When Doctor Malsano and Gilda Tempest had so mysteriously and suddenly
disappeared from the Hotel Royal, at Nice, Raife Remington received a
note on the following morning. It was a characteristic note, and quite
unsatisfactory. It merely served to add to the state of his mental
perturbation. He could not, and would not, believe aught that was ill
of the beautiful girl whom he loved with all the fire of his strong
nature.
The note ran: "My uncle and I have been called away on business
suddenly. Will you present our regrets and apologies to Lady
Remington?"
Cold, terse, and quite inexplicable. It did not state where they had
gone, or whether they would return. This extraordinary creature who
fascinated him, had left his life again as strangely as she had entered
into it. The circumstances were difficult to explain to his mother.
Her training left more to be desired in such matters than was offered
here by this strange young woman, and her mysterious uncle. Lady
Remington spoke with a maternal austerity to her son.
"It all seems very strange. They seem to come from nowhere, and with an
even greater rapidity they return nowhere. The doctor, Doctor Malsano I
mean, is very interesting sometimes when he talks. At other times those
curious eyes of his do not inspire confidence. Miss Tempest is a
beautiful girl, my dear, but are you sure she is the right kind of girl
for a Remington to associate with?"
Raife stammered: "Yes, mother. Gilda--I mean Miss Tempest, is quite all
right. She, or he, will write and explain later."
Lady Remington continued, "I think I was rather premature in introducing
them to the baroness."
"That was all right, mother. We shall hear soon, and all will be
explained," replied the son. At heart he felt little more than his
mother that all was right, and he was wondering very hard as to what was
the meaning of these renewed mysteries.
To change the subject and gain an excuse for time, he added: "By the by,
shall we spend a few days at Bordighera before returning to Aldborough?"
His mother readily concurred, feeling it would be good to change the
scene of action for a while. Then she added: "Yes, but I expect there's
a good deal for you to do still, at Aldborough."
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The Count's car pulled up in front of the door of the quaint little
house in the side street, on the evening of the day when Fortune seemed
to have snatched Gilda Tempest from the jaws of danger.
She had dressed with an assumed jauntiness, hoping to match the costume
of the benign and buxom landlady, who had so generously extended the
invitation.
Before the party were comfortably seated, a small basket containing
light refreshment and some flasks of Chianti were placed aboard. Then
the car started on its journey. Gilda, with a tact that came from the
training of many emergencies, easily persuaded the chauffeur, who was
already charmed by his fair passenger, to take the road up the Roya
valley to the French frontier. Thence along the broad, straight
military road with the snow-clad Alps, already lilac tinted, to the Col
di Tenda. As they were gaily speeding, with merry laughter, a figure
sprang from the roadside and waved to them. The road here was deserted,
save for the Count's car with its merry, human freight. The chauffeur
applied brakes and rapidly stopped. Gilda shuddered and hid her face as
well as possible, for the wayfarer, who had adopted this drastic means
of attracting attention to his needs on the wayside, was none other than
the ex-messenger of the Hotel Royal at Nice. Here was that forbidding
person, with the air of an Apache, and the costume of the Quartier
Latin, the man who had acted as her uncle's agent in the criminal plots
that he was evolving during their stay there.
With the rapidity of thought and action that came to her of the hunted,
haunted life, Gilda obscured her face and became engrossed in some
quickly planned operation that kept her from the man's view. He spoke
Italian, but with a French accent. He first asked the way to the Col di
Tenda. Then, as Gilda's landlady smiled at him, he emboldened himself
to ask for a lift. The cheery old landlord and landlady cried, "Yes!
jump in." Both were slightly flushed with the wine and contents of the
basket they had brought with them. Gilda, as she realised that this
horrible person was actually sitting in the tonneau of the car behind
her, almost shrieked with fear. The landlord poured out more wine and
the merriment soon bordered on excess, as the car bounded upward and
swung around corners with a reckless, devilish swing. Gilda, trembling,
yet with the well-feigned assumption of one of those mysterious ailments
familiar to women who want to be left alone, waved aside the offers of
wine; but the chauffeur appeared to enjoy it. With one hand on the
wheel, he drank copiously as each glass was handed to him with a merry
_camaraderie_. Now and then a lunge or jolt made even the merrymakers
behind exclaim "Oh!" The chauffeur seemed to want the fair occupant of
the seat next to him to admire his deeds of "derring-do" at the wheel.
With a muffled roar they entered the long tunnel through the mountain.
All but Gilda sang merrily as they bounded through the cavernous depths
of this giant undertaking. On they sped with a recklessness that
fascinated Gilda and at last, alarmed the landlady. With a final plunge
they were out again into the open, but Gilda's mind was distracted in
spite of the devilish excitement of this mad "joy-ride." How could she
get rid of that hated Apache man seated behind? He was so near to her.
Had he recognised her yet? She hoped rather than felt that he had not.
She was thankful for the reckless exploits of the now thoroughly excited
chauffeur. It distracted attention from her, and they were rapidly
approaching the goal she had aimed for. Here and there the groups of
Italian and French guards had eyed, with indulgent smiles, the mad
career of this strange family party. Even Gilda's face was illumined
with a wan smile, as she realised the incongruity of this scene. It was
merry, in spite of the fact that it was fraught with such danger for
her. A few more bends in the road on the steep side of the mountain,
and they would be there, for good or evil, as destiny might decide.
"Oh! la-la!" cheerily shouted the landlord. "One more glass of the good
wine."
He poured it out. The chauffeur gazed in front of him with a bright yet
glassy stare, as he realised the dangers of the precipitous road. The
landlady passed him a glass, laying her hand on his shoulder. He turned
to take the glass. There was a sharp skid of the wheels that sounded
like a hiss. A moment of lull, an eternity of despair, a loud, shrill
shriek from the landlady--the car and its occupants had mounted a steep
bank and lay overturned on its side. All was now silence, and Gilda did
not know how long the silence had lasted. It was quite quiet when, with
difficulty, she extricated herself from the twisted mass of debris. The
other merry occupants remained silent, and the quiet of it was
appalling. She muttered to herself and stifled her sobs, which were
half groans. With much labour and difficulty she mounted the fateful
bank and clambered to the roadway. The sun had gone down, a golden ball
of fire, set in a bank of purple cloud edged with a brilliant orange.
It was now dark and a sense of oppression seemed to pervade the place.
Gilda's mind worked rapidly. The necessity for action was immediate.
Where was that Apache man, and had he survived?
The zealously guarded frontier road was not to be left long without a
passer-by, and soon the measured tread of feet announced the approach of
a patrol.
They halted when they discovered the ominous gash in the road, made by
the swiftly swerving wheels of the now ruined car. An examination of
the wreck disclosed the sadness of the disaster. Huddled in a group
were the dead bodies of the landlord, his wife, and the chauffeur.
Where was the Apache man? He was not to be found. Had he lived--
escaped to remain an agent for evil in this world--a further or
continued source of trouble to the sadly stricken girl?
The telephone was not far away, and the soldiers, who sympathised, with
all the warmth of their Southern hearts with the beautiful and
distressed signorina, soon found means of escort for Gilda.
Thus she reached Cuneo, a further step on the long, lone journey to the
unknown. Beyond a shaking, she was none the worse for the accident.