Tristram's sinewy fingers tightened upon the slender white throat of the
helpless woman until her breath was crushed from her, her face became
crimson, and in her wild, starting eyes was a ghastly expression of
suffering and despair.
"Mercy!" she managed to gasp with difficulty. "Ah, no! Let me go! let
me go!"
"Your evil tongue can ruin me. But you shall not!" he cried in a frenzy
of anger, his face suffused by a fierce, murderous passion. "By Heaven,
you shall die!"
"If--if you kill me," she shrieked, "you will suffer; for even though
I'm outcast, there is a law here, in your England, to deal with
murderers."
"Outcast!" he echoed wildly, with an imprecation. "Yes; curse you! Is
there any wonder that you are hounded out of Italy, after all that has
occurred? Is there any wonder, after what took place in Tuscany, that I
now hold you within my hands, eager to extinguish the last remaining
spark of your life?"
"You're a brute!" she cried in a hoarse, gurgling voice. "Release me!
I--I can't breathe!"
"No, by Heaven, you shall die!" he declared, his strong, muscular hands
trembling with uncurbed passion. "Your infernal tongue shall utter no
more foul slanders, for to-night, now--this moment--I'll silence you!"
She uttered a low, agonised cry, then, fainting, panting, breathless,
sank upon her knees, unable any longer to resist the frightful pressure
upon her throat. At that instant, however, Smayle, hearing an unusual
noise, dashed in, and, taking in the situation at a glance, seized his
master firmly.
"Good heavens, sir! what's the matter?" he cried. "Why, you're killing
the lady!"
"Get out?" cried the Captain with an oath, shaking himself free, and
still holding the fainting woman at his feet. "Get out quickly! Leave
the house, and--and don't come back!"
"But you're killing her!" he cried. "See, there's blood in her mouth!"
"Obey me this instant!" he roared. "Leave me!"
"No," Smayle answered, "I won't!" And, springing upon his master, he
managed, after a desperate struggle, to drag his hands free of the
kneeling woman's throat and fling him back with a smothered oath. "I
won't see a woman murdered in that cowardly way," he declared
vehemently, "even if you are my master?"
"What the devil do my affairs concern you, Smayle?" Tristram demanded
fiercely, glaring at his servant, and glancing at Gemma, now fallen back
prostrate on the floor, her hat crushed beneath her, her fair hair
escaping from its pins.
"They concern me as far as this, sir--that you shall leave this room at
once. If the lady is dead, then you've committed murder, and I am
witness of it!"
"You'd denounce me, would you?" the Captain shrieked with rage, his
hands still clenched in a fierce paroxysm of anger. Then, next instant
he sprang at him.
But Smayle was a slim, athletic fellow, and, like most of the genus
Tommy Atkins, knew how to use his fists when occasion required. He
jumped aside, nimbly evaded the blow his master aimed at him, and
cleverly tripped up his adversary, so that he fell headlong to the
ground, bringing down from its pedestal a pretty Neapolitan statuette,
which was smashed to atoms.
Tristram quickly rose with an imprecation, but Smayle, again grappling
with him, succeeded at length, after an encounter long and fierce, in
flinging him out of the room, and locking the door.
Then instantly he turned towards the white-faced woman, and, kneeling
beside her, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. With his
handkerchief he staunched the blood slowly trickling from the corners of
her pale lips, placed a cushion beneath her head, and snatching some
flowers from a bowl, sprinkled her face with the water. Her white,
delicate throat was dark and discoloured where his master's rough hands
had pressed it in his violent attempt to strangle her, her dress was
torn open at the neck, and her gold necklet she had worn, with its tiny
enamelled medallion, lay upon the ground, broken by the sudden, frantic
attack. Tenderly the soldier-servant stroked her hair, chafed her
hands, and endeavoured to restore her to consciousness, but all in vain.
Inert and helpless she remained while he held her head, gazing upon her
admiringly, but unable to determine the best course to pursue.
The outer door banged suddenly, and he knew his master had fled.
With every appearance of one dead, Gemma lay upon the carpet where she
had sunk from the cruel, murderous hands of the man who had attempted to
kill her, while Smayle again rose, and obtaining some brandy from the
liquor-stand, succeeded in forcing a small quantity of it down her
throat.
This revived her slightly, for she opened her great clear eyes, gazing
into Smayle's with an expression of fear and wonder.
"Drink a little more of this, miss," the man said eagerly, holding the
glass to her lips, delighted to find that she was not, after all, dead
as he had at first feared.
Unable to understand what he said, she nevertheless allowed him to pour
a few more drops of the spirit down her dry, parched throat, but it
caused her to cough violently, and she made a gesture that to take more
was impossible.
For fully ten minutes she remained silent, motionless, her head lying
heavily upon Smayle's arm, breathing slowly, but each moment more
regularly. The deathly pallor gradually disappeared as the blood came
back to her cheeks, but the dark rings about her eyes, and the marks
upon her throat, still remained as evidence how near she had been to an
agonising and most terrible death.
At last Gemma again opened her eyes and uttered some words faintly,
making a frantic gesture with her hands. The man who had rescued her
understood that she wished to rise, and, grasping her beneath the arms,
gradually lifted her into the Captain's great leather-covered armchair,
in which she reclined, a frail, beautiful figure, with eyes half closed
and breast panting violently after the exertion.
Then again she closed her eyes, her tiny hands, cold and feeble,
trembled, and in a few minutes her regular breathing made it apparent to
the Captain's man that, exhausted, she had sunk into a deep and peaceful
sleep.
He left her side, and creeping from the room noiselessly, searched all
the other apartments. His master had gone. He had taken with him his
two travelling-bags--a sign that he had set out upon a long journey. As
far as Constantinople, one bag always sufficed; to Teheran he always
took both. The fact that the two bags were taken made it plain that his
absence would be a long one--probably some weeks, if not more.
Smayle stole back to the sitting-room, and saw that the blue official
ribbon with its silver greyhound hung no longer upon its nail, and that
his revolver was gone. He returned to the Captain's bedroom, and upon
the dressing-table found a ten-pound note lying open. Across its face
had been scribbled hastily, in pencil, the words, "For Smayle." Upon
the floor were some scraps of paper, letters that had been hurriedly
destroyed, while in the empty grate lay a piece of tinder and a
half-consumed wax vesta, showing that some letters of more importance
than the others had been burnt.
The man, mystified, gathered the scraps together, examined them closely
and placed them in a small drawer in the dressing-table. Then putting
the banknote in his pocket, exclaimed to himself--
"This is curious, and no kid. The Captain ain't often so generous as to
give me a tenner, especially when he only paid me yesterday. I wonder
who the lady is? I wish I could speak to her. She's somebody he's met,
I suppose, when abroad."
He went to the hall, and noted what coats his master had taken, when
suddenly it occurred to him that without assistance it was impossible
that he could have carried them all downstairs; somebody must have
helped him.
Into the small bachelor's kitchen he passed, pondering deeply over the
strange occurrence. Only an hour before, his master had arrived home
from dining at the club, and putting on his well-worn velvet
lounge-coat, had announced his intention of remaining at home and
smoking. Smayle had asked him whether he was under orders to leave with
despatches, when he had answered that it was not yet his turn, and that
he expected to have a fortnight in London. Three days ago he had
returned from St Petersburg, tired, hungry, irritable, as he always was
after that tedious journey. A run home from Brussels, Paris, or even
Berlin, never made him short-tempered, but always when he arrived from
Petersburg, Madrid, or "Constant," he grumbled at everything; always
declared that Smayle had been drinking his whisky; that the place was
dirty; that the weather in London was brutal; and ten thousand a year
wouldn't repay him for the loss of nerve-power on "those infernal
gridirons they call railways."
Yet he had made a serious attempt upon the life of a strange lady who
had called, and had left hurriedly with sufficient kit to last him six
months.
He was reflecting deeply, wondering what he should do with the lady,
when suddenly he was startled by the door-bell ringing. With military
promptness he answered it, and found his master's new acquaintance,
Arnoldo Romanelli. The latter had spent several evenings at Tristram's
chambers since the night they had dined together at Bonciani's,
therefore Smayle knew him well.
"The Captain's not at home, sir," he answered, in reply to the visitor's
inquiry.
"Is he away?"
"He left this evening suddenly."
"On important business, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," Smayle answered. Then he added, "Excuse me, sir, but you
are Italian, aren't you?"
"Yes; why?" Arnoldo asked in surprise.