The stout yellow-haired maid-of-all-work who brought me in my breakfast
was a native of the village and inclined to be talkative. From her I
learned that Mr Gordon-Wright had had the place about four years. He
spent only about three months or so each summer there, going abroad each
year for the winter. To the poor he was always very good; he was
chairman of the Flower Show Committee, chairman of the Parish Council,
and one of the school managers as well as a church-warden.
I smiled within myself at what the girl told me. He was evidently a
popular man in Upper Wooton.
He had friends to stay with him sometimes, mostly men. Once or twice he
had had foreign gentlemen among his visitors--gentlemen who had been in
the post-office and could not speak English.
"My sister was 'ousemaid there till last Michaelmas," she added. "So
I've often been up to the `Glen'. When old Mrs Auker had it she used
to 'ave us girls of the Friendly Society there to tea on the lawn."
"I think that a friend of mine comes to visit Mr Gordon-Wright
sometimes. His name is Miller. Do you remember him?"
"Mr Miller--a tall middle-aged gentleman. Of course, sir. 'E was here
in the spring. I remember the name because 'e and Mr Wright gave a
treat to the school children."
"Was a lady with him--a young lady?"
"Yes, sir. His daughter, Miss Lucie."
The girl knew little else, except, as she declared, Mr Gordon-Wright
was a rich man and "a thorough gentleman."
An hour later, while I was out in the yard of the inn watching Gibbs
going round the car, we suddenly heard the whirr of an approaching
motor, and down the street flashed the blue car which we had pursued so
hotly on the previous day. It carried the same occupants, with the
addition of one person--Mr Gordon-Wright.
The latter, in peaked cap and motor-coat, was driving, while behind were
the two strangers, with Mr Murray and Ella.
The latter caught sight of me as she flashed past. Our eyes met for an
instant, and then she was lost to me in a cloud of dust--lost for ever.
"They're going back again, it seems," I remarked to Gibbs.
"No, sir. I saw their man this morning. They're going to Bristol.
He's heard from 'is master that it's all right. The young gentleman and
the lady are his master's friends, after all--even though they're such a
queer pair," and then he added: "Did you think of startin' this morning,
sir?"
"Yes. As soon as you are ready."
"Where to, sir?"
"Back to Swanage."
We ran across Devon and Dorset at a somewhat lower speed to what we had
travelled when overtaking the 40 "Mercedes." Gibbs had no desire to put
in an appearance before any local bench. Indeed nowadays it is useless
to make an appearance. So prejudiced are magistrates, and such hard
swearing is there on the part of the police, that motorists must pay up
cheerfully. There is no justice for the pioneers of locomotion.
We returned by another road, which proved better than that by which we
had come, and just before eleven at night I descended from the car at
the "Lion," and after some supper with the fat genial landlord, who took
a deep interest in my journey and hardly credited that I had been into
Cornwall and back, I went up to the room I had previously occupied.
Tired after the heat and dust of the road I slept well, but was up
betimes, and at half-past nine walked out to the Manor House.
A maid-servant came to the door in response to my ring. "Mr Miller and
the young lady have gone away, sir," the girl replied to my inquiry.
"They went up to London yesterday."
"Are they staying in London?" I asked eagerly. "I'm sure I don't know,
sir."
"Is Miss Miller at home? If so, I'd like to see her." And I handed her
my card.
I was shown into the morning-room, and in a few minutes Miller's sister
appeared.
"I'm so sorry, Mr Leaf," she said, in her thin, weak voice, "but my
brother and his daughter left quite suddenly yesterday. He received a
telegram recalling him."
"Where?"
"To Italy. He left by the mail from Charing Cross last night--direct
for Leghorn, I believe."
"Is he likely to be away long?"
"He won't be back, I suppose, before the spring."
"And Miss Lucie has gone with him?"
"Of course. She is always with him."
It was upon my tongue to ask her brother's address in Leghorn, but I
hesitated, for I recollected that, being an Englishman, he could be
easily found.
The receipt of that telegram was suspicious. What new conspiracy was in
progress, I wondered? Evidently something had occurred. Either he had
been warned that the police were in search of him, and had escaped back
to the Continent, or else certain of his plans had been matured earlier
than he anticipated.
As I sat there in the old-fashioned room, with its punch-bowls full of
sweet-smelling roses, I resolved to travel south to the Mediterranean,
see Lucie, and endeavour to find some way in which to rescue my love
from her father's accomplice.
From that Dorsetshire village to the old sun-blanched port of Leghorn is
a far cry--thirty-six hours in the express from Calais on the road to
Rome--yet that night I was back in Granville Gardens; and hastily
packing up my traps, chatting with Sammy the while, I next morning left
London for Italy.
I told my friend but little. The circumstances were too complicated and
puzzling, and the tragedy of it all was so complete that I preferred to
remain silent.
I was going south, upon one of those erratic journeys I so very often
took. I might return in a fortnight, or in six months. All depended
upon the mood in which I found myself.
Therefore he accepted my explanation, knowing well as a constant
traveller and thoroughgoing cosmopolitan himself, and he saw me off from
Charing Cross, wishing me _bon voyage_.
The journey by way of Calais, Paris, Modane and Turin you yourself have
done often, so why need I describe it? You have lunched between Calais
and Paris, dined at the Gare de Lyon, turned into your narrow sleeping
berth between Paris and the frontier, lunched in the _wagon-restaurant_
between Modane and Busseleno, scrambled through your dinner in the big
buffet at Genoa, and cursed those stifling tunnels between Genoa and
Spezia, where between them you get your first glimpses of the moonlit
Mediterranean, and you have alighted at old marble-built Pisa, the
quaint dead city that contains one of the wonders of the world--the
Leaning Tower.
From Pisa you have gone on to Rome, or to Florence, but I question if
you have ever travelled over that ten-mile branch line down to the
ancient seaport of the Medici, Leghorn. The English, save the
mercantile marine and a stray traveller or two, never go to Livorno, as
it is called in Italian, and yet it is in summer the Brighton of Italy,
and one of the gayest places in Europe during the bathing season.
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when I alighted at the
"Palace," that great white hotel on the sea-front, and went to the room
allotted to me--one with an inviting balcony overlooking the promenade
and the fashionable bathing establishment of Pancaldi.
Livorno was full, the night-porter informed me. It was the height of
the season, and there was not another vacant bed in any hotel in the
town that night.
I knew the place well, therefore early next morning I went forth, and
took a turn across at Pancaldi's, which is a kind of stone pier built
out upon the rocks into the clear sunlit waters. Though so early there
were already quite a number of smartly dressed people; the men in clean
white linen suits and the women in white muslins, mostly of the Italian
aristocracy from Florence, Bologna, Milan and Rome.
It was delightful there, seated in a chair with the waves lapping lazily
at one's feet, and the brown sails of the anchovy and sardine boats
showing afar against the dark purple island of Gorgona in the distance.
On every hand was the gay chatter of men--for Italians are dreadful
chatterboxes--the light laughter of pretty dark-eyed women, or the
romping of a few children in the care of their nurses.
I was fatigued after my journey, and as I idled there my eyes were open
about me to recognise any friends.
Suddenly, approaching me, I saw a stout elderly lady in white,
accompanied by a slim young girl of seventeen, whom I recognised as the
Countess Moltedo and her daughter Gemma. I rose instantly, removed my
hat, and drawing my heels together in Italian fashion, bowed.
"Ah! my dear Signor Leaf!" cried the Countess in English merrily, for
she was American born, and like so many other countesses in Italy had
been attracted by a title, and had long ago found her husband to be a
worthless fellow who had married her merely in order to replenish his
impoverished purse. "Why, this is a surprise! Gemma was speaking of
you only the other day, and wondered if you had deserted Italy
entirely."
"No, Countess," I replied. "Once one really knows Italy, she is one's
mistress--and you can never desert her."
And I took the young girl's hand she offered, and bowed over it.
"You are here at your villa at Antigniano, I suppose?" I went on.
"Yes. We've been here already two months. It is too hot still to
return to Rome. The season has been a most gay one, for the new spa,
the Acque della Salute, has, they say, attracted nearly twenty thousand
persons more than last year."
"Leghorn in summer is always charming," I said, as I drew chairs for
them at the edge of the water, and they seated themselves. "And your
villa is so very delightful, out there, beyond the noise and turmoil."
"Yes, we find it very nice. Myself, I prefer the quiet village life of
Antigniano to this place. We only come up here at rare intervals, when
Gemma gets dull."