"I BEAR WITNESS!"
Next morning Gemma stood at the window of her bedroom, looking down upon
Northumberland Avenue. She had breakfasted unusually early, and had
chosen a dark-green dress trimmed with narrow astrachan--one of her
Paris-made gowns which she knew fitted her perfectly and suited her
complexion. She had stood before the long mirror in the wardrobe for
some minutes, and, with a pride that may always be forgiven in a woman,
regarded herself with satisfaction. They knew how to make a woman look
her best in the Rue de la Paix.
The recollection of the previous night was, in the light of morning,
horrifying. After leaving Sussex Square, she had stopped her cab at the
telegraph office opposite Charing Cross Station, the office being open
day and night, and had sent a long and urgent message to Rome explaining
the situation. Already a reply reposed in the pocket of her gown, but
it was unsatisfactory. The private secretary had wired back that the
Marquis was away at his high-up, antique castle of Montelupo, "the
Mountain of the Wolf," between Empoli and Signa, in Tuscany. She
therefore knew that many hours must elapse ere her cipher message was
delivered to him. Even his reply could not reach her for four hours or
so after it had been despatched from Empoli. But after sending the
message to Rome, she had also sent one to Armytage at Aldworth Court,
and was now awaiting his arrival.
Her hands were cold and nervous, her eyes heavy and weary, and her face
deathly pale and haggard, for she had slept but little that night. She
saw plainly that all her desperate efforts to free herself had been in
vain. There had been a hitch somewhere, or that night the whole of that
assembly at Lady Marshfield's would have been arrested by detectives
from Scotland Yard, at the instigation of Count Castellani, acting under
telegraphic orders from Rome. Italy would thus have been able to rid
herself of as desperate a gang of malefactors as ever stood in the dock
of a criminal court. She had kept faith with the Marquis Montelupo, her
master, and, in order to gain her freedom, had furnished the Ministry
with full details of the plot. Her freedom of action had been promised
her in exchange for this information, but with the stipulation that the
conspirators must be arrested. The Marquis, cunning and far-seeing, was
well aware that this would ensure greater secrecy, and hold her as his
agent until the very end.
No arrest had, however, taken place. All her plans had failed utterly,
and, in a paroxysm of despair, she told herself that she was still, even
at that moment, as far off gaining her freedom as ever she had been.
Her tiny white hands clenched themselves in despair.
"I love him!" she murmured hoarsely. "I love him; but Fate always
intervenes--always. Shall I never be released from this terrible
thraldom? I pray day and night, and yet--"
She paused. Her eyes fell upon the small ivory crucifix standing upon a
pile of books beside her bed. She sank upon her knees, clasped her
hands, and her thin white lips moved in fervent prayer.
Suddenly, while her head was still bent upon her breast in penitence, as
she craved forgiveness for violating the oath she had taken to these men
who sought her death, a master-key was placed in the door and the
chambermaid entered.
"Pardon, Madame," the girl exclaimed in French, drawing back as soon as
she saw her, "I thought you had gone out. A gentleman has just been
shown to your sitting-room, and is waiting."
"A gentleman!" Gemma repeated blankly, rising to her feet. Then she
recollected. It was her lover who had come in response to her telegram.
What could she tell him?
"Very well," she answered. "I'll see him at once;" and as the girl
withdrew, she stood looking at herself despairingly in the mirror.
Again she dare not tell him anything. She was still beneath a double
thraldom of guilt.
With both her hands she pushed back the mass of gold-brown hair from the
pale fevered brows, sighing; then, rigid and erect, walked down the
corridor to her own sitting-room. Her heart beating wildly, but with a
glad smile upon her face, she entered.
Instantly she halted. Her look of pleasure gave place to one of hatred.
Her visitor was not Charles Armytage, but the man who, only twelve
hours before, had secured her and her companions within that room with
the terrible engine of death in their midst. It was Lionello Nenci, who
stood with his back to the window, his hands idly in his pockets. His
sallow face was that of a man haunted by terror, and driven to
desperation. His cheeks were pale beneath their southern bronze, and
his black eyes glittered with unnatural fire as he advanced towards her.
"You!" she gasped in withering contempt. "You! The mean despicable cur
who sought to kill us!"
"Yes!" he answered unabashed. "Shut the door. I want to speak to you."
In involuntary obedience she closed the door, and the _portiere_ fell
behind her.
"I should have thought, after your infamous conduct last night, you
would not ever dare to face me again," she cried in scorn. "Such
treachery is only worthy of gaol-birds and traitors."
"You deserved it," he laughed roughly. "You are one of the latter. It
was you," he went on mercilessly--"you, with your innocent-looking face,
who gave the whole plot away, who exposed us to the Ministry, and put
the English police upon us; you who sought our arrest and punishment.
It is but what was to be expected of such a woman as yourself, the spy
and mistress of Montelupo."
"Mistress!" she echoed, in an instant frenzy of passion. "I'm not his
mistress. I swear I've never been. You know that's a foul lie!"
"Every one in Italy believes it," he said, with a brutal laugh. "When
they know that you were implicated in the plot, and gave it away to him,
it will confirm their suspicions."
She looked at him, intense hatred in her glance.
"And you have come here to tell me this!" she cried. "Having failed in
your dastardly attempt last night, you come here to-day to taunt me with
the past!"
"No. The reason I've called is to calmly explain the position. The
police are already upon us, but the Doctor and Romanelli have left
London. I unfortunately, am unable, for I've no money," he added, in a
whining tone. "I've come to throw myself upon your generosity; to ask
you for some."
"You wish me, the woman whom you denounce as a spy and traitor--whom you
and your infamous companions endeavoured to kill--you ask me to furnish
you with funds so that you may escape the punishment you deserve?" she
cried in scorn, amazed at his boldness. "I shall not stir a finger to
save you," she answered promptly.
"Come," he said. "There's no time to lose if I'm to escape. Remember,
I'm the man for whom the police of Europe have been searching in vain
these last two years, ever since I escaped from Elba; and if I'm again
to evade them, it will be expensive. If you're not prepared to
sacrifice yourself, then give me money and let us part. You are rich,
and can well afford it," he added. "Come. Take my advice, and let the
whole thing end here. Assist me this, the last time, and I swear to you
that I'll say nothing implicating you, even if afterwards I'm arrested."
"If I give you money, it is on the understanding that you will not in
future levy blackmail," she said, eyeing the cringing man before her
with contempt. "Recollect that any communication from you will result
in your immediate arrest. You know, one word from me at the Ministry
and the police will follow you, wherever you may be."
"I agree," he cried eagerly.
She drew from her purse three English notes, each for five pounds, and
handing them to him said--
"This is all the money I have at the moment, without drawing a cheque."
"It's not enough--not half enough," he declared in a tone of
dissatisfaction, glancing at the clock. "There's little time to lose.
A North German Lloyd boat sails from Southampton for New York this
afternoon, and the train leaves Waterloo at noon. This money won't even
buy my passage and necessaries."
She reflected for an instant, and glanced down at her fragile hands. An
instant later, in sheer desperation, she cried--
"Then take my rings!" And twisting them one by one from her fingers,
including the antique one of turquoise and diamonds, she laid them,
together with her brooch, on the little writing-table where they were
standing. "They're worth at least five thousand francs," she said.
"Take them, sell them, do what you like with them, but never let us meet
again."
Eagerly he took up one--a beautiful diamond half-hoop ring, and glancing
at it in admiration, was about to place it in his vest-pocket, when
there came a loud rap at the door, and the message-boy, shouting her
hotel number, ushered in two men.
Nenci turned quickly towards the door, and shrank back in terror and
dismay.
The men who entered were Tristram and Armytage. The face of the latter
was dark with determination. He had not expected to find Gemma with a
stranger; moreover, the fact that her rings and brooch lay upon the
table between her and her visitor puzzled him.
"Ah, dearest!" she cried, rushing towards him, her nervous hands
outstretched. "You have come back to me at last--at last!"
Without taking her proffered hands, he looked straight into the sallow,
evil face of the Italian. Nenci boldly met his gaze.
"This is the scoundrel who, as I've just told you, endeavoured last
night to destroy Gemma, myself, and several other persons at Lady
Marshfield's?" Tristram cried, glaring at the black-haired inventor of
the terrible engine of death.
"And this," retorted Nenci, pointing at the Captain--"this man is a
murderer! It was he who killed Vittorina Rinaldo!"
"You're a liar?" Tristram answered, his face livid and set. "The
evidence against me is circumstantial enough, perhaps, to convict me of
the crime, but I am innocent--absolutely innocent. I myself was the
victim of a dastardly plot. Little dreaming of what was intended, I
escorted her from Leghorn to London, and thus unwittingly myself created
circumstances which were so suspicious as to fasten the terrible guilt
upon me. But I declare before Heaven that I'm in ignorance of both the
motive and the secret means by which the crime was accomplished!"
The outlaw laughed a harsh, dry laugh. His demeanour at the first
moment of their entry into the room had been one of fear. Now he was
fiercely defiant, and affected amusement at their demeanour.
"If you can prove your innocence, then do so," he said grimly.
"According to the papers, you left the cab, entered the bar, spoke to
your accomplice, the Major, whoever he was, and then escaped by the back
entrance."
"True," replied the King's Messenger. "But my hurried flight had
nothing whatever to do with the murder of Vittorina, nor did my
conversation with the Major bear upon it in any way whatever. I merely
expressed surprise at meeting him there after leaving him at the
station; and he, too, was surprised to see me. Then, while in the bar,
I suddenly recollected that, in the hurry of alighting from the train, I
had left in the carriage a despatch-bag given me by one of the
messengers of the Embassy in Paris to convey to London; and knowing that
the train would be shunted out, perhaps down to the depot at Nine Elms,
I made all speed back to Charing Cross, where I found that a porter had
already discovered it, and taken it to the lost-property office. I had
no fear of Vittorina's safety, for I had already given the cabman the
address in Hammersmith, and every second was of consequence in
recovering my lost despatches."
"But the Major's photograph was discovered in Vittorina's bag," Nenci
cried in a tone of disbelief. "How do you account for that?"
"I don't know. To me, that fact is a mystery, although I have since
entertained a suspicion that the Major, when he met me, must have been
aware that the girl's life was to be taken. He called upon me
afterwards, and we were both afraid of arrest upon circumstantial
evidence. I was aware that he was implicated in some shady transactions
in the City, for he confessed to me his intention of leaving England
secretly."
"Your story is ingenious enough," Nenci replied, "but it will never
convince a jury of your innocence. You can't clear yourself. It's
absolutely impossible."
"One moment," interrupted Armytage, who, standing beside his
well-beloved, had been intently watching the face of this desperate
malefactor during this argument--"one moment," he said coolly. "This
visit is a very fortuitous circumstance. A face such as yours, one
never forgets--never. We have met before."
"I think not, signore," the other answered, smiling with that ineffable
politeness which so often nauseates. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing
you, save that I presume you are the affianced husband to the Signora
Contessa."
"But I know you, although it isn't much of a pleasure," Armytage
answered quickly, in a voice that showed that he was not to be trifled
with. "You declare that we've never met before. Well, I'll just
refresh your memory," he went on, slowly and deliberately. "One night,
the night previous to leaving for Italy, while passing the Criterion on
my way from the Junior United Service to the Alhambra, I saw a cab stop
and my friend Captain Tristram alight and enter the bar, when almost
next moment a man brushed past me. Beneath the electric light I saw his
face distinctly. I saw him raise his hat, mount the step of the cab,
shake hands cordially with the girl sitting inside the vehicle, and at
once dart away. I didn't enter the Criterion, as I had an appointment
with a man at the Alhambra, and was late. Next morning, however, when
in the train between London and Dover, on my way to Italy, I read in the
paper that the girl I had seen had been murdered." He paused for an
instant to watch the effect of his words; then declared, in a voice
which betrayed no hesitation.
"The man who brushed past me and mounted on the steps of the cab was
you! It was you who killed her!"
The colour died from Nenci's face. He tried to speak. His lips moved,
but no sound escaped them. This unexpected denunciation fell upon him
as a blow; it crushed him and held him speechless, spell-bound.
"Is it really true?" cried the Captain, open-mouthed, as astonished as
the murderer himself.
"This man before you was the murderer. To that I bear witness!"
Armytage replied.
"She was going to his house at Hammersmith," Tristram said, perplexed.
"There must have been some motive in killing her before she arrived
there."
"Of course. It's easy to discern that such a crime allayed all
suspicions. No one would dream that the man calmly waiting at home
expecting her arrival was actually the man who murdered her."
The dark-faced outlaw, watching the two men with covert glance, made a
swift movement towards the door. But Tristram was too quick for him,
and springing forward, placed his back against it, saying--
"No, when you leave this room you will be accompanied by a constable.
It isn't safe to trust you out alone." Then, turning to his old college
friend, he added, "What you've just said, Armytage, has renewed life
within me, old fellow. I knew I was the victim of some foul plot or
other, but I never suspected this man of being the actual assassin. His
character's desperate enough, as witness his mean, dastardly attempt
upon us last night; but I never dreamed it possible for a man to commit
murder so neatly as he did."
"You are determined to keep me here?" Nenci cried, his eyes glaring
savagely like an animal brought to bay.
"I am determined to give you up to the police," Tristram answered.
"Remember, I am suspected, and I now intend to clear myself."
"And risk arrest for the conspiracy."
"There's no proof that I was ever associated with you," the Captain
answered. "The word of a murderer isn't worth much."
"You are prepared for the revelations that I can make?"
"I'm prepared for anything so long as you meet with your deserts," the
Captain responded.
For an instant the wretched man, his sallow face haunted by a look of
unutterable dread, glanced from one to the other. Then, convinced that
all were determined, and realising that escape was now utterly
impossible, he stepped forward, and, snatching up from the table the
antique ring set with the turquoise and diamonds, with a quick movement
slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand. They watched him in
wonder.
"You think to have a magnificent revenge," he cried, glaring wildly at
them. "But I will cheat you yet. Watch!" And with the thumb and
finger of his right hand he pressed the large turquoise.
From beneath the ring there escaped a dark red bead of blood.
"Go!" he shrieked hoarsely, his face haggard, deathlike. "Go, call the
police! Denounce me, do your worst, but you will only take my lifeless
body. May it be of service to you. This you intended should be a fine
_coup_ of vengeance. But I'll cheat you yet! I'll cheat you--I--"
"Ring, and call in the police," Armytage suggested.
"Useless! useless!" the wretched man gasped, his face drawn and
distorted as, clutching the back of the chair, he stood swaying forward
slightly. "Can't you see that all your carefully planned revenge is
unavailing?"
They regarded him in blank astonishment. Even as they looked his face
changed, and he was seized by convulsions which shook him from head to
foot.
"Can't you see?" he cried wildly. "I've cheated you, and I'm dying. On
my finger is the death-ring--the pretty finger ornament which, when
pressed, punctures the skin beneath and injects a poison which is swift,
and to which there is no known antidote."
"Heavens!" cried the Captain, glancing at the ring the assassin had
assumed. "Now that I remember, Vittorina wore a ring exactly similar to
that! Upon her hand after death was a strange discoloration which
puzzled the doctors. Then she was murdered by a simple pressure of the
hand, which inflicted a puncture beneath the ring, and the latter, being
irremovable on account of the post-mortem swelling, the cause of death
remained concealed. Truly the means by which she was killed were as
cunning and swift as the manner in which the crime was accomplished."
The haggard, white-faced culprit stood swaying forward, holding the
chair, his black eyes starting from his head, his parched tongue
protruding, his lips drawn, his whole appearance horrible. In those
moments of intense agony a jumble of half-incoherent words, like the
gibbering of an idiot, escaped him; yet from them it seemed as though he
were living his whole evil life again, and that scenes long since past
flashed before him, only to be succeeded by this final one--more tragic,
more terrible, more agonising than them all.
"I told you that the police should never take me!" he gasped with
extreme difficulty. "Montelupo's bloodhounds have already scented me
to-day, but I've tricked them as I've tricked you. I'm not afraid of
death. I'm no coward. See!"
And again he grasped the ring, and, grinding his teeth, pressed the tiny
steel point therein concealed deep into the flesh.
Then he gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, meant to be derisive, but
sounding horrible in combination with the death-rattle in his throat.
His life was fast ebbing. Great beads of perspiration rolled off his
white brow. Again he tried to speak, but the single word "Vittorina,"
hoarse and low, was the only one that passed his twitching lips. His
bright, glassy eyes, still flashing a murderous hatred in the agony of
death, were fixed immovably upon his accuser, when suddenly, almost
without warning, he was seized with frightful convulsions, his jaws set,
the light died from his face, his legs seemed to give way beneath him,
and, reeling, he fell headlong to the floor, carrying the chair with
him.
Both men in an instant knelt eagerly beside him.
Tristram quickly loosened his vest, and placed his hand upon his heart.
It had already ceased its action.
The subtle Eastern poison--for such it afterwards proved to be--had done
its work swiftly, completely. Lionello Nenci--conspirator, murderer,
and outlaw, one of the most desperate and dangerous characters that
Italy has produced during the past decade, and the miscreant whose
arrest had been stipulated by the Marquis Montelupo in his compact with
Gemma--was dead.
Le Funaro was free. The terrible thraldom which had compelled her to
act as secret agent of the State was for ever ended.