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