When Miller returned and found his daughter conscious but prostrate, he
naturally attributed it to _mal-de-mer_, and began to poke fun at her
for being ill upon such a calm sea.
She looked at me in meaning silence.
Then, when he had left us to walk towards the stern, she said in a low,
apologetic voice:--
"Forgive me, Mr Leaf. I--I'm so very foolish. But what you have told
me is so amazing. Tell me further--what have the police found at the
villa?"
I wondered whether she had seen in any of the Italian papers an account
of the second discovery--the man who had been so brutally done to death.
"Well, from what I gather the police found a dead woman locked in
Nardini's study."
"And has she been identified?" she asked eagerly.
"I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your
friend."
"Ah, yes!" she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the
tragedy. "And they know that--do they? Then they will probably
endeavour to find me, eh?"
"Most probably."
"Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then," she
remarked, as though speaking to herself. "I wonder if they will
discover me here?"
"I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you
reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one."
"I hope they'll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their
inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least."
"The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up," I
remarked.
"Yes. But how did you know?"
"A friend told me," was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed
that I had been in Rome.
"He told you my name?"
"He was an Italian, therefore could not pronounce it properly. The
police evidently do not know, even now, that Nardini is dead."
"No, I suppose not," she said. "But--well, what you've told me is
utterly staggering."
"Then you were not aware of the mysterious affair?"
"Aware of it! How should I be?"
"Well, you were Nardini's friend. You were a frequent visitor at the
Villa Verde. You told me so yourself, remember."
She did not reply, but sat staring straight before her at the stream of
moonlight upon the rolling waters.
Whether she were really acquainted with the details of the tragic affair
or not, I was unable to decide. She, however, offered me no explanation
as to who the unknown woman was, and from her attitude I saw that she
did not intend to reveal to me anything. Perhaps the mere fact that I
had gained secret knowledge caused her to hold me in fear lest I should
betray her whereabouts.
The situation was hourly becoming more complicated, but upon one point I
felt confident, namely, that she held no knowledge of the second tragedy
at the villa--a tragedy in which her father was most certainly
implicated.
The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat--the mysterious Mr Miller
who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him--returned
to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in
the train for Charing Cross.
I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had
started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep.
Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual
chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that
wild scene of excitement when the dead man's hoard had been discovered,
or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been
struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.
"Oh!" he sighed. "After all, it's good to be back again in England. A
spell at home will do Lucie good. She's growing far too foreign in her
ways and ideas. For a long time she's wanted to spend a year or so in
England, and now I'm going to indulge her."
"Then you won't be returning abroad for some time?"
"Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in
the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough.
Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight
of the pink always sends a thrill through me."
"Does Lucie ride?"
"Ride, of course. She's ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her
first pony when she was eight."
"Then she'll enjoy it. There's very good society about Market
Harborough, I've heard."
"Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd
they are. The Continent's all very well for many things, but for real
good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of
Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!" he
laughed.
And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into
Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham
Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd's
Bush.
When I walked into Sammy's room at seven o'clock he sat up in bed and
stared at me.
"Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought
you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, got a bit sick of travelling, you know," I laughed, "so I simply
came back, that's all. They can give me a room here, I hear, so I'll
stay."
"You'll stay here till you go away again, eh?" my friend laughed, for he
knew what an erratic wanderer I was.
I sat on the edge of the bed and chatted to him while he shaved and
dressed.