"There was a fellow here the other day making inquiries regarding our
dead Italian friend."
"Oh, what was he? A detective?"
"No. I don't think so. Miss Gilbert referred him to me. He was a
thin-faced, clean-shaven chap, and gave his name as Gordon-Wright."
"Gordon-Wright!" I gasped, starting to my feet. "Has that fellow been
here? What did you tell him?"
"Well, I told him nothing that he wanted to know. I didn't care about
him, somehow, so I treated him to a few picturesque fictions," Sammy
laughed.
"You didn't tell him that the dead man was Nardini?"
"Not likely. You recollect that you urged me to say nothing, as the
Italian Embassy did not wish the fact revealed."
"Ah! That's fortunate!" I cried, much relieved. "What did you tell
him?"
"I said that it was true an Italian gentleman did die here, but he was a
very old man named Massari. Before he died his son joined him, and
after his death took all his belongings away. Was that right?"
"Excellent."
"The stranger made very careful inquiries as to the appearance of the
man who died, and I gave an entirely wrong description of him. I said
that he had white hair and a long white beard, and that he walked rather
lame, with the help of a stick. In fact I showed him a stick in the
hall which I said belonged to the dead man. He was also very
inquisitive regarding the man's son who I said had taken away all his
belongings. I described him as having a short reddish beard, but a man
of rather gentlemanly bearing. The fellow Gordon-Wright struck me as an
awful bounder, and that's why I filled him up with lies. Do you know
him? Is he a friend of yours?"
"Friend!" I echoed. "No, the reverse. I wonder what he wanted to
discover. You didn't mention me, I suppose?"
"No. Why should I?"
"I'm glad of that, for there's evidently some fresh conspiracy in
progress."
"Probably there is. He's a shrewd fellow without a doubt."
"An outsider, my dear Sammy," I declared. "That fellow's a thief--a
friend of Miller's."
"Of Miller's!" he cried, in his turn surprised. "Is he really one of
the gang?"
"Certainly he is. Moreover, I happened to be present when he robbed an
American in a hotel at Nervi, near Genoa, and if I said a word to the
police he'd `do time,' depend upon it."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because just at the present time it doesn't suit my purpose," was my
reply. "I want first to find out the reason of his visit here."
"Wants to establish the death of the fugitive, I suppose. He certainly,
however, got nothing out of me. You know me too well, and can trust me
not to give away anything that's a secret."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes. He came here alone, but Miss Gilbert says that a lady was waiting
for him in a hansom a few doors along the road--a young lady, she
thinks."
Was it my Ella, I wondered? If so, she might be in London staying with
her aunt, as she so frequently did in the old days.
"How long ago did all this occur?" I asked.
"On Saturday--that would be four days ago. He came about five in the
afternoon. When Miss Gilbert referred him to me he apparently resented
it, believing that he could induce her to tell him all he wanted."
"But even she doesn't know that it was the notorious Nardini who died up
stairs."
"No, but I don't fancy she's such a ready liar as I am, old chap,"
laughed Sammy. "He started the haw-haw attitude, and with me that don't
pay--as you know. I did the haw-haw likewise, and led him to believe
that I was most delighted to be of any assistance to him in helping him
to trace his friend."
"His friend! Did he say that Nardini was his friend?"
"He didn't mention his name. He only said that an intimate friend of
his, an Italian from Rome, had, he knew, arrived in London and suddenly
disappeared. He had prosecuted most diligent search, and having
ascertained from the registrar of deaths that an Italian had died there
he wondered whether it might not be his friend. Whereupon I at once
described a man something like Father Christmas without his muff and
holly, and at length he went away quite satisfied that the man who died
upstairs was not the person he was in search of."
"He didn't say where he was living, or leave any address?"
"He wasn't likely to if he's one of Miller's crowd," my friend
exclaimed. "But I wonder what's in the wind? He has some distinct
object in establishing Nardini's death."
"Probably fears some revelation which the fugitive might make if he had
fallen into the hands of the police," I suggested. "The ex-Minister
wasn't a very bright specimen himself from all accounts and from those
papers we discovered. He was a blackmailer and a brute, as well as an
embezzler."
"Well," declared Sammy, "if you really have direct evidence against this
fellow Gordon-Wright, I should just tell the truth at Scotland Yard.
I'd dearly love to see Miller in the dock, too, for if any one deserves
to pick oakum for a few years, he does. But he's such a cunning knave,
and passes so well as a gentleman, that nobody ever suspects."
"They say he's dined and slept at half the best country-houses in
Dorsetshire and Devonshire, and I believe he's going to hunt from Market
Harborough this coming season."
"The deuce he is! What infernal audacity! I feel myself like
denouncing him."
"Better not--at least at present, my dear fellow. Besides--for his
daughter's sake."
"Daughter be hanged! She's as bad as her father, every bit."
"No, I disagree with you there," I protested. "The girl is innocent of
it all. She believes implicitly in her father, but beyond that she is
in some deadly fear--of what I can't yet make out."
"Then you've seen her lately, eh?"
"Quite recently," I replied, though I told him nothing of the exciting
events of the past seven or eight days. The knowledge I had gathered I
intended to keep to myself, at least for the present.
About four o'clock that afternoon I called upon Ella's aunt, a widow
named Tremayne, who lived in a comfortable house in Porchester Terrace.
I was ceremoniously shown into the drawing-room by the grey-headed old
butler, and presently Mrs Tremayne, an angular old person in a cap with
yellow ribbons, appeared, staring at me through her gold-rimmed
spectacles and carrying my card in her hand.
I had met her on one occasion only, in the days when Ella and I used to
meet in secret in those squares about Bayswater, and I saw that she did
not recollect me.
"I have called," I said, "to ask if you can tell me whether your
brother, Mr Murray, is in London. I heard that he and Miss Ella have
gone back to Wichenford, but I think that they may possibly be in town
just now. I have only to-day returned from abroad, and do not want to
journey down to Worcestershire if they are in London."
She regarded me for a few moments with a puzzled air, then said in a
hard, haughty voice: "Your name is somehow familiar to me. Am I right
in thinking that you were the Mr Leaf whom my niece knew two or three
years ago?"
"I am," I replied. "I have met Miss Murray again, and our friendship
has been resumed."
"Then if that is so, sir," replied the old lady, glaring at me, "I have
no information whatever to give you concerning her. I wish you
good-afternoon." And the sour old lady touched the bell.
"Well, madam," I said, in rising anger, "I believed that I was calling
upon a lady, but it seems that I am mistaken. I fail to see any reason
for this treatment. You surely can tell me if your brother is in town?"
"I refuse to say anything. My brother's affairs are no concern of mine,
neither are yours. There was quite sufficient unpleasantness on the
last occasion when you were running after Ella. It seems you intend to
resume your tactics."
"On the contrary, I hear that your niece is engaged to be married to a
gentleman named Gordon-Wright."
"That is so," she answered, thawing slightly and readjusting her
glasses. "They are to be married very soon, I believe. The wedding was
fixed for Thursday week, but it has been postponed for a short time. My
brother is much gratified at the engagement. Mr Gordon-Wright is such
a nice gentleman, and just fitted to be her husband. He dined here a
week ago, but has now gone abroad."
"And you found him charming?" I asked, though I fear that my voice
betrayed my sarcasm.
"Most charming. They appear to be an extremely happy couple."
"And because you think I have an intention to come between them, Mrs
Tremayne, you refuse to answer a simple question!"
"I am not bound to answer any question put to me by a stranger," was her
haughty reply.
"Neither am I bound to return civility for incivility," I said. "I
congratulate this Mr Gordon-Wright upon his choice, and at the same
time will say that when we meet again, madam, you will perhaps be a
trifle less insulting."
"Perhaps," she said; and as the butler was standing at the open door I
was compelled to bow coldly and follow him out.
As he opened the front door I halted a moment and said, as though I had
forgotten to make inquiry of his mistress:--
"Miss Ella is staying here--is she not?"
"Yes, sir," was the man's prompt reply. "She came up from the country
yesterday."
I thanked the man, descended the steps, and walked along Porchester
Terrace wondering how best to act. Of love there is very little in the
world, but many things take its likeness.
I must see my love at all costs. She had continued to postpone her
marriage so as to allow me time to unmask her enemy and free her from
the peril which threatened.
Gordon-Wright was abroad. Therefore a secret meeting with Ella was all
the easier. Yes, I would keep watch upon that house, as I had done in
the days long ago, and see if I could not meet her and make an
appointment. To write to her would be unwise. It was best that I
should see her and reassure her.
Therefore through all the remainder of the afternoon I waited about in
the vicinity, but in vain. Even if she went out to dine, or to the
theatre, she certainly would return to her aunt's to dress, and, sure
enough, just before seven, she came along in a hansom in the direction
of the Park.
I was about to raise my hat as my dear one passed, when I suddenly
discovered that she was not alone. By her side, elegant in silk hat and
frock-coat, sat the clean-shaven man who held her enthralled.
He was therefore not abroad, as the snappy old woman had said.
I turned my face quickly to the wall, so that neither should recognise
me, and passed on.
For three days in succession I kept almost constant watch along that
wide-open thoroughfare. Several times I saw Mr Murray, but hesitated
to come forward and greet him. Mrs Tremayne drove out each afternoon
in her heavy old landau and pair, but curiously enough I saw nothing
further either of Ella or of the man to whom she was betrothed.
The hours of that vigil were never-ending. I wanted my dear one to know
that I was awaiting her. Time after time I passed the house in the hope
that she would recognise me from the window, but never once did I catch
sight of her.
One afternoon I received a telegram from Miller asking me to call at the
hotel. I did not know that they were still in London. On arrival I
found him with Lucie. There was another caller, a middle-aged American
named George Himes, who appeared to be an intimate friend. After some
conversation we all four went out together, and subsequently Mr Himes,
who seemed a very amusing type of shrewd New Yorker, invited all of us
to his rooms to dinner--to take pot-luck, as he called it.
At first I declined, feeling myself an interloper. Miller's friends
were such a mixed lot that one never knew whether they were thieves,
like himself, or gentlemen. Himes appeared to be a gentleman.
Therefore on being pressed to join the party I consented, and later on
we drove to a cosy little flat at Hyde Park Gate, where we dined most
excellently, Lucie joining us when we smoked our cigars.
Himes, a rather stout rosy-faced man, seemed a particularly pleasant
companion and full of a keen sense of humour, therefore the evening
passed quite merrily. Miller and he were old friends, I gathered, and
had not met for quite a long time.
"You won't go for a minute or two, Mr Leaf," he said, when, soon after
eleven o'clock, Miller drained his glass and with Lucie rose to leave.
"You'll get home to Shepherd's Bush quickly from here." And thus
persuaded, I remained and joined him in a final glass of whisky and
soda.
We were alone in the pretty little smoking-room, lounging in the long
low cane chairs. My host was lazily blowing rings of smoke towards the
ceiling and remarking what a very excellent fellow Miller was, when I
raised my whisky to my lips and took a gulp. It tasted curious, yet I
did not like to spit it out or to make any remark.
My host, I noticed, had his eyes fixed strangely upon me, as though
watching my countenance.
In an instant I grew alarmed. His face had changed. Its good-humour
had given place to an expression of hatred and triumph.
At the same moment I felt a strange sensation of nausea creeping over
me, a chill feeling ran down my spine, while my throat contracted, and
my limbs became suddenly paralysed.
"You scoundrel!" I cried, staggering to my feet and facing him. "I
know now! You've poisoned me--you devil!"
"Yes," he laughed, with perfect sangfroid. "You are one of Jimmy
Miller's crowd, and one by one I shall exterminate the lot of you! I
owe this to you!"
I swayed forward as I drew my revolver to defend myself, but next
instant he had wrenched it from my nerveless grasp.
I saw his grinning exultant face in mine. There was the fire of murder
in his eyes.
Then I sank to the floor and knew no more. He had mistaken me for one
of Miller's accomplices, and I was helpless in his revengeful hands.