Before she had parted from the Marquis she had made a demand boldly and
fearlessly, to which, not without the most vehement protest, he had been
compelled to accede. She knew him well, and was aware that, in order to
gain his own ends, he would betray and denounce his nearest relative;
that, although a shrewd, clever statesman, he had won universal
popularity and esteem in Italy by reason of certain shady transactions
by which he had posed as the saviour of his country. The revelations
she could make regarding the undercurrent of affairs in Rome would
astound Europe. For that reason he had been forced to grant her what
she asked in return for the incriminating paper from the archives of the
Embassy.
For over an hour they sat together in the darkness engaged in a strange
discussion, when at last they rose and together walked on, still deep in
conversation. The Marquis had an appointment, and was about to take
leave of her when, as they crossed the wide deserted space between the
Admiralty and the Horse Guards, a man in a heavy fur-trimmed overcoat
and felt hat, in hurrying past, gazed full into the faces of both. At
that moment they were beneath one of the lamps flickering in the gusty
wind, and he had full view of them.
Gemma's eyes met his, and instantly the recognition was mutual.
It was the man who had attempted to take her life--Frank Tristram. He
had evidently arrived from the Continent by the day express from Paris,
left his despatches at the Foreign Office, and was walking to his
chambers in St James's Street by the nearest way across the Park. He
usually preferred to walk home in order to stretch his legs, cramped as
they were by many tedious hours in railway carriages.
When he had passed he turned quickly as if to reassure himself, then,
with some muttered words, he strode forward with his hands deep in his
pockets and his head bent towards the cold boisterous wind.
"Did you notice that man who has just passed?" Gemma gasped, in a low
voice betraying alarm.
"No; who was he?" asked the Marquis, turning back to glance at the
retreating figure.
"A man you know; Tristram, the English Foreign Office messenger."
"Tristram!" ejaculated Montelupo quickly. "He's never recognised me?"
"I think so," she replied. "He looked straight into your face."
The Minister ejaculated a fierce Italian oath. "Then the fact that I'm
in London will be at once made known," he said.
"That is not of much importance, is it? Castellani already knows, for
you've been to the Embassy."
"But he will be silent. I'm here incognito," the Marquis cried quickly,
in a changed voice. "I have several matters with regard to Abyssinia
and our foreign policy to settle with the British Government, but am
procrastinating with an object. If they know yonder at the Foreign
Office that I am in London, and have not called upon their Minister, it
will be considered an insult, and may strain our relations with England.
This we can't afford to do. These English are useful to us. Italy has
nothing to fear from the alliance of France and Russia, but nevertheless
her only safe policy consists in a firm union with England. The
Anglo-Italian naval alliance preserves the peace of Europe by throwing
its weight into the scale against any disturber of tranquillity. We
shall want English ships to fight and protect us in the Mediterranean
when France invades us on the Tuscan shore." Then, after a moment's
reflection, he glanced at the illuminated clock-face of Big Ben, and
added, "No, I must leave London at once, for in this direction I see a
pressing danger. It's now nearly seven. I'll dine and get away by the
night mail for Paris. I must be back in Rome again at the earliest
possible moment."
"Am I still to go to the Embassy?" she asked.
"Of course," he answered quickly. "Don't delay an instant. It is
imperative that we should obtain that document, and you are the only
person who can successfully accomplish the task. When you have done so
bring it to me in Rome. Our safety lies in the expeditious way in which
you effect this coup."
"In Rome?" she echoed. "That's impossible."
"Why? With us everything is possible."
"You forget that, owing to your absurd and foolish action a few months
ago, I shall find myself arrested the moment I cross the frontier," she
answered.
"Ah, yes, I quite forgot," he replied. "But that's easily remedied."
They were passing through the square of the Horse Guards at that moment,
and halting beneath a lamp where stood a cavalry sentry motionless and
statuesque, he took from his bulky wallet a visiting-card and scribbled
a few words upon its back. Then, handing it to her, said--"This is your
passport. If there is any difficulty in reaching me, present this."
She took it, glanced at the scribbled words, and thrust it into her
glove. Then, upon the wide pavement in Parliament Street, a few moments
later, he lifted his hat politely, and they parted.
At noon next day Gemma called at the Embassy, and was shown into the
waiting-room. She had not remained there five minutes when suddenly the
Ambassador's daughter burst into the room with a loud cry of welcome,
and kissed her visitor enthusiastically on both cheeks in Italian
fashion. Slight, and strange rather than pretty, she had a delicate
face, dark eyes, a small quivering nose, a rather large, ever-ruddy
mouth, and curling, straggling black locks, which ever waved as in a
perpetual breeze.
"I'm so glad, so very glad you've called, dear," Carmenilla said
enthusiastically. "Father mentioned the other day that you were in
England, and I've wondered so often why you've never been to see us."
"I've been staying with friends in the country," Gemma explained. "I
suppose you speak English quite well now."
"A little. But oh! it is so difficult," she laughed. "And it is so
different here to Firenze or Rome. The people are so strange."
"Yes," Gemma sighed. "I have also found it so."
In their girlhood days they had been close friends through five years at
the grey old convent of San Paolo della Croce in the Via della Chiesa at
Firenze, and afterwards at Rome, where Carmenilla had lived with a
rather eccentric old aunt, the Marchesa Tassino, while her father had
been absent fulfilling the post of Ambassador at Vienna.
"I'm so very glad you've called," Castellani's daughter repeated. "Come
to my room; take off your things and stay to luncheon. Father is out,
and I'm quite alone."
"The Count is out," repeated her visitor in a feigned tone of regret.
Truth to tell, however, it was intelligence most welcome to her. "I'm
sorry he's not at home. We haven't met for so long."
"Oh, he's dreadfully worried just now!" his daughter answered. "The
work at this Embassy is terrible. He seems writing and interviewing
people from morning until night. He works much harder now than any of
the staff; while at Brussels it was all so different. He had absolutely
nothing to do."
"But this England is such a great and wonderful country, while Belgium
is such a tiny one," Gemma observed. "The whole diplomatic world
revolves around London."
"Yes, of course," she resumed. "But to sustain Italy's prestige we are
compelled to do such lots of entertaining. I'm terribly sick of it all.
The situation in Rome began to change almost as soon as father was
appointed here, and now it has become extremely grave and critical. The
men who were once his friends are now his bitterest foes. He has
adjusted several most difficult matters recently, but no single word of
commendation has he received from the Marquis Montelupo."
"Perhaps the Marquis is not his friend," Gemma hazarded, for the purpose
of ascertaining the extent of her knowledge.
"No. He is his enemy; of that I'm absolutely confident," the girl
replied. "I hate him. He's never straightforward. Once, in Rome, he
tried to worm from me a secret of my father's, and because I would not
speak he has never forgiven me."
"Was it some very deep secret?" Gemma inquired. "Yes. It concerned
the prestige of Italy and my father's reputation for probity," she
replied. "Why the King trusts him so implicitly, I can never
understand."
"If there are serious political complications in Rome, as you seem to
think, then the days of his power are numbered," observed her visitor,
now master of herself again. "The Ministry will be thrown out."
"Ah! that would be the best thing that could happen to Italy," she
declared with a look of wisdom. "Montelupo is my father's enemy; he
seeks to fetter him in every action, in order that his reputation as a
diplomat may be ruined, so that the King may be forced to send him his
letters of recall. Truly the post of Ambassador in London is no
sinecure."
Gemma was silent. She hesitated and shuddered, Carmenilla noticed it,
and asked her if she were cold.
"No, no," she answered quickly. "It is quite warm and cosy here." The
light played on her smooth skin to admiration, and the colour changed in
her excited face.
At luncheon, served with that stateliness which characterised the whole
of the Ambassador's household, they chatted on, as women will chat, of
dress, of books, of plays, and of the latest gossip from Florence and
Rome, the two centres of Italian society. They were eating their
dessert, when the hall-porter entered bearing a card upon the salver.
Carmenilla glanced at it, smiled, and rose to excuse herself.
"A visitor!" Gemma exclaimed. "Who is it?"
Her friend hesitated, blushing ever so faintly.
"An Englishman," she answered. "I won't be more than ten minutes. Try
and amuse yourself, won't you, dear? Go back to the boudoir and play.
I know you love music." And she left the room hurriedly.
The card was still lying beside her plate, and Gemma, in curiosity
reached forward and took it up. In an instant, however, she cast it
from her.
The man who had called was Frank Tristram.
In order not to attract the undue attention of the grave-faced man who
stood silent and immovable before the great carved oak buffet, she
finished her apple leisurely, sipped the tiny cup of coffee, dipped the
tips of her fingers in the silver-rimmed bowl of rose-scented water, and
rising, passed out along the corridor back to the warm, cosy little room
where they had passed such a pleasant hour.
She had detected Carmenilla's flushed cheeks, and had suspicion that
this caller was no ordinary friend. This man, whose murderous fingers
had not long ago clutched themselves around her own throat, was a friend
of this smart, slim girl who was so admired in London society. She
stood silent in the centre of the little room, her heart beating wildly,
wondering whether she might, without arousing suspicion, retrace her
steps along that long, thickly carpeted corridor and secure the document
which Montelupo required. The voices of servants sounded outside, and
she knew that at present to approach and unlock the door unobserved was
impossible.
Therefore she advanced to the grate, and spreading out her chilly,
nervous hands to the fire, waited, determined to possess herself in
patience. Even now she felt inclined to draw back because of the
enormous risk she ran. Castellani was not her friend. If he knew, he
might give her over to the English police as a common thief. Her face
was of death-like pallor at that moment of indecision. Again she
shuddered.
With her hand upon her heaving breast, as if to allay an acute pain that
centred there, her white lips moved, but no sound escaped them. She
listened. The servants had gone.
Carmenilla was downstairs chatting with Tristram; the house at last
seemed silent and deserted, therefore Gemma, losing no time in further
indecision, and holding her silken skirts tight around her so that they
should not rustle, crept out on tiptoe, holding in her hand the key
which Montelupo had given her. At first she proceeded slowly and
noiselessly, but, fearing detection, hurried forward as she approached
the door of the Ambassador's room.
At last she gained it, breathless. With scarce a sound she placed the
key in the lock, and a moment later was inside, closing the door after
her.
Unhesitatingly she went straight to the table, and placed her hand upon
the drawer containing the document. It was locked. Next instant her
heart beat wildly as her quick eye espied the key still remaining in
another drawer, and, taking it, she opened the locked drawer and stood
examining the great blue official envelope in her hand.
Yes, the blue pencil mark was upon it in the form of a cross, as the
Marquis had described. She had gained what she sought. Triumph was
hers.
Quickly she turned to make her exit, but next second fell back with a
loud wild cry of alarm.
Count Castellani had entered noiselessly, and was standing erect and
motionless between her and the door.