stood before her open-mouthed. What did this sweet-faced woman know
regarding that closed page of my life's history?
Mention of that hotel in the quiet old marble-built city where stands
the wonderful Leaning Tower recalled to me a certain unsavoury incident
that I would fain have forgotten, yet could never put from me its
remembrance.
"Well?" I asked at last, summoning all my strength to remain calm.
"What of it?"
She was silent for a moment, gazing straight into my eyes.
"Something occurred there, did it not?" she said slowly.
"And he knew of that?"
Then I recollected how the dying man had fixed his eyes upon me with
that hard, intense look; how his gaze had followed me about the room,
and I saw his fierce hatred and deep regret that while he himself was
dying I still lived.
Perhaps he had intended that our positions should be reversed, but God
had willed it otherwise.
Did Lucie Miller herself know what had taken place in Pisa?
I asked her point-blank, but from her replies I became reassured that
she was entirely ignorant of the real facts. She knew that some
extraordinary incident that concerned me had taken place there--that was
all.
By what means had the stranger obtained knowledge of my secret? To me,
her allegation that I had had some narrow escape seemed incredible. I
could not discern sufficient motive. Yet she repeated her allegation,
adding:--
"His motives were always hidden ones."
"Well," I declared, "to me the thing is really beyond credence. I can't
see what I can have done to injure him. Was it in connection with the
affair in Pisa, do you think?"
"I believe it was, but of course I'm not quite certain," was her
somewhat vague reply. Perhaps she desired to mislead me.
The position was certainly a strange one. Had the dead man been a
secret enemy of both of us?
The sweet face had changed as she sat with her neat patent-leather shoe
stretched forth upon the shabby hearth-rug. It was even paler and more
serious, while her eyes were fixed upon mine with a curious, intense
gaze that caused me surprise.
"You have fortunately escaped," she said mechanically, after a brief
pause. "I am, however, a victim, and doomed."
And sighing her eyes fell upon the carpet.
"But you will be able to clear yourself of this charge against you, Miss
Miller--you must--you will. If the brute refused to clear you, then you
must find other means. Why did he refuse? What had he to gain by
refusing?"
"Everything," was her low, hoarse answer. "If he had spoken the truth
and cleared me then a terrible vengeance would have fallen upon him.
But death overtook him instead."
I wondered whether I should tell her of the commission he had entrusted
to me, but decided that, for the present, I would say nothing.
"Are you returning at once to Italy?" I inquired presently, for our
mutual connection with the dead man had aroused my curiosity concerning
her. I longed to know who she was, and who was the man who lay in that
darkened upstairs room.
"I hardly know what my future movements are to be," she replied. "I
came post-haste to London to face him and to compel him to speak and
clear me of the foul imputation against me. Now that all is in vain--
now that the future holds no hope for me--I don't know what I shall do."
"You have friends in England, of course?"
"I have an aunt living in the country. Perhaps I shall go to her. I
must first hear what my father counsels, now that our enemy is dead."
Then after a pause she raised her eyes to mine and added: "I think you
are acquainted with a certain lady named Hardwick, are you not?"
I started. She seemed to be aware of all my private affairs. It was
extraordinary. Surely these people had not spied upon me?
"I knew a lady of that name some time ago."
She smiled mysteriously, for she had watched my face and seen my
expression of surprise.
"And the recollection of her is not a very pleasant one, eh?"
"How did you know that?" I asked quickly.
She shrugged her shoulders with that foreign air which showed her to be
a born cosmopolitan and laughed, but made no reply. That she knew more
concerning me than she admitted was quite plain.
"And what has the woman Hardwick to do with the affair?" I asked in
surprise.
"She is not your friend," she answered, in a low, serious voice. "You
have seen her lately, I presume."
"I met her last while at supper at the Savoy about a fortnight ago," I
said. "She then pressed me to go and dine with her."
"Of course. Hitherto you had not seen her for several months."
"No. She has been abroad, I understand."
"Yes. In Italy."
"And she invited me with some sinister motive?" I exclaimed in
surprise.
"She wishes to resume your acquaintance, and to regain your confidence.
It was, I think, part of an intrigue."
"I refused her invitation," I said. "I had long ago discovered that she
was not my friend."
"That is fortunate. Otherwise you might have cause to deeply regret it.
The woman is an adventuress of the worst type--a fact which I daresay
you are already aware of."
"I discovered it by mere accident, and for that reason I dropped her
acquaintance. But what you have told me is utterly astounding."
"That man's end relieves you of all further anxiety, yet at the same
time it dooms me to shame--and to death!" she remarked hoarsely, rising
suddenly to her feet with quick resolution.
I made no remark. What she had revealed to me was so bewildering. That
the woman, before me had interests in common with myself was now plain.
She was in deep distress--in fear of what the dark future held in store
for her, abandoned by the one man who could clear her of this mysterious
allegation, so infamous that she dare not repeat it to me, a stranger.
Her grace and beauty, too, were assuredly incomparable. Truly she was
one of the prettiest women I had ever met--yet at the same time the most
despairing. I saw tragedy in her countenance--the shadow of death was
in her eyes, and I stood before her silent and fascinated by the mystery
which enveloped her.
"I must go, Mr Leaf," she said. "I must telegraph to my father and
inform him of the _contretemps_ which has occurred. He will direct me
how to act. But before I go I would like to thank you very very much
for your great kindness and sympathy towards me. I am sure that, if
possible, you would seek to assist me. But it is out of the question--
entirely out of the question. What must be, must be."
And she put out her small hand to me in farewell.
"There must, I am sure, be some way in which to evade this misfortune
which you apprehend," I said. "At any rate we may meet again, may we
not? Where shall you stay in London?"
"I really don't know," she said, in a vague, blank manner which showed
that she wished to evade me, fearing perhaps lest I might make unwelcome
inquiries concerning her. "As to our meeting again, I hardly think such
a course would be wise. My friendship might imperil you still further,
therefore let us end it now, as pleasantly as it has commenced."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You will know what I mean, Mr Leaf, some day," she answered, with a
strange look in her dark eyes. Then sighing she added: "Farewell."
And I was compelled to take the hand she offered. Refusing to tell me
where she lived, and holding out no fixed promise of returning, she at
once went down with me to the front door.
After I had bowed farewell and she had descended the steps, I closed the
door, and was returning along the hall when suddenly Sammy emerged from
the dining-room, where he had evidently been standing, and facing me
with a strange, serious expression upon his features, such as I had
never seen there before, asked:--
"Godfrey! what's that woman doing here--in this house? Do you know who
she is? By Jove, you don't, that's certain, otherwise you would never
have let her cross this threshold. Why has she dared to come here?"