THE SUDDEN RETURN TO ENGLAND
A successful detective needs, above all else, the power to see both
sides of any problem as it affects those involved in it. Nine times
out of ten there is but one side; yet men have often gone to the
gallows because their fellow men failed in this particular--followed
the line of least resistance and pursued the obvious and patent
conclusions to an end only logical upon a false premise.
Peter Ganns did not lack this perspicuity. It was visible in his big
face to any student of physiognomy. He smiled with his mouth, but
his eyes were grave--never ironical, never satirical, but always set
in a stern, not unkindly expression. They were watchful yet
tolerant--the eyes of one versed in the weakness as well as the
nobility of human nature. He could measure the average, modest
intelligence of his fellow creatures as well as estimate the heights
of genius to which man's intellect may sometimes attain. His own
unusual powers, centred in sound judgment of character and wide
experience of the human comedy, had set the seal in his eyes while
graving something like a smile upon his full, Egyptian lips.
He sat next day and spoke to Albert Redmayne on a little gallery
that extended from the dining-room of the villa and overhung the
lake. Here, for half an hour, he talked and listened until Jenny
should be ready for him.
The elder expounded his simple philosophy.
"I was long out of heart with God, while striving to keep my faith
in man, Peter," he declared. "But now I see more clearly and believe
that it is only by faith in our Maker that we can understand
ourselves. 'Better' is ever the enemy of 'good,' and 'best' is a
golden word only to be used for martyrs and heroes."
"Men do their best for two things, Albert," replied Mr. Ganns. "For
love and for hate; and without these tremendous incitements not the
least or greatest among us can reach the limit of his powers."
"True, and perhaps that explains the present European attitude. The
war has left us incapable of any supreme activity. Enthusiasm is
dead; consequently the enthusiasm of good-will lacks from our
councils and we drift, without any great guiding hand upon the
tiller of destiny. Heart and brains are at odds, groping on
different roads instead of advancing together by the one and only
road. We see no great men. There are, of course, leaders, great by
contrast with those they lead; but history will declare us a
generation of dwarfs and show how, for once, man stood at a crisis
of his destiny when those mighty enough to face it failed to appear.
Now that is a situation unparalleled in my knowledge of the past.
Until now, the hour has always brought the man."
"We drift, as you say," answered Ganns, dusting his white waistcoat.
"We are suffering from a sort of universal shell shock, Albert; and
from my angle of observation I perceive how closely crime depends
upon nerves. Indifference in the educated takes the shape of
lawlessness in the masses; and the breakdown of our economical laws
provokes to fury and despair. Our equilibrium is gone in every
direction. For example the balance between work and recreation has
been destroyed. This restless condition will take a decade of years
to control, and the present craving for that excitement, to which we
were painfully accustomed during the years of war, is leaving a
marked and dangerous brand on the minds of the rising generation.
From this restlessness to criminal methods of satisfying it is but a
step.
"We are sick; our state is pathological. What we need is a renewal
of the discipline that enabled us to confront and conquer in the
past struggle. We must drill our nerves, Albert, and strive to
restore a balanced and healthy outlook for those destined to run the
world in future. Men are not by nature lawless. They are rational
beings in the lump; but civilization, depending as it does on creed
and greed, has made no steps as yet, through education, to arrest
our superstition and selfishness."
"Once let the light of good-will in upon this chaos and we should
see order beginning to return," declared Mr. Redmayne. "The problem
is how to promote good-will, my dear friend. This should be the
great and primal concern of religion; for what, after all, is the
basis of all morality? Surely to love our neighbour as ourself."
They set the world right together and their thoughts drifted into a
region of benignant aspirations. Then came Jenny and presently the
detective followed her into a garden of flowers behind Villa
Pianezzo.
"Giuseppe and Mr. Brendon have gone to the hills," she said. "And
now I am ready to talk to you, Mr. Ganns. Don't fear to hurt me. I
am beyond hurting. I have suffered more in the past year than I
should have thought it possible to suffer and keep sane."
He looked at her beautiful face intently. It was certainly sad
enough, but to his eye, beneath the lines of sorrow, lay an anxiety
that concerned neither the past nor the future, but the immediate
present. She was apparently unhappy in her new life.
"Show me the silkworms," he said.
They entered the lofty shed rising above a thicket behind the
villa--a shuttered apartment where twilight reigned. The place was
fitted with shelves to the ceiling and between the caterpillar trays
tall branches of brushwood ascended to the roof. Out of the cool
gloom of this silent chamber there glimmered, as it seemed, a
thousand little lamps dotted everywhere on the sticks and walls and
ceiling. Not a place where a worm could climb or spin was
unadorned, for the oval, shining cocoons, scattered like small, ripe
fruit upon the twigs, made a delicate light on every side through
the sombre dusk. Mr. Redmayne's silkworms were descended, through
countless generations, from those historic eggs stolen by Nestorian
pilgrims from China, and carried thence secretly in hollow canes to
Constantinople some thirteen hundred years before.
The caterpillars had nearly all done their work and completed their
silken cases; but a couple of hundred, fat, white monsters, each
some three inches long, still remained in the trays, and they
fastened greedily on fresh mulberry leaves that Jenny brought them.
Others were but beginning their shrouds. They had sketched them and
appeared to be busily weaving in the preliminary bag made of
transparent and glittering filament. A few of the creatures began to
turn yellow, though as yet they had not devoured their last meal.
Jenny picked them up and held them to the morning light.
"Never mummy was wound so exquisitely as the silkworm's chrysalis,"
said Peter; and Jenny chatted cheerfully about the silken industry
and its varied interests, but found that Mr. Ganns could tell her
much more than she was able to tell him.
He listened with attention, however, and only by gradual stages
deflected conversation to the affairs that had brought him.
Presently he indicated an aspect of her own position arising from
his words on the previous night.
"Did it ever strike you that it was a bold thing to marry within
little more than nine months of your first husband's disappearance,
Mrs. Doria?" he asked.
"It did not; but I shivered when I heard you talking yesterday. And
call me 'Jenny,' not 'Mrs. Doria,' Mr. Ganns."
"Love has always been very impatient of law"; he declared, "but the
fact is that unless proof of an exceptional character can be
submitted, the English law is not prepared to say of any man that he
is dead until seven years have passed from the last record of him
among the living. Now there is rather a serious difference between
seven years and nine months, Jenny."
"Looking back I seem to see nothing but a long nightmare. 'Nine
months!' It was a century. Don't think that I didn't love my first
husband; I adored him and I adore his memory; but the loneliness and
the sudden magic of this man. Besides all that, surely none could
question the hideous proofs of what happened? I accepted Michael's
death as a fact which need not enter the calculation. My God! Why
did not somebody hint to me that I was doing wrong to wed?"
"Did anybody have a chance?"
She looked at him with a face full of unhappiness.
"You are right. I was possessed. I made a terrible mistake; but do
not fear that I have escaped the punishment."
He guessed her meaning and led her away from the subject of her
husband.
"Tell me, if it won't hurt you too much, a little about Michael
Pendean."
But she appeared not to hear him. Her thoughts were concerned
entirely with herself and her present situation.
"I can trust you. You are wise and know life. I have not married a
man, but a devil!"
Her hands clenched and he saw a flash of her teeth in the gloom of
the silent chamber.
He took snuff and listened, while the unfortunate woman raved of her
error.
"I hate him. I loathe him," she cried, and heaped hard words on the
head of the debonair Giuseppe. She broke off presently panted, and
then subsided in tears.
Peter studied her very carefully, yet, for the moment, showed no
great sympathy. His answer was tonic rather than sedative.
"You must keep your nerve and be patient," he said. "Even Italy's a
free country in some respects; you need not stop with Doria if you
don't want to."
"Might my husband be alive? Do you imagine it possible that he could
be alive? I think of him as my husband again, now that this
midsummer madness is over. I have much to say to you. I want you--I
pray you--to help me as well as my uncle. But he must come first, of
course."
"We shall possibly find that in helping him we are helping you,"
answered Peter. "But you ask a question and I always answer a
question when it's reasonable to do so. No, Jenny, I cannot think
that Michael Pendean is alive. Let us go out into the air; it is
stuffy here. But remember I do not say that he is not alive. It was
certainly man's blood that an unknown hand shed at Foggintor; it was
man's blood in the cave under the cliffs near Mr. Bendigo Redmayne's
home; but as yet we know no more, with absolute certainty, who lost
it than who spilled it. That is the large problem I am here to
solve. And perhaps, if you want to help me, you can do so. This at
any rate I promise you: if you help me, you will also help yourself
and your Uncle Albert."
"He is in danger?"
"Consider the situation. In process of time the estate of Albert's
two brothers will devolve upon him. That means, I suppose, that
sooner or later the bulk of the money must be yours. Albert is
frail. I do not think he will be a long-lived man. What follows?
Surely that you--the last of the Redmaynes--will inherit everything.
And you are married. Here is a proposition, then. And what have you
just told me? That your husband is 'a devil,' and that you hate him
since you have seen a glimpse of his heart. These facts cannot be
entirely separated. They may or may not be closely allied."
She looked at him steadfastly.
"I have only thought of Giuseppe Doria in connection with myself,
never in connection with Uncle Bendigo and Uncle Albert. Uncle
Bendigo died--if he is dead--before I consented to marry
Doria--before he asked me to do so. But keep my mistake from my
uncle. I don't want him to know I'm miserable."
"You must decide where to put your trust, my dear," answered Mr.
Ganns. "Otherwise you may find yourself on dangerous ground."
She weighed her answer.
"You are thinking of something," she said.
"Naturally. What you have told me as to your relations with your
Italian husband offers considerable food for thought. But consider
very carefully. You cannot run with the hare and hunt with the
hounds. How many a bad man and, for that matter, how many an
innocent man, has come to grief in the attempt. Tell me this. Does
Giuseppe know that you no longer love him?"
She shook her head.
"I have hid it. The time has not come to let him know that. He would
be revenged, and God knows what form his revenge might take. Till I
have escaped from him, he must not dream that I have changed."
"That's your feeling? Well, the questions are two. Do you know
enough about him to assist and justify your escape and, if you do,
are you prepared to confide your knowledge to me?"
"I do not know enough," she answered. "He is a very clever man under
his light-hearted and easy-going manners. He is, I believe, faithful
to me, and he takes care never to be unkind in the presence or
hearing of a third person. But this I think: that he knows very well
what you've just told me--that all the Redmayne money must sooner
or later be mine."
"And yet he behaves to you as though he were a devil? That's not
very clever of him."
"I can't explain. Perhaps I have said too much. His cruelty is very
subtle. Italian husbands,--"
"I know all about Italian husbands. We'll talk over this again when
you have had time to think a little. There's a reason for your hate
and distrust of him, no doubt. You would not pretend such emotions.
He's faithful, you say, so perhaps that reason is linked with
knowledge you do not care to impart to me--or anybody? Perhaps it
embraces the mystery man we want to catch--Robert Redmayne? Does
Doria know more about him than you or I do! And you have found it
out? There may be quite a number of things that make you hate Doria.
So think it over and consider if to hear any of them would help me."
Jenny looked at Peter with profound interest.
"You are a very wonderful man, Mr. Ganns."
"Not a bit--only practiced in the jig-saw puzzle we call life.
Attach no special importance to what I have just said, or the
possibilities I have just thrown out. I may be altogether wrong. I
have only at present your word that Signor Doria is not a kind
husband. I may not agree with you when I know him better. You may
not be a judge. Your first husband was perhaps so exceptional that
the norm of husbands is unknown to you. My mind is quite open on
the subject, because I have often found that a wife knows much less
about her husband's character than do other people. Remember that
hate blinds quite as frequently as love; and love turned to hate
is a transformation so complicated that it takes a cunning
psycho-analyst to interpret it. Therefore to know the importance of
your fears, I must know more about you yourself.
"We'll leave it at that--and all you need think of me at present is
that I want to serve you. But I am an old bird, while Brendon, on
the contrary, is still young; and youth understands youth. Remember
that in him you have a steadfast and faithful friend. I shan't be
jealous if you can tell him more than you can tell me."
Jenny's lips moved and were again motionless. He perceived that she
had started to say one thing, but would now say another. She took
his big hand and pressed it between her own.
"God bless you!" she said. "If I have you for a friend, I am
content. Mr. Brendon has been very good to me--very, very good. But
you are more likely to serve Uncle Albert than he."
They parted presently and Jenny returned to the house, while the
detective, finding a comfortable chair under an oleander bush,
sniffed the fragrance of the red blossom above him, regretted that
his vice had largely spoiled his sense of smell, took snuff and
opened his notebook. He wrote in it steadily for half an hour; then
he rose and joined Albert Redmayne.
The elder was full of an approaching event.
"To think that to-day you and Poggi meet!" he exclaimed. "Peter, my
dear man, if you do not love Virgilio I shall be broken-hearted."
"Albert," answered Mr. Ganns. "I have already loved Poggi for two
years. Those you love, I love; and that means that our friendship is
on a very high plane indeed; for it often happens that nothing
puzzles us more infernally than our friends' friends. In our case,
however, so entirely do we see alike in everything that matters,
that it is beyond possibility you should be devoted to anybody who
does not appeal to me. By the same token, how much do you love your
niece?"
Mr. Redmayne did not answer instantly.
"I love her," he replied at length, "because I love everything that
is lovely; and without prejudice I do honestly believe she is about
the loveliest young woman I have ever seen. Her face more nearly
resembles that of Botticelli's Venus than any living being in my
experience; and it is the sweetest face I know. Therefore I love her
outside very much indeed, Peter.
"But when it comes to her inside, I feel not so sure. That is
natural, for this reason, that I do not know her at all well yet. I
have seldom seen her in childhood, or had any real acquaintance with
her until now. When I know her better, it is pretty certain that I
shall love her all through; but one must confess I can never know
her very well, because the gap in age denies perfect understanding.
Nor does she come to me, as it were, alone. Her life turns to her
husband. She is still a bride and adores him."
"You have no reason to think her as an unhappy bride?"
"None whatever. Doria is amazingly handsome and attractive--the type
a woman generally worships. I grant that Italo-English marriages are
not remarkable for their success; but--well, no doubt Jenny's
husband is worldly-wise. He has everything to gain by being good,
everything to lose by behaving badly. Jenny is a proud girl. She has
qualities. There is a distinction about her. She would stand no
nonsense from Doria and she knows that I would stand no nonsense
from him. I hope to see much of her, though it appears that their
home will be in Turin."
"He has abandoned his ambitions to recover the family estates and
title and so forth? Brendon told me all about that."
"Entirely. Besides it seems that one of your countrymen has secured
the castle at Dolceacqua and bought the title too. Giuseppe was very
entertaining on the subject. But I'm afraid he loves idleness."
Before luncheon Mark Brendon returned from the hills with his guide.
They had seen nothing of Robert Redmayne and appeared to be rather
weary of one another's company.
"You must impart your wisdom and gay spirit to Signor Marco," said
Giuseppe to Mr. Ganns, when Brendon was out of earshot with Jenny.
"He is a very dull dog and does not even listen when I talk. Not
simpatico, I suppose. He will never find out anything. Will you, I
wonder? Have you any ideas? A new broom sweeps clean, as you say."
"I must suck your brains before you suck mine, Doria," said Peter
genially. "I want to hear what you think of this man in the red
waistcoat. We must have a talk."
"Gladly, gladly, Signor Peter. I have seen him now many times--in
England three--four times--in Italy once. He is always the same."
"Not a spook?"
"A spirit? No. Very much alive. But how he lives and what he lives
for--who can tell?"
"You do not fear on account of Mr. Redmayne?"
"I much fear on account of him," answered Doria. "And when my wife
told me that she had seen him, I telegraphed from Turin that they
should be careful and run no risk whatever of a meeting. Jenny's
uncle is frightened when he thinks about it; but we keep his
thoughts away as much as possible. It is bad for him to fear. For
the love of Heaven, good signor, get to the bottom of it if you can.
My idea is to set a trap for this red man and catch him, like a fox
or other wild creature."
"A very cute notion," declared Peter. "We'll rope you in, Giuseppe.
Between you and me and the post, our friend Brendon has been barking
up the wrong tree, you know. But if you and I and he, together,
can't clean this up, then we're not the men I take us for."
Doria laughed.
"'Deeds are men; words are women,'" he said. "There has been too
much chatter about this; but now you are come; we shall see things
accomplished."
It was not until after the midday meal that Ganns and Mark were able
to get speech together. Then, promising to return in time to meet
Virgilio Poggi, who would cross the lake for tea, the two men
sauntered beside Como and exchanged experiences. The interview
proved painful to the younger, for he found that Peter's doubts were
cleared in certain directions. Brendon, indeed, led up to his own
chastening very directly.
"It makes me mad," he said, "to see the way that beggar treats his
wife--Doria I mean. Pearls before swine. I never hoped much from it;
but to think they have only been married three months!"
"How does he treat her?"
"Well, one isn't blind to her appearance. The cause is, of course,
concealed; the effect, very visible to my eyes. She's far too plucky
to whisper her troubles; but she can't hide her face, where they may
be read."
Mr. Ganns said nothing and Mark spoke again.
"Do you begin to see any light?"
"Not much upon the main problem. A minor feature has cleared,
however. I know the rock you split upon, my son. You were in love
with Jenny Pendean from the moment you knew that she was a widow.
And you're in love with Jenny Doria now. And to be in love with one
of the principals in a case, is to handicap yourself out of the
hunt, as far as that case is concerned."
Brendon stared but made no answer.
"Human nature has its limits, Mark, and love's a pretty radical
passion. No man ever did, or could, do himself justice in any task
whatever--not while he was blinded with love of a woman. Love's a
jealous party and won't stand competitors. So it follows that if you
were in love anyway you wouldn't be at your best; and how much more
so when the lady in your case was the lady in _the_ case?"
"You wrong me," answered the other rather hotly. "That is really
unreasonable. Emphatically the incident made no sort of difference,
for the very good reason that she was not in the case, save as an
innocent sufferer from the evil actions of others. She helped me
rather than hindered me. Despite all she was called to endure, she
kept her nerve from the first and fought her own grief that she
might make everything clear to me. If I did come to love her, that
made no sort of difference to my attitude to my work."
"But it made a mighty lot of difference to your attitude to her.
However, your word runs with me, Mark, and I'm very willing to
attach all due importance to your conclusions. But I am not in the
least willing to accept your estimate of anybody's character without
further proofs. You mustn't feel it personal. Only remember that I'm
not in this case for my health, and, so far, I have had no reason
whatever to eliminate anybody."
"We know some things without proof and are proud to take them on
trust," answered Brendon. "Have I not seen Mrs. Doria under
affliction and in situations unspeakably difficult? She has been
marvellously brave. After her own great sorrow, her only thought was
her unfortunate relations. She buried her own crushing grief--"
"And in nine months was married to another man."
"She is young and you have seen for yourself what her husband is.
Who can tell what measures he took to win her? All I know is that
she has made an appalling mistake. Perhaps I feel it rather than
know it; but I'm positive."
"Well," said Peter quietly. "It's no good playing about. At a seemly
opportunity, after her husband died, I guess you told her you loved
her and asked her to marry you. She declined; but it didn't end
there. She's got you on the string at this moment."
"That's not true, Ganns. You don't understand me--or her."
"Well, I do not ask much; but since I have picked up this thing for
Albert's sake, there's one point on which I insist. If you are going
to take Jenny into your confidence and assume that she has no wish
or desire other than to see justice done and the mystery cleared,
then I can't work with you, Mark."
"You wrong her, but that doesn't matter, I suppose. What does matter
is that you wrong me," said Brendon, with fierce eyes fixed upon the
elder. "I've never thought or dreamed of confiding in her, or
anybody else. I've nothing to confide, for that matter. I did love
her, and I do love her, and I'm deeply concerned and troubled to see
the mess she's in with this blighter; but I'm a detective first and
last and always over this business; and I have some credit in my
painful profession."
"Good. Remember that, whatever happens. And keep your temper with
me, too, because nothing is gained by losing it. I'm not saying a
word against Mrs. Doria, but inasmuch as she is Mrs. Doria and
inasmuch as Doria is as yet very much an unknown quantity to you and
me, you must understand that I don't allow appearances to blind my
eyes or control my actions. Now if a woman hints, or indicates, that
she is unhappily married, then nothing is more natural than that a
man like yourself, who entertains the tenderest feelings to the
woman, should believe what he sees and regard her melancholy as
genuine. It looks all right; but suppose, for their own ends, that
Jenny Doria and her spouse want to create this impression? Suppose
that their object is to lead you and me to imagine that they are not
friends?"
"My God! What would you make of her?"
"It isn't what I'd make of her. It's what she really is. And that
I'm going to find out, because a great deal more may depend upon it
than you appear to imagine."
"A moment's reflection will surely convince you that neither she nor
Doria--"
"Wait, wait! I'm only saying that we must not allow character,
fancied or real, to dam any channel of investigation. If reflection
convinces me that it is impossible for Doria to be in collusion with
Robert Redmayne, I shall admit it. As yet that is not so. There are
several very interesting points. Have you asked yourself why Bendigo
Redmayne's diary is missing?"
"I have--and could not see how it was likely to contain anything
dangerous to Robert Redmayne."
Peter did not enlighten him for the moment. Then he spoke and
changed the subject.
"I must find out several fundamental facts and I certainly shall not
learn them here," he said. "Next week in all probability, unless
something unexpected happens to prevent it, I go back to England."
"Can't I go?'"
"I shall want you here; but our understanding must be complete
before I leave."
"Trust me for that," said Mark.
"I do."
"You want me to look after Mr. Redmayne?"
"No; I look after him. He's my first care. I haven't broke it to him
yet; but he's going with me."
Brendon considered and his thought flushed his cheek.
"You can't trust him with me, then?"
"It's not you. Mind, I'm only guessing; but, anyway, the risk is too
considerable. I go, because, until I have been, I remain in the dark
over some vital matters that must be cleared and can only be
cleared in England. Vital in my opinion, that is. But in the
meantime Albert is not the sort of a man to be trusted alone, for
the reason that he has no idea whence the danger threatens; nor can
he be trusted with you, either, because you are equally ignorant."
"But if the danger lies with Doria, as you seem to hint, how can
you, or anybody else, save Mr. Redmayne from it? He likes Doria. The
beggar amuses him and is tactful and clever to please where and when
he wants to please. He's been trying to please me. To-morrow he'll
try to please you."
"Yes--a very light-hearted, agreeable chap--and clever as you say.
But I don't know yet whether what you and I see, or even what his
wife sees, is the real Doria."
"Possibly not."
Ganns considered and then proceeded.
"I must give you a clear understanding. I'm so used to playing a
lone hand and saying nothing till I can say everything, that I may
be tempted to treat you in a way you don't deserve. Now I'll tell
you how the cat's jumping. She's jumping in the dark--I'll allow
that; but what I seem to see dimly is this: that Giuseppe Doria
knows a great deal more about the man in the red waistcoat than we
do. I hardly think Doria is the man to murder my old friend; but I'm
not so sure that, if somebody else wanted to take the step, Doria
would prevent him.
"If Albert disappeared, you've got to remember that Doria's wife
would be the worldly gainer. Why anybody should want to kill Albert
to put money into Jenny's pocket I cannot say. But it's a feature;
and while I'm in England, I'll ask you to keep your eyes skinned and
try and find out as much about Giuseppe as you can. Not from his
wife, however. I needn't tell you that. You'll be free to poke about
and try and surprise 'Red Waistcoat.' Perhaps you'll do the trick;
but take care he doesn't surprise you. All I ask is that you don't
believe a quarter you hear, or half you see. We must get under the
appearances if we're to make good."
"You think, then, that Doria and Robert Redmayne may be running in
double harness? And perhaps you think that Jenny Doria knows this
fact and that in this secret knowledge her present misery lies?"
"No need to drag her in; but your own question suggests the
possibility."
"Not against my own knowledge. She could be a willing party to no
crime. It is contrary to her inherent character, Ganns."
"And yet you're a detective 'first and last and always'--eh? One
would think that I wanted you to put her through the third degree.
Not that I ever put any man or woman through it myself. It is dirty
business and quite unworthy of our great service. We'll leave Mrs.
Doria, then, and concentrate on her husband. There are a lot of very
interesting things to find out about Doria, my boy."
"You forget that he only came into this business at 'Crow's Nest.'"
"How can I forget what I don't know? Why do you say he only came
into it at 'Crow's Nest'? He may have come into it at Foggintor.
Perhaps he and not Robert Redmayne, or any other, cut Michael
Pendean's throat?"
"Impossible. Consider. Is not Michael's widow Doria's wife?"
"What, then? I'm not saying she knew he was the murderer."
"Another thing: Doria was the servant of Bendigo Redmayne at the
time."
"And how do you know even so much?"
Brendon showed impatience.
"My dear Ganns, that's common knowledge."
"Common nothing! You can't swear he was the servant of Bendigo
Redmayne on the day that the murder was committed. To prove as much
would entail an amount of solid research that might surprise you. Of
this crowd, only Doria for certain knows when he joined up at
'Crow's Nest.' His wife may, or may not, know. I'm quite unprepared
to take Giuseppe's word for the date."
"That's why you wanted Bendigo Redmayne's log then?"
"One of the reasons certainly. The diary may be here yet. You can
use your eyes when we are away and try to find it. If you are
allowed to stumble on it, note particularly any pages torn out or
erased or faked."
"You still believe that those about Mr. Redmayne are criminals ?"
"I believe that it becomes necessary to prove they are not. Perhaps
you'll succeed in doing so before we return. There's a devil of a
lot of clearing to be done yet before we begin building. What beats
me frankly is the fact that my old friend Albert is still alive. I
can see no reason whatever why he should be--and a dozen why he
should not."
"Thanks to your forethought in coming unexpectedly, perhaps."
"With all the will and wit in the world you can't prevent one man
from killing another if he wants to do so--that is, assuming the
would-be murderer is at liberty and unknown. One more thing, Mark.
When I leave with Mr. Redmayne, I disappear altogether, and so does
he. It must be understood that nobody here is going to hear anything
about us till we come back again. If you want me very urgently, you
must telegraph to New Scotland Yard, where my direction will be
known, but nowhere else. And look after yourself sharply too. Don't
run any needless risks on trust. You may be in danger and certainly
will be if you get on the scent."
Two days later the book lover and Peter were taking a steamer for
Varenna, whence they would entrain for Milan and so return to
England. The meeting of Signor Poggi and Mr. Ganns afforded
exquisite satisfaction to Albert, and Peter did not cloud his
pleasure with any allusion to the future until the following
morning. Then, having expressed his enthusiasm for Virgilio and his
hope of better acquaintance on their return, the American broke to
Albert their immediate departure. He anticipated some protest, but
Mr. Redmayne was too logical to make any.
"I asked you to solve this enigma," he said, "and I am the last to
question your methods of so doing. That you will get to the bottom
of these horrid mysteries, Peter, I am quite certain. It is a
conviction with me that you are going to explain everything; but I
shall support your operations and if you hold it necessary that I go
to England, of course, dear friend, I go. You must not, however,
count upon me for any practical assistance. It is entirely contrary
to my nature to take an active part in this campaign. To put any
enterprise or adventure upon me would be to ask for failure."
"Fear nothing at all," answered Ganns. "I don't want you to do
anything whatever but lie low and amuse yourself. The danger may
follow you, or it may not; but my only wish is to come between you
and danger, Albert, and keep you under my own eyes. For the rest
we'll hide our tracks. Get Jenny to pack your portmanteau for a ten
days' tour. If all's well, you'll be home again at the end of next
week."
The morning of departure swiftly arrived and while Mr. Redmayne gave
final instructions to his niece, Peter and Mark walked the landing
stage as the paddle steamer, _Pliny_, came thudding across from
Bellagio to take the travellers on the first stage of their journey.
Brendon defined the position.
"It stands thus," he said. "You strongly suspect Doria of being in
collusion with another man, but doubt whether the other man is
really Robert Redmayne. What you want me to do is to watch Doria and
see if I can surprise the great unknown, or learn the truth about
him. Meanwhile you go home, and your work on the case you prefer to
keep to yourself until it is considerably clearer and forwarder than
at present."
"The situation in a nutshell. Keep an open mind. I ask no more than
that."
"I will," answered Brendon. "Already I suspect the explanation that
you have had of Mrs. Doria's sufferings. It is tolerably clear to me
that she knows more than we do, and has some secret of her husband's
that is causing her unhappiness."
"A theory capable of proof. You'll see a good deal of the dame
during the coming week and the time oughtn't to be wasted, if what
you think is true."
On the steamer stood Virgilio Poggi. He was come across the water to
take leave of Mr. Redmayne and see him as far as Varenna. The three
men departed presently, leaving Mark, Jenny and her husband
together. At Varenna, Virgilio also took his leave. He was not
content with embracing Albert but clasped Mr. Ganns also in an
affectionate farewell.
"We are great men, all three of us," said Signor Poggi, "and
greatness cleaves to greatness. Return as quickly as you can,
Albert, and obey Signor Ganns in everything. May this cloud be
quickly lifted from your life. Meantime you both have my prayers."
Albert translated the speech for Peter's benefit; then the train
moved forward and Virgilio took the next boat home again. He sneezed
all the way, for he had accepted a pinch from Peter's snuffbox
ignorant of its effects upon an untrained nose.