it would be of very great service to me," and I handed him my card,
expressing a hope that he would refrain from mentioning the matter to
his master.
"I'll try," he said. "But I fear I shan't succeed. Mr. Henderson, the
master's secretary, would know, of course."
The point at issue now was whether the young American girl, who had
been the millionaire's guest at the villa, and Gabrielle Engledue were
actually one and the same person. If they were, then I had made one
step towards the solution of the enigma.
I confess to utter bewilderment. My brain was still confused.
Sometimes my skull seemed wrapped in cotton wool. From a mere
unimportant person in the world of electrical engineering I had
suddenly become a man upon whom rested a great and criminal
responsibility!
In that huge, garish café, with its great arc lamps glowing though
night had not yet fallen, and with a noisy orchestra playing
selections from the latest crazes of music from the revues in London,
I sat with a perfectly open mind. I had been the victim of some
extremely clever plot. But of its motive, of its ramifications, or of
its conception, I had no knowledge. Even my wildest imagination was at
fault.
All I knew was that the sallow-faced De Gex--the millionaire who lived
up at the huge Villa Clementini--had plotted against the handsome
girl, and she had died in his wife's bedroom in Stretton Street.
"Well, Mr. Robertson, how can I find out anything more about Miss
Thurston? Give me your advice."
"I'll try and see what I can do," he said. "Perhaps I may be able to
get a glance at the mistress's address book. I have seen it. I'll
try."
"Yes--do!" I said very anxiously. "It means so very much to me."
"Why?"
I hesitated. My intention was to mislead both of my companions.
"Well," I said with a laugh, "the fact is, I--I'm very fond of her!"
Both men exchanged glances. Then they smiled, almost imperceptibly, I
know, but it struck them as humorous that I had fallen in love with
the daughter of a wealthy American.
"Of course I'm not yet certain whether she is the same lady," I went
on. "She may not be. But on calm consideration I believe she is. The
description you give of her is exact."
"Well," exclaimed the butler, "I'll see if I can get at the address
book. She keeps it in a drawer in her boudoir, which is usually
locked. But sometimes she leaves it open. At any rate, I'll see what I
can do and let you know."
I thanked him and told him that I was staying at the Savoy. Then I was
compelled to discuss with the estate-agent's clerk the pretended
renting of an apartment out by the Porta Romana, which, he said, was
vacant.
On the following day, in order to still sustain the deception, I went
and viewed the place, and found it really quite comfortable and very
reasonable. But, of course, I was compelled to express dislike of it.
Whereupon my friend promised to find me another.
Day after day I waited in Florence, hoping against hope that Robertson
would be able to furnish me with Miss Thurston's address. But though I
saw him several times he reported that the drawer containing the
address book was still locked.
Mr. De Gex had gone to Rome, and was away for three days. The British
Ambassador was giving some official function and the millionaire had
been invited. Indeed, I read all about it in the _Nazione_.
On the fourth day he returned, for I saw him in his big yellow car
driving along the Via Calzajoli. An elegant Italian, the young
Marchese Cerretani, was seated at his side, and both were laughing
together.
Twice I had been up to the Villa Clementini, and wandered around its
high white walls which hid the beautiful gardens from the public gaze.
Surely there was no fairer spot in all sunny Italy than that chosen by
the rich man as his abode. To the hundreds of visitors of all nations,
who came up by train to Fiesole from Florence to lunch or dine at the
various pleasant little restaurants, the great imposing place was
pointed out as the residence of the rich "Inglese"--the man who
possessed more money than any of the most wealthy in the kingdom of
Italy.
When I thought of that fateful night in Stretton Street, I waxed
furious. Was it possible, that, by the possession of great riches, a
man could commit crime with impunity? Perhaps what goaded me to
desperation more than anything was the foul trick that had been played
upon me--the administration of that drug which had caused me to lose
all sense of my own being.
That subtle odour of _pot-pourri_ had gripped me until I felt faint
and inert beneath its perfume, and it often returned to me--but in
fancy, of course.
In the winter sunshine I wandered about the busy, old-world streets of
Florence, idling in the cafés, gazing into the many shop-windows of
the dealers in faked pictures and faked antiques, while often my
wandering footsteps led me into one or other of the "sights" of the
city, all of which I had visited before--the National Museum at the
Bargello, the Laurenziana Library, with its rows of priceless chained
manuscripts, the Chiostro dello Scalzo, where Andrea del Sarto's
wonderful frescoes adorn the walls, or into the Palazzo Vecchio, or
the galleries of the Pitti, or the Uffizi. I was merely killing time
in the faint hope that the good-natured Robertson might get for me the
information which, in the circumstances, I was naturally most eager to
obtain.
In the course of my erratic wanderings through the grand old city,
with its host of monuments of a glorious past, I was one morning
passing the great marble-built cathedral and noticed a number of
people entering. There seemed to be an unusual number of visitors, so
having nothing to do I passed through the narrow door into the sombre
gloom of the magnificent old place--one of the most noteworthy and
most beautiful sacred buildings in the world.
At first, entering from the bright sunshine of the piazza, I could
scarcely see, so dim was the huge interior, but slowly my vision,
rather bad since my strange adventure, grew accustomed to the
half-darkness, and I saw that upon the high altar there were many long
candles burning in their brass sconces and before the high altar three
priests in gorgeous vestments were kneeling.
In the great cavernous place, with its choir beneath the dome, I heard
low prayers in Latin. Men and women who passed me bowed and crossed
themselves while many knelt.
The glorious cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, so called from the
Lily which figures in the Arms of Florence--hence "the Lily City"--had
always an attraction for me, as it has for every visitor to the
ancient Tuscan capital. The stained glass of Ghiberti, the wonderful
mosaics of Gaddo Gaddi, the frescoes of angels by Santi di Tito, and
the beautiful pictures by the great mediæval masters, all are
marvellous, and worth crossing the world to see.
From before the altar a long spiral mist of incense was rising, and
about me as I stood in the centre of the enormous interior, many
visitors were passing out from the dim religious gloom into the light
of the open doorway.
Suddenly my eyes caught sight of a countenance.
I held my breath, standing rooted to the spot. What I saw staggered
belief. Was it only a chimera of my unbalanced imagination--or was it
actual fact?
For a few seconds I remained undecided. Then, aghast and amazed, I
became convinced that it was a stern reality.
The mystery of the affair at Stretton Street became in that single
moment a problem even more than ever bewildering.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
ANOTHER PUZZLE
Kneeling before Donatello's magnificent picture of the Virgin over one
of the side altars, her outline dimly illuminated by the light of many
candles, was a slim, dark-haired young woman in deep mourning. Her
head was bowed in an attitude of great devotion, but a few moments
later, when she raised her face, I stood rooted to the spot.
The countenance was that of the dead girl Gabrielle Engledue!
An involuntary exclamation left my lips, and a woman standing near me
heard me, and wondered.
Kneeling beside the girl in black was a thin-faced, black-haired
Italian of about forty-five. He was somewhat handsome, though a
sinister expression played about his lips.
I watched the pair for several minutes, wondering whether in my brain,
unbalanced as it had been, the scene was a mere chimera on my part and
that, after all, the girl only slightly resembled the victim at
Stretton Street.
The latter I had not seen in life, and death always alters the
features. Nevertheless, the sudden encounter was most startling, and
from where I stood behind a great marble column I watched them.
At last both rose and crossing themselves piously, walked slowly to
the door. I followed them. It surely could not be that the girl whose
death certificate I had forged, and whose body had been reduced to
ashes, was actually alive and well! I recollected that sum of five
thousand pounds, and the strange adventures which had befallen me
after I had accepted the bribe to pose as a doctor, and certify that
death had been due to natural causes.
Outside in the bright sunlight of the Piazza, I obtained a full view
of her. Her rather shabby black was evidently of good material, but
her face struck me as distinctly strange. The expression in her dark
luminous eyes was fixed, as though she were fascinated and utterly
unconscious of all about her. She walked mechanically, without
interest, and utterly heedless of where she went. Her companion's hand
was upon her arm as she crossed to the Via Calzajoli, and I wondered
if she were blind.
I had never before seen such a blank, hopeless expression in a woman's
eyes.
The man, on the contrary, was shrewd and alert. His close-set eyes
shot shrewd glances from beneath black bushy eyebrows with a keen,
penetrating gaze, as though nothing escaped him. He seemed to be
trying to hurry her, in fear of being recognized. He had not noticed
me, hence in the bustle of the busy street I managed to get up close
behind them, when of a sudden, I heard her exclaim:
"Not so fast! Really I can't walk so fast!"
She spoke in English!
Her companion, uncouth and heedless, still had his hand upon her arm,
hurrying her along without slackening his pace. She seemed like a girl
in a dream. Truly, she was very handsome, a strange tragic figure amid
all the hubbub of Florence, the old-world city of noise and of narrow
streets, where Counts and _contadini_ rub shoulders, and the
tradesmen are ever on the look out to profit--if only a few
soldi--upon the innocent foreigner.
Firenze la Bella--or Florence as the average Englishman knows it--is
surely a city of strange people and of strange moods. By the
discordant clanging of its church bells the laughter-loving
Florentines are moved to gaiety, or to piety, and by the daily
articles in the local journals, the _Nazione_ or the _Fieramosca_,
they can be incited to riot or violence. The Tuscans, fine
aristocratic nobles with ten centuries of lineage behind them, and
splendid peasants with all their glorious traditions of feudal
servitude under the "nobile," are, after all, like children, with a
simplicity that is astounding, combined with a cunning that is
amazing.
Along the Via Calzajoli I followed the pair in breathless eagerness.
At that hour of the morning the central thoroughfare is always
crowded by business men, cooks out shopping, and open-mouthed
_forestieri_--the foreigners who come, guide-book in hand, to
gaze at and admire the thousand wonderful monuments of the ancient
city of Medici. The girl's face certainly resembled very closely that
of the dead girl Gabrielle Engledue. The countenance I had seen at
Stretton Street was white and lifeless, while that of the girl was
fresh and rosy. Nevertheless, that blank expression upon her face,
and the fact that her companion had linked his arm in hers, both
pointed to the fact that either her vision was dim, or her great dark
eyes were actually sightless. The man was fairly well dressed, but
the girl was very shabby. Her rusty black, her cheap stockings, her
down-at-heel shoes, and her faded hat combined to present a picture
of poverty. Indeed, the very fact of the neglect of her dress was
increasing evidence that her vision was dim, for surely she would not
go forth with the rent in the elbow of her blouse. Did she know that
it was torn?
Just as we were passing the ancient church of Or San Michele, with its
wonderful armorial bearings by Luca della Robbia, an old man with long
white hair and beard, whom I took to be one of the mangy painters who
copy the masterpieces in the Uffizi or the Pitti, passed by, and
raising his hat, wished the pair: _"Buon giorno!"_
The girl's companion returned the salute with a slight expression of
annoyance, perhaps at being recognized, but the girl took no notice,
and did not acknowledge him.
The man uttered some words in the girl's ear, and then hurried her on
more quickly, at the same time glancing furtively around. It was quite
plain that he had no wish to be seen there, hence my curiosity became
increased.
Every moment I, however, feared that he might realize I was following
them; but I did not mean that they should escape me.
In the Piazza della Signorina they halted opposite that great old
prison-like building, the Palazzo Vecchio, where several people were
awaiting an omnibus, and as they stood there the girl, who bore such a
striking resemblance to the dead niece of the millionaire, stared
straight before her, taking no notice of anything about her, a
strange, statuesque, pathetic figure, inert and entirely guided by the
ferret-eyed man at her side.
I was compelled to draw back and watch them from a distance, hoping
that I might be successful in following them to their destination. It
certainly was strange that the girl who was so much like Gabrielle
Engledue should be there in Florence, within a mile or two of De Gex's
villa!
As I watched, yet another person--a well-dressed woman of about
forty--recognizing the girl's companion, smiled as she passed, while
he, on his part, raised his hat. The woman who had passed struck me as
being either English or American, for there are many English-speaking
residents in Florence. For a second I debated within myself, and then
a moment later I followed her until she turned a corner in the Via di
Porta Rossa. Then I hurried, and overtaking her politely raised my
hat.
"I trust you will pardon me, Madame," I exclaimed in English, as she
started and looked at me askance. "I presume you are either English or
American?"
"I am American," she replied with a pronounced drawl.
"Please forgive my inquisitiveness, but I seek your aid in a little
matter which is of greatest consequence to me," I went on. "A moment
ago, as you crossed the Piazza, you encountered an Italian gentleman
and a girl. Could you tell me the gentleman's name?"
"What, the person I bowed to a moment ago?" she exclaimed. "Oh! that's
Doctor Moroni."
Moroni! I recollected the name. He was one of the mourners!
"And the girl?" I asked.
"Ah! I do not know. I saw her out with an old woman the other day. But
I have no idea who she is."
"Is Doctor Moroni a doctor of medicine?" I inquired.
"Yes. The people at the _pension_ of the Lung Arno where I live,
always call him in. I was ill six months ago, and he attended me. He
lives in the Via Cavezzo, near the Porta Romona--number six, I
believe."
"I am sure I am extremely obliged to you," I replied very gratefully.
"I have a very strong reason for asking these questions--reasons which
concern the young lady," I added.
The American woman smiled, and then, reiterating my thanks, I raised
my hat and left her.
At least I had discovered the identity of the girl's companion. He was
a doctor, hence it was most probable that she was under his charge.
Nevertheless, it was strange that he should take her to the Duomo and
pray at her side. Doctors do not usually act in that manner with their
patients.
When I returned to the Piazza the pair were nowhere to be seen,
therefore I strolled to the nearest café, and sat down with a
cigarette to think out the remarkable affair.
One or two features of the problem now became more than ever puzzling.
First, in view of the fact that I had seen Gabrielle Engledue lying
dead and had, for a bribe of five thousand pounds, signed a death
certificate purporting to be from Doctor Gordon Garfield, of Queen
Anne Street, Cavendish Square, it seemed beyond credence that the girl
who had died and been cremated should be led about the streets of
Florence by this Italian, Doctor Moroni. Oswald De Gex's denials were,
in themselves, only thin, and yet they were all very clever and
carefully prepared. The story of how his wife had left his little son
in Westbourne Grove to be discovered by the police was no doubt well
thought out. De Gex and his wife were actually on most affectionate
terms, hence the tale he had told had been purposely concocted, in
order to mislead me. Besides, his pretence that the dead girl had been
his niece was, of course, a similarly concocted story to mislead me,
and also to discredit me if perchance I made any unwelcome inquiries.
That I had been half asphyxiated and then drugged until my mental
balance had been upset, was quite plain. And it was equally plain that
De Gex did not intend that I should be capable of making inquiries
concerning the events of that memorable November night. When I had
been thrown out of the motor-car on that French highway, near St.
Malo, the bank-notes had been purposely left in my pocket. I had
already copied the numbers, and had called upon the millionaire's
bankers in Pall Mall, but there was no record that any of them had
been issued to him. That payment had evidently been very well
concealed.
On every hand it appeared quite plain that I had been the victim of
some strange and remarkable conspiracy, the motive of which was
entirely obscure. Surely I must have been watched, and my habits
noted. De Gex had known that I frequently passed his door on my way to
visit my uncle, and further, he must have known that I should pass on
that fateful night in November when Horton was sent out to entice me
within.
But the chief point of that complex puzzle was the fact that there, in
Florence, within a mile or two of the millionaire's almost regal
residence, I had encountered a living girl who, in every feature, was
the exact counterpart of the poor girl whose death and cremation stood
recorded in the official registry at Somerset House!
When in London I had been half inclined to call upon Doctor Gordon
Garfield and explain the situation. But such confession must, I knew,
lead to my prosecution and inevitable imprisonment. I had taken a
false step while under the baneful influence of some drug which had
stultified my own volition and held me powerless to resist the
temptation. I was now endeavouring to seek the truth.
That the amazing adventure in Stretton Street was not the outcome of
imagination was proved by the entry in the register at Somerset House,
and also by the evidence of the cremation of the body. But that the
beautiful girl I had seen lying dead could now be walking about the
streets of Florence was, of course, utterly absurd.
Was my memory, in my rather weak state of health, playing tricks with
me? I began to fear that such was the case.
As I sat over my "bock" watching the tide of Florentine life pass and
repass across the great piazza, I began to laugh at myself, and felt
half inclined to abandon the inquiry. Still it was all most mysterious
and mystifying. Why had I been marked down as a tool to further the
millionaire's ends? And who, after all, was the victim?
I tried to dismiss the apparently sightless girl from my mind, but
somehow the affair obsessed me. I seemed impelled to go farther and
try to elucidate the mystery. I endeavoured to make up my mind to
forget it all and return to England and to my work at Francis and
Goldsmith's--but all to no avail. My duty, I felt, was to leave no
stone unturned until I had discovered whether Gabrielle Engledue had
died from natural causes, or as a result of foul play.
The pale, tragic face of the girl I had encountered in the Duomo
haunted me. Towards the narrow-eyed Doctor Moroni I felt an
instinctive dislike, even though I had no cause to distrust him.
I think it was the strange intuition I experienced at that moment
which caused me to decide to act with discretion and caution, and to
discover all that I could concerning the doctor and his tragic-faced
companion.
With a fixed plan I returned to my hotel, ate my luncheon in the big
_salle à manger_, which was crowded with foreigners wintering in
Florence. Then, after lunch, I complained to the manager of feeling
unwell, and asked him to telephone to Doctor Moroni, in the Via
Cavezzo.
"Ah! a most excellent doctor!" remarked the hotel manager. "He has a
very large practice among the English and Americans. And he is quite
popular. I suppose you know him?"
"No. I have only heard of him, and of his cleverness," I said with
affected carelessness.
Ten minutes later the manager sent me a message by a page that the
doctor would call at three o'clock. So, in my pretended illness, I
went to my room and feigned the symptoms of acute indigestion.
Punctually the doctor arrived, and greeted me in his most professional
manner. I at once explained that an American lady of my acquaintance
had recommended him, whereupon he bowed, smiled, and seating himself
before me inquired my symptoms.
His looks were certainly not an index to his character, for though he
appeared so stern and taciturn yet at heart he was, I saw, a very
humorous, easy-going man, a true Tuscan who showed his white teeth
when he laughed, gesticulated violently, and spoke English with a
refined accent that was particularly charming.
"It is probably the change of diet," he declared at last, after
diagnosing my symptoms. "I see many such cases among foreigners who
are unused to some of our rather indigestible dishes. The latter are
very toothsome, and they eat heartily--with dire results," and he
smiled.
So well indeed did I describe my supposed ailment that before he left
he wrote me out a prescription. Afterwards I made pretence of being a
perfect stranger in Florence. I longed to speak of Oswald De Gex, but
feared to do so because his suspicions might by that become aroused.
If so, then all hope of discovering the true facts would instantly
vanish.
"I hope you will soon be all right and that you will enjoy your visit
to our Tuscany," he said very pleasantly. "Florence is very full of
visitors just now. Are you remaining long?"
"I really can't tell," was my reply. "My business in London may recall
me at any time."
Then I thanked him for his visit, and remarked that if the mixture
gave me no relief I would probably call upon him.
Indeed, it was for this latter reason that I had called him in. By
making his acquaintance in that manner I would, I saw, excite no
suspicion, and I hoped to be able to meet the girl who was apparently
under his charge.
While I had been consulting him I noticed that he seemed a man of
curious moods. At one moment his dark countenance was sullen and
sinister, while at the next his face broadened into an expression of
easy-going _bonhomie_. He spoke English extremely well, and was
apparently a man of considerable taste and refinement. Truly, the
situation was so puzzling that I was bewildered.
After he had gone, I re-dressed myself and went across to the
Gambrinus, where I had an appointment with Robertson.
I found him seated alone at a table in the corner awaiting me.
"Well?" he said, "I've got that address for you, Mr. Garfield--the
address of Miss Thurston," and he handed me a slip of paper upon which
was written: Miss Rose Thurston, Cedar Cottage, Overstrand, Norfolk.
"But I thought you said she lived near Detroit?" I remarked.
"She and her mother did live in America, but I have discovered that
they now have a house near Cromer," was the butler's reply. So in
acknowledgment of his services I passed him a couple of Italian
notes, and we then had a drink together.
While doing so a strange thought crossed my mind.
Could it be possible that the girl I had seen with Doctor Moroni and
Rose Thurston were one and the same!
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
THE MILLIONAIRE'S APPREHENSIONS