Though utterly fagged out, I hailed a passing cab and drove back to the
corner of Harpur Street, where, in the shadow, about half-way along the
short thoroughfare, I discovered the young Italian keeping a watchful
eye upon the house with the sign of the bear.
"No one has emerged, signore," he said to me in Italian. "I was here a
few minutes after you spoke to me."
The blind was still up, and the signal still exhibited, the inmates
evidently being unaware of the secret visit of the strange pair.
What connection could Father Bernardo and the old hunchback Graniani,
away in Italy, have with that mysterious household?
"Has anyone passed up the street during my absence?" I asked the
merry-eyed Enrico.
"Several people, signore. One man, well-dressed, like a gentleman,
stood for a moment looking up at the window yonder as though he expected
to see someone there. But he was apparently disappointed, and passed
on."
"What kind of man?" I inquired eagerly. "Describe him."
"A signore with small, fair moustache, about forty. He carried an
umbrella, so I could not see his face very well. He was tall, and
walked erectly, almost like an officer. A four-wheeled cab waited for
him up at the corner."
"He didn't actually pass the house?"
"No, signore. He merely walked down here sufficiently far to obtain a
view of the window; then, having satisfied himself, turned back again."
In reply to my question, Enrico told me that he lived with his mother in
Kirby Street, Hatton Garden, the thoroughfare running parallel with
Saffron Hill. They have been five years in London: five sad, despairing
years. Ah, the English! they were not _cattiva_. Oh, no! It was their
amazing climate that made them what they were. He pitied London people.
How happy they would all be if they only lived under the blue sky of
rural Tuscany! And so he went on, just as every poor Italian does who
is doomed to the struggle and semi-starvation of life in our grey
metropolis.
I read the young fellow's character like a book. He had served his
military service at Bologna, and had been waiter in the officers' mess.
Then he and his mother emigrated to London from Genoa, attracted by the
proverbial richness of the _Inglese_ and the report that waiters in
restaurants were well paid. On arrival, however, he had soon discovered
that the supply of Italian waiters was much in excess of the demand;
therefore, he had been compelled to invest the ten pounds he had in a
second-hand organ, and he and his mother picked up a living as best they
could in the unsympathetic streets of London.
He seemed a good fellow, quite frank, and possessing that easy-going,
careless manner of the true Tuscan, which never deserts him even when in
circumstances of direst poverty. Your true son of the Tuscan mountains
looks at the bright side of everything; a child in love, a demon in
hatred, over-cautious with strangers, but easy and tractable in
everything. I chatted to him for some twenty minutes, at the end of
which time I resolved that he should assist me further in my
investigations.
I told him how I had only arrived from Italy a few hours ago, and he
grew at once excited. My train had actually passed across the rippling
Serchio within a few miles of Ponte Moriano, his own village! I told
him of my long residence in Tuscany, a fact which attracted him towards
me; for seldom your poor Italian of the curb becomes acquainted with an
Englishman who understands his ways and his language. And when I
explained that I wished him to assist me in a very important and secret
undertaking he at once announced his readiness to do so.
"Very well," I said, giving him the half-sovereign I had promised. "Go
across to the public-house in Theobald's Road and get some supper
quickly, for I want you to remain on watch here all night. I must rest
and sleep for a few hours; but we must ascertain who goes and comes
here. Above all, we must follow anyone carrying a parcel. A book was
stolen from me in Italy, and it has been taken there."
"I quite understand," was his response; and a few moments later he left
me alone while he went to obtain something to eat.
During his absence I took out a card and wrote upon it the name of the
hotel to which I had decided to go because it was in the vicinity and he
could call me, if necessary--the Hotel Russell.
When he returned a quarter of an hour later I gave him instructions,
telling him that if he wished to call me urgently during the night he
might run round to the hotel, where I would leave instructions with the
night porter, who would without a moment's delay bring up to my room the
card he held in his hand.
Then, jaded, wet, and hungry, I took a cab to the hotel, and sent down
to Charing Cross for my bag, which I had left in the cloak-room there.
In half an hour I had a welcome change of clothes and sat down to a
hearty supper.
In a flash, as it were, I had returned from the charm of Tuscany into my
own circle--the complex little world of literary London. That night I
sat over a cigar prior to turning in, thinking and wondering. Yes,
since that moment when I had bought the poisoned manuscript the world
had used me very roughly. That there was a plot against me I felt
certain.
Midnight came, and from my balcony on the third floor I stood watching
the falling rain and the hansoms coming up from the theatres and
crossing the square on their way northward. My presence in London again
seemed like a dream, sick as I was of the sun-glare of the
Mediterranean. My natural intuition told me that I should never return
to Italy. My old friend Hutchinson would see that my collection of
pictures, china, old furniture, and other antiques was packed and sent
to me. He had rendered me many kindnesses in the past, and would do so
again, I felt sure, for he was one of my most intimate friends.
I was soundly asleep when, of a sudden, I heard a loud rapping at the
door.
"A man wants to see you, sir. He's sent up your card," exclaimed a
voice in response to my sleepy growl.