"Then you are aware what these papers are--most important Government
documents, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in
Rome?"
"I know," I replied briefly. "That is why I secured them, and why I
have brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not be
allowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain much
confidential information regarding certain well-known persons."
"Of course," he said. "His Excellency will, I'm sure, be extremely
indebted to you for acting with such discretion. Had they fallen into
the hands of the London police they might have been copied, and the
secret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would be
most detrimental to our prestige, if the public knew that confidential
reports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to hand
for any one to read."
"I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint," I said. "My own
opinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levy
blackmail by their means."
But the official only shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. It was not
likely that he would condemn his own compatriot, even though at heart he
despised both the man and his dishonest methods.
Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent to
ejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain persons
in high positions in Rome which amazed him.
"At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, Mr
Leaf, you will leave these with me," he suggested. "We shall send them
back under seal to Rome."
"Of course, that was my intention," I said. And then, in reply to some
further questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardini
had died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of her
strange story of the dead man's mysterious hatred of myself. I only
apologised that I had not thought of communicating with the Italian
Consulate, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documents
might partly atone for my remissness.
"There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead man's belongings to
interest us?" he asked seriously. "You have, of course, made careful
search?"
"Yes. I have had an inventory made by a solicitor. There is nothing
else," I answered; and after giving my courteous friend my club address,
and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks,
and departed.
My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appeal
to the fugitive had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and held
me mystified.
Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther.
Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasn't
going to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead and
buried, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me the
truth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.
But it did not suffice me.
That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her future
in his hands showed me that she was in dire straits. What could be the
allegation against her?
As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that it
was not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an official
letter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evident
that they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspapers
were still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding ex-Minister.
I recollected that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt
"living in the country," but she had not told me in what locality, and
"the country" was a big place in which to search, more especially as I
did not know the lady's name. She had told me also that she lived in
Leghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehow
I held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.
The police record gave Miller's place of birth as Studland, in
Dorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, I
should be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody would
know some facts concerning the family. From the _Gazetteer_ I
discovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far from
Swanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy,
I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotel
which faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, and
an hour later I descended at the inn in Studland village.
It was a quiet, quaint old-world place, I found, with a queer ancient
little church hidden away among the trees at the back. In the
bar-parlour of the "Lion" I ordered some tea, and then, in the course of
a chat with the stout, cheery old publican I casually inquired after
some friends of mine named Miller.
"Oh! yes," he said. "Old Miss Miller lives 'ere still--at the Manor
'Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came down
the hill from Swanage way. They're one of the oldest families 'ere in
Studland. One of the Millers--Sir Roger 'e was called--was governor of
Corfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so I've 'eard say."
"Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor?" I remarked.
"Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but 'e's always
abroad, so 'is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the 'ouse and looks
after it."
"Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller?" I asked.
"Yes. That's 'im. They calls 'im the mysterious Mr Miller. 'E always
was a wild rascal when 'e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman could
do nothing with him, so 'e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostly
ever since."
"Has he any children?"
"A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about 'er, and say she's
very nice. She's often 'ere."
"He's well off, I suppose?"
"Oh, dear no, sir," declared the innkeeper. "The Millers are as poor as
church mice. The value of land's gone down so of late years. The old
place is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an' it's a
pity--a thousand pities."
All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous old
fellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulated
myself upon the success of my first investigation.
"When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?"
"Oh! It's a long time now 'e 'aven't been in Studland. Once, about
three years ago, 'e came without any luggage they say--and stayed over a
twelvemonth. 'E's a queer man. 'E never speaks to the likes of us."
I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire after
her niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshine
until I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge gate, and then,
after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of a
large old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling and time-mellowed--a
typical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a small
park.
A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered into a quaint
old oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which was
undoubtedly Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces with
age. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deep
diamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring the
delightful vista when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, and
turning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, with
bony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brown
beard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats over
his boots.
"Mr Leaf?" he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. "I am Miss
Miller's brother," he explained. "My name is James Harding Miller. Do
you wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and has
sent me to make her apologies."