She was aware that she puzzled me, and, next instant, with a sweet
smile, she went on: “I told you, M’sieur Hipwell, that I trust you.
Will you not also take me on trust and do me a little favor
which--which will be of the greatest assistance to me--relieve me
perhaps of a great peril which threatens to overwhelm me?”
“Peril!” I echoed, staring at her. “In what peril are you? Please be
more explicit. I know that we were friends in the past, just as we are
friends now. Cannot you give me a single hint which may form a
connecting link in my mind between the past and the present?”
“The past is of the past, and matters not,” replied the girl in a
serious, philosophic mood. “It is the present and the future which
concern both of us--yourself more perhaps than you ever dream.”
She saw perplexity on my face.
“I know that in your present half-consciousness of the past I must be
a complete enigma to-day,” she added. “For the present it must be so.”
Then her hand slowly stole into mine, and she asked: “Are you willing
to do me this one little favor?”
“I will, Contessina, most certainly,” I said at once. “What is it?”
“Not a very difficult mission,” she replied in French, her manner
instantly changing. “Now we thoroughly understand each other, eh? You
are going to London. Would you take a verbal message for me--to
someone----” And she paused. “Ah!” she went on, “I see you wonder why
I do not write. But there are times when writing is an indiscretion.
Well, this is an instance. True, I could write, but I should most
probably seriously jeopardize myself if I did so. I am in a great
difficulty--and that is why I venture to ask you to help me.”
“I will assist you willingly,” I repeated.
“Very well, then. When you get to London will you write and make an
appointment to meet Mr. Roddy Owen, who lives at Harrington Court,
Park Lane?”
“Just a moment,” I interrupted. “I’ll write down the address.” And in
the dim light I scribbled it upon my shirt-cuff. I knew Harrington
Court as a great block of new and expensive bachelor chambers. “Yes;
and when I see him what shall I say?”
“Give him this. It will be your credential, and by it he will know you
come from me.” And she pressed something hard and flat into my hand.
I looked at it, and saw that it was a piece of exquisitely carved
stone, about two inches long, and with a gold ring in it--a pendant of
clear blue aquamarine. It was square, perforated, and carved in
antique design, with two circles, the figures double nought--an unique
ornament of crystalline beauty.
“Give it to him,” she whispered to me in a strange, hard voice, “and
tell him--tell him that--that it is all impossible, and that he must
forget. That----”
And she hesitated, trembling, drawing a long breath.
“That it is all impossible--and that he must forget,” I repeated
slowly.
“Yes. Impress upon him that he must not write again to me, because it
would place me in very grave danger.”
I looked into her beautiful face, much puzzled. In the faint light I
saw that my companion’s countenance was now pale and hard, as though
what she had said was against her will, and that she was much
perturbed.
“That he must not write again,” I repeated. “Yes, I understand. You
wish him to break off all communication with you--I take it?”
Again she drew a long breath.
“Yes. Alas! It must be so,” she answered hoarsely. “But tell him that
it is not my fault--not my fault. I am acting under compulsion. He--he
will understand.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing,” she answered in a low, despondent whisper.
Then, after a pause, she added:
“I know, M’sieur Hipwell, that all this must seem very mysterious to
you. But when one day you know the truth, you will also know what a
great and invaluable service you have rendered one who--well, one who
is very, very unhappy!”
“I can see that, Contessina,” was my reply. “Can I do nothing further
to assist you? Of course, I do not desire to pry into your private
affairs,” I added.
She shook her head sorrowfully, saying:
“No. It is really extremely kind of you to do me this service--one
which I value very highly. And after all the--the unpleasantness that
has passed. If we ever meet again, which I doubt----”
“But we shall!” I interrupted. “I shall see you and report the result
of my interview with Mr. Owen.”
“I don’t know,” was her dubious reply. “I am not staying much longer
in Rome.”
“Where will you go?”
“Just where my fancy leads me. Probably to the Italian lakes--possibly
to Garda--I love it.”
“And where may I write to you?” I asked eagerly.
For some time she reflected. At last she said:
“Address me: ‘Ferma in Posta, Gardone--Lake of Garda.’”
“Gardone!” I exclaimed. “I was once there! How beautiful it is! The
big white hotel, the palms and the flowers, the tiny village, and the
blue lake stretching away to the mountains.”
“Yes. It is very charming. I shall probably go there.”
“And your home?” I ventured to ask.
“No, M’sieur Hipwell. You said you did not desire to inquire into my
private affairs, so the whereabouts of my home is a secret. Treat me
still as a mystery--just a mystery, that is all!”
I was sorely disappointed. It had been within my experience that
certain girls loved to assume an air of mystery in order to further
interest men; but in Angela’s case it was different. There was some
deep, underlying motive for it all. Her intense seriousness impressed
me with an air of romantic tragedy, while her admission of
unpleasantness between us in the past drove me to desperation.
I tried again to learn her true nationality and where she lived. I
felt certain that Lady Kingscliffe knew, but that for some reason she
was preserving the secret. Adventuresses are not received at table in
any British Embassy abroad, though some, who could be named, have
dined with Cabinet Ministers at home.
My suggestion that we should take a taxi and go for a run in the
sunshine out to Tivoli she would not accept.
“I am very sorry. But for certain reasons I am compelled to be
discreet. I have an appointment for luncheon at twelve,” she said.
“No. We must say adieu here. It is really most generous of you to
convey my message.”
“I will write to you, Contessina,” I promised, “and when I am next in
Italy--perhaps in a month’s time--I will make a point of seeing you,
and telling you the result of my interview.”
“There can be no result,” she exclaimed blankly. Just then a noisy
party of British tourists entered the church with their guide.
“But I shall see you, nevertheless,” I declared. Whereat she smiled.
Then at the door I took her gloved hand, and watched her
neatly-dressed figure cross the sun-blanched piazza. Afterwards I
sauntered out myself, strolling back to the Excelsior, more puzzled
than ever.
CHAPTER NINE.
AN ODD MISSION
On the following Monday afternoon I alighted at Calais Maritime from
the dusty _wagon-lit_ of the Rome express, glad to stretch my legs
after the long journey. On board the Dover boat the wind blew fresh
and the crossing, to me, was pleasant; but to many others I fear, it
was the reverse.
In due course, after tea in the Pullman, I arrived at Victoria, and in
consequence of my official _laisser-passer_ I was soon in a taxi and
away to Downing Street, to deliver my dispatches from Sir Richard
Kingscliffe. Then, re-entering the cab, I drove to Sackville Street.
To my knowledge I had not set foot in my rooms for two whole years.
A complete stranger, who I supposed was Edward Bruce, my new man,
Bolland’s successor, threw open the door, bowing me a rather stiff
welcome. And then, taking my bags from the taxi-man, he followed me
into my small but rather cosy sitting-room. Bruce was quite unlike
what I had pictured him, rather tall, young, and slim, with immaculate
clothes that fitted him well--evidently a well-trained servant.
“Miss Gell has rung up three times to-day, sir, to inquire if you have
returned. She wishes you to speak to her as soon as you possibly can,”
he said, handing me about a dozen letters.