On the same night as the Doctor and his guest were dining in the remote
rural village, the express which had left Paris at midday was long
overdue at Charing Cross. Presently a troop of porters assembled and
folded their arms to gossip, Customs officers appeared, and at last the
glaring headlights of the express were seen slowly crossing the bridge
which spans the Thames. Within a couple of minutes all became bustle
and confusion. The pale faces and disordered appearance of alighting
passengers told plainly how rough had been the passage from Calais.
Many were tweed-coated tourists returning from Switzerland or the Rhine,
but there were others who, by their calm, unruffled demeanour, were
unmistakably experienced travellers.
Among the latter was a smart, military-looking man of not more than
thirty-three, tall, dark, and slim, with a merry face a trifle bronzed,
and a pair of dark eyes beaming with good humour. As he alighted from a
first-class carriage he held up his hand and secured a hansom standing
by, then handed out his companion, a well-dressed girl of about
twenty-two, whose black eyes and hair, rather aquiline features and
sun-browned skin, were sufficient evidence that she was a native of the
South. Her dress, of some dark blue material, bore the stamp of the
first-class costumier; attached to her belt was the small satchel
affected by foreign ladies when travelling; her neat toque became her
well; and her black hair, although a trifle awry after the tedious,
uncomfortable journey, still presented an appearance far neater than
that of other bedraggled women around her.
"Welcome to London!" he exclaimed in good Italian.
For a moment she paused, gazing wonderingly about her at the great
vaulted station, dazed by its noise, bustle, and turmoil.
"And this is actually London!" she exclaimed. "Ah! what a journey! How
thankful I am that it's all over, and I am here, in England at last!"
"So am I," he said, with a sigh of relief as he removed his grey felt
hat to ease his head. They had only hand-baggage, and this having been
quickly transferred to the cab, he handed her in. As he placed his foot
upon the step to enter the vehicle after her, a voice behind him
suddenly exclaimed--
"Hullo, Tristram! Back in London again?"
He turned quickly, and recognised in the elderly, grey-haired,
well-groomed man in frock-coat and silk hat his old friend Major Gordon
Maitland, and shook him heartily by the hand.
"Yes," he answered. "London once again. But you know how I spend my
life--on steamboats or in sleeping-cars. To-morrow I may start again
for Constantinople. I'm the modern Wandering Jew."
"Except, that you're not a Jew--eh?" the other laughed. "Well,
travelling is your profession; and not a bad one either."
"Try it in winter, my dear fellow, when the thermometer is below zero,"
answered Captain Frank Tristram, smiling. "You'd prefer the fireside
corner at the club."
"Urgent business?" inquired the Major, in a lower tone, and with a
meaning look.
The other nodded.
"Who's your pretty companion?" Maitland asked in a low voice, with a
quick glance at the girl in the cab.
"She was placed under my care at Leghorn, and we've travelled through
together. She's charming. Let me introduce you."
Then, approaching the conveyance, he exclaimed in Italian: "Allow me,
signorina, to present my friend Major Gordon Maitland,--the Signorina
Vittorina Rinaldo."
"Your first visit to our country, I presume?" exclaimed the Major, in
rather shaky Italian, noticing how eminently handsome she was.
"Yes," she answered, smiling. "I have heard so much of your great city,
and am all anxiety to see it."
"I hope your sojourn among us will be pleasant. You have lots to see.
How long shall you remain?"
"Ah! I do not know," she answered. "A week--a month--a year--if need
be."
The two men exchanged glances. The last words she uttered were spoken
hoarsely, with strange intonation. They had not failed to notice a
curious look in her eyes, a look of fierce determination.
"Terribly hot in Leghorn," observed Tristram, turning the conversation
after an awkward pause of a few moments. Vittorina held her breath.
She saw how nearly she had betrayed herself.
"It has been infernally hot here in London these past few days. I think
I shall go abroad to-morrow. I feel like the last man in town."
"Go to Wiesbaden," Tristram said. "I was at the Rose ten days ago, and
the season is in full swing. Not too hot, good casino, excellent
cooking, and plenty of amusement. Try it."
"No, I think I'll take a run through the Dolomites," he said. "But why
have you been down to Leghorn? Surely it's off your usual track."
"Yes, a little. The Ambassador is staying a few weeks for the
sea-bathing at Ardenza, close to Leghorn, and I had important
despatches."
"She's exceedingly good-looking," the Major said in English, with a
smiling glance at the cab. "I envy you your travelling companion. You
must have had quite an enjoyable time."
"Forty hours in a sleeping-car is scarcely to be envied this weather,"
he answered, as a porter, recognising him in passing, wished him a
polite "Good journey, I hope, sir?"
Continuing, Tristram said, "But we must be off. I'm going to see her
safe through to her friends before going to the office, and I'm already
nearly three hours late in London. So good-bye."
"Good-bye," the other said. "Shall I see you at the club to-night?"
"Perhaps. I'm a bit done up by the heat, but I want my letters, so
probably I'll look in."
"Buona sera, signorina," Maitland exclaimed, bending towards the cab,
shaking her hand and raising his hat politely.
She smiled, returning his salute in her own sweet, musical Tuscan, and
then her companion, shouting an address in Hammersmith, sprang in beside
her, and they drove off.
"You must be very tired," he said, turning to her as they emerged from
the station-yard into the busy Strand.
"No, not so fatigued as I was when we arrived in Paris this morning,"
she answered, gazing wonderingly at the long line of omnibuses and cabs
slowly filing down the brightly lit thoroughfare. "But what confusion!
I thought the Via Calzaiuoli in Florence noisy, but this--!" and she
waved her small hand with a gesture far more expressive than any words.
Frank Tristram, remarking that she would find London very different to
Florence, raised his hand to his throat to loosen his collar, and in
doing so displayed something which had until that moment remained
concealed. A narrow ribbon was hidden beneath his large French cravat
of black silk tied in a bow. The colour was royal blue, and from it was
suspended the British royal arms, surmounted by the crown, with a silver
greyhound pendant, the badge known on every railway from Calais to
Ekaterinbourg, and from Stockholm to Reggio, as that of a King's Foreign
Service Messenger. Captain Frank Tristram was one of the dozen
wanderers on the face of the earth whose swift journeys and promptness
in delivering despatches have earned for them the title of "The
Greyhounds of Europe."
So engrossed was the dark-haired girl in contemplating her strange
surroundings that she scarcely uttered a word as the cab sped on swiftly
through the deepening twilight across Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall,
and up the Haymarket. Suddenly, however, the blaze of electricity
outside the Criterion brought to Frank Tristram's mind cherished
recollections of whisky and soda, and, being thirsty after the journey,
he shouted to the man to pull up there.
"You, too, must be thirsty," he said, turning to her. "At this cafe, I
think, they keep some of your Italian drinks--vermouth, menthe, or
muscato."
"Thank you--no," she replied, smiling sweetly. "The cup of English tea
I had at Dover did me good, and I'm really not thirsty. You go and get
something. I'll remain here."
"Very well," he said. "I won't be more than a minute;" and as the cab
drew up close to the door of the bar, he sprang out and entered the long
saloon.
His subsequent movements were, however, somewhat curious.
After walking to the further end of the bar, he ordered a drink, idled
over it for some minutes, his eyes glancing furtively at the lights of
the cab outside. Suddenly, when he had uttered a few words to a passing
acquaintance, he saw the vehicle move slowly on, probably under orders
from the police; and the instant he had satisfied himself that neither
Vittorina nor the cabman could observe him, he drained his glass, threw
down a shilling, and without waiting for the change turned and continued
through the bar, making a rapid exit by the rear door leading into
Jermyn Street.
As he emerged, a hansom was passing, and, hailing it, he sprang in,
shouted an address, and drove rapidly away.
Meanwhile the cabman who had driven him from Charing Cross sat upon his
box patiently awaiting his return, now and then hailing the plethoric
drivers of passing vehicles with sarcasm, as cab and 'bus drivers are
wont to do, until fully twenty minutes had elapsed. Then, there being
no sign of the reappearance of his fare, he opened the trap-door in the
roof, exclaiming--
"Nice evenin' miss."
There was no response. The man peered down eagerly for a moment in
surprise then cried aloud--
"By Jove! She's fainted!"
Unloosing the strap which held him to his seat, he sprang down and
entered the vehicle.
The young girl was lying back in the corner inert and helpless, her hat
awry, her pointed chin upon her chest. He pressed his hand to her
breast, but there was no movement of the heart. He touched her ungloved
hand. It was chilly, and the fingers were already stiffening. Her
large black eyes were still open, glaring wildly into space, but her
face was blanched to the lips.
"Good heavens!" the cabman cried, stupefied, as in turning he saw a
policeman standing on the kerb. "Quick, constable!" he shouted,
beckoning the officer. "Quick! Look here!"
"Well, what's the matter now?" the other inquired, approaching
leisurely, his thumbs hitched in his belt.
"The matter!" cried the cabman. "Why, this lady I drove from Charin'
Cross is dead?"