In winter the roads in Rutlandshire are none too good for cycling. When
wet they are too heavy; when frosty they are apt to be rutty and
dangerous. Once or twice Gemma had been out with the two daughters of
the rector of a neighbouring parish, but as she could not understand
half a dozen words they said, and discovered them to be of that frigid
genus peculiar to the daughters-of-the-cloth, she preferred riding
alone. In January the country around Uppingham is bleak, brown, and
bare, different indeed from winter in her own sunny land, but it was the
exhilarating sensation of cycling that delighted her, and she did not
ride for the purpose of seeing the district. The hills around
Lyddington were poor indeed after the wild grandeur of the Lucca
Mountains, or the Apennines, but on bright mornings she found her ride
very delightful, and always returned fresh, rosy, and hungry.
A fortnight had gone by since the night Charles Armytage had visited
her, but she had received no word from him, because the address she gave
was at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross and she had not been to
London. The kiss he had given her before parting reassured her, and
now, instead of being pensive, pale-faced, and wan, she had resumed
something of her old reckless gaiety, and would go about the house
humming to herself the chorus of that gay song, popular to every
cafe-concert in Italy, "M'abbruscia, m'abbruscia, 't capa, signure," or
jingle upon the piano for the amusement of the Doctor and Mrs Nenci,
"Pennariale," "La Bicicletta," "Signo', dicite si," and a host of other
equally well-known ditties. Both Malvano, who always treated her with
studied courtesy, and her female companion were surprised at her sudden
change of manner. Neither, however, knew the truth. Armytage had
evidently succeeded in leaving the house and gaining the road without
having been seen by the servants.
The frosty wind was sweeping keen as a knife across the uplands one
morning as she mounted her cycle, and with a laughing farewell to the
Doctor, who was just ascending into his high trap to visit a patient
some five miles away in an opposite direction, she allowed her machine
to run rapidly down the hill for nearly a mile without pedalling. The
roads were hard and rutty, but she eared nothing for that, and rode
straight as an arrow, taking both hands from the handles in order to
readjust the pin which held her neat little toque. Few women rode
better than she, and few looked more graceful or pedalled more evenly.
In the leafy Cascine at Florence, in the Public Gardens at Milan, in the
Bois at Paris, and along the Viale at Livorno, her riding had been many
times admired. But here, on these Rutlandshire highways there was no
crowd of gossiping idlers, none to remark her beauty, none to whisper
strange stories of "the pretty Contessa," and for the first time for
months she now felt free from the trammels of her past.
About a mile and a half from Lyddington, she turned off suddenly on to a
byroad, rutty and ill-kept, and, still downhill, rode towards Seaton
Station. The Doctor expected a small parcel of drugs from London, and,
as it could be tied to her handle-bar, she had that morning made it the
object of her ride. Malvano, however, had been compelled to scribble a
line to the station-master for, as she could not speak English, and the
local railway official could not be expected to have any knowledge of
Tuscan, the note would obviate any complications.
Shortly before reaching the station, the road crossed the railway by a
level-crossing kept by a lame man, one of the company's servants, who
had been injured years before, and who now led a life of comparative
ease in his snug little cottage beside the line. As she approached, she
saw that the great gates were closed, and, riding up to them, she
dismounted and called to the cottager for the way to be opened.
The grey-headed old man appeared at the door in his shabby overcoat,
shook his head, and cast a glance down the line. Then, almost next
instant, the Continental express from Harwich to Birmingham flew past.
The gatekeeper drew back one of the levers beside his door, entered the
house for a moment, then came forth with something in his hand.
"This letter has been left for you, miss," he said, politely touching
his cap and handing a note to her. "It's been here these four days, and
I was told not to send it up to the Doctor's, but to give it to you
personally next time you passed alone."
"Who gave it to you?" she asked quickly, in Italian, as she took the
letter in one hand, holding her cycle with the other.
But the man, unacquainted with strange languages, regarded her rather
suspiciously, and answered--
"I don't understand French, miss."
They both laughed, and from her purse she gave the man some coppers.
Not until she got to a lonely part of the road, on her return journey,
did she dismount to read the secret missive. It consisted of five words
only, in Italian, scribbled in pencil upon a piece of that common
foreign notepaper ruled in tiny squares. The words were--"Bonciani,
Monday, at five. Urgent."
It bore no signature, no date, nothing to give a clue whence the
mysterious appointment emanated. She examined its superscription, but
utterly failed to recognise the handwriting.
For a long time she stood beneath the leafless oaks with the scrap of
paper in her hand, meditating deeply. It was plain that whoever had
summoned her to London feared to sign the note lest it should fall into
other hands; furthermore, the writer evidently knew that it was unsafe
to send a message through the post direct to the Doctor's house. Being
unable to speak English, she could not ask the railway watchman to
describe the person who had placed it in his hands. She could only act
as the unknown writer demanded, or, on the other hand, take no notice of
the strange communication.
It was not from Charles, for she well knew his bold, sprawly hand. This
was decidedly the writing of one of her compatriots; but as she
reflected, she could not think of any one who could desire her urgent
attendance at the obscure little restaurant in Regent Street. She had
often heard of the Bonciani, even while in Italy, but had never visited
it. Then suddenly the sweet, distant sound of church bells, borne to
her on the frosty wind, sounded so different to that from the old
sun-blanched campanili of the Tuscan churches, and brought to her
recollection that the day was Sunday, a festal day in her own land, and
that the appointment with the unknown was on the morrow.
Irresolute and puzzled, she tore up both envelope and paper, and cast
them to the wind; then, seating herself in her saddle, she rode onward
up the long incline which led to Lyddington.
That afternoon there were two or three callers--the wife and daughter of
a retired manufacturer living at Laxton, and a couple of young men, sons
of old Squire Gregory, of Apethorpe, who had seen Gemma cycling and
driving with the Doctor, and who had been struck by her extraordinary
chic. One of them, the elder, spoke Italian a little, and they chatted
together in the drawing-room, after which tea was served. She did not
care for that beverage, and only drank it because it seemed to her the
proper thing to do in England. She would have much preferred a glass of
menta, or one or other of those brilliantly coloured syrups so dear to
the palate of the Italian.
With that ineffable politeness of his race, Malvano entertained his
visitors in a manner polished and refined, while Mrs Nenci, a rather
striking figure in black, spoke broken English with them, and did the
honours of the house. People often called at the Doctor's in the
afternoon, for he was a merry bachelor with the reputation of being the
most good-hearted, generous, easy-going man in the county; and on this
Sunday the assembly was quite a pleasant one, the more so to Gemma when
she found a good-looking young man to whom she could chat.
They were standing together in the deep bay of the old-fashioned window,
half hidden by the heavy curtains. The room was filled with the gay
chatter of the visitors, and he now saw his opportunity to speak to her.
"Signorina," he said in a low whisper, "a friend of mine is our mutual
friend."
"I don't understand you?" she inquired, starting in surprise, and
glancing quickly at him.
"Charles Armytage," young Gregory answered. "He was staying with me
until about a fortnight ago. Then he left suddenly."
"Well?"
"He doesn't dare to write to you here, but has written to me."
"Where is he?" she inquired eagerly.
"Abroad," the young man replied hurriedly. "In his letter to me
yesterday, he asked me to call here at once, see you, and tell you that
he is in Brussels; and that if you write, address him at the Poste
Restante."
"He is still there?" she asked. "Then a telegram to-day--now--would
reach him?"
"Certainly," her young companion replied. "He says he will send me word
the moment he changes his address, and asks me to request you to write.
He says it is unsafe, however, under the circumstances, for him to
respond to your letter."
"Thank you," she answered, breathing more freely. The knowledge that he
had escaped to Brussels, and that she could give him further warning, if
needed, was to her reassuring. "It is extremely kind of you to bring me
this welcome message. I had no idea that you knew Mr Armytage."
"We were at Eton together," Gregory answered. "I've known him ever
since I can remember. But I see my brother is going to drive the
Blatherwycke parson home, so I must say good-bye; and I hope to call
again, as soon as I have any further news--if I may."
She answered him with a glance. Then together they returned into the
centre of the room, chatting as if no confidences had been exchanged,
and a moment later he took leave of her.
Next morning, in a dark stuff walking dress, she mounted her cycle,
having announced her intention to ride over to King's Cliffe and lunch
with some friends of Malvano's who had invited her. Instead, however,
she went to Gretton Station, placed her cycle in the cloakroom, and took
a first-class ticket to London, determined to keep the mysterious
appointment. It was nearly three o'clock when she arrived, and she at
once lunched at the railway buffet, idled there for half an hour, and
then took a cab to Regent Street, where she whiled away the time gazing
into the windows of the milliners and dressmakers, unaware that a
shabby, middle-aged, unimportant-looking man was narrowly watching her
movements, or that this man was Inspector Elmes of Vine Street.
At last she glanced at her little watch, with its two hearts set in
diamonds on the back--a beautiful souvenir which her absent lover had
given her in the early days of their acquaintance--and found it wanted
ten minutes to five. She had passed the obscure rendezvous, and glanced
at its window with the sickly looking palms and india-rubber plants, the
long-necked wine-flasks she knew so well, and the two framed menus;
therefore, considering it time to enter the place, she retraced her
steps from Piccadilly Circus, and a few minutes later opened the door
and walked into the long, narrow salon, with its marble-topped tables
and plush lounges.
Two or three men, whom she at once recognised as compatriots, were
sipping coffee and smoking. As she passed, they eyed her admiringly;
but without a glance at them she walked to the further end, and seating
herself at a table on the left, ordered coffee.
Scarcely had it been brought, when the door again opened, and there
lounged in leisurely a tall, well-built, handsome man in long dark
overcoat and brown soft felt hat. Without hesitation he walked straight
to her table, bowed politely, and with a word of greeting seated
himself. Her face went white as the marble before her; she held her
breath. In that instant she recollected it was the day, the hour, and
the place mentioned in that remarkable letter found upon her unfortunate
friend Vittorina--that letter which had so puzzled and mystified the
Ambassador, the police, the newspaper reporters, and the British public.
She had been entrapped.