MARCHESE MATTEO VASSALLA.
After reading Roper's letter, Ronald went to Foster's chambers and
showed it to him. The barrister read it in silence, and then laying it
down on the table, looked hard at Monteith.
"You see, I was right," he said, tapping the letter with his fingers;
"Miss Cotoner is, as I thought, the sister of Mrs. Verschoyle."
"Yes," replied Ronald, quickly; "but she has nothing in common with
her."
"Ah! you think not--let me see;" taking up the letter and glancing
over it; "they both have tempers."
"Any woman would show temper, living with such a fiend as Mrs.
Verschoyle," retorted Ronald, defending Carmela.
"They both loved the same man,--meaning Verschoyle."
"But Carmela's love for him was only a girlish fancy, as she says
herself in Mrs. Dexter's diary."
"In short," said Foster, replacing the letter on the table; "you are
so much in love with her that you cannot see her imperfections?"
"I am not blind to them, if that's what you mean," retorted Ronald,
doggedly; "but all I know is, I love her, and intend to ask her to be
my wife."
"Ah! well, as soon as this mystery is cleared up."
"I understand," said Foster, rising from his chair, and walking to and
fro; "but, judging from this letter of Roper's, the elucidation seems
as far off as ever."
"I don't see that--for, taking all things into consideration, I am
inclined to think Mrs. Verschoyle is telling a lie."
"Oh! so you believe she was on board the 'Neptune' that night?"
Ronald nodded.
"There's no proof."
"Certainly, not any actual proof," said Ronald, quietly; "but I think
it is very probable that Roper's theory is correct, and she did leave
her bedroom, lock the door, and then return without anyone seeing
her."
"Well, the whole affair is easily settled--go and see Miss Cotoner, or
Vassalla, and ask them if Mrs. Verschoyle came on board--they will
certainly know."
"I don't believe Miss Cotoner knows anything about it," said Ronald,
angrily; "if they quarrelled before leaving the house, you may be
certain that Mrs. Verschoyle never came near her on the boat."
"But Miss Cotoner might have seen her sister."
"She might; but I won't ask her."
"Well, my dear boy," said Foster, rather annoyed at this sentimental
obstinacy; "go and see Vassalla."
"Yes, I'll do that--he'll be able to tell me whether she was on board
or not."
"No doubt--if it suit him to acknowledge it," retorted Foster, dryly.
"What do you mean?" asked the Australian, impatiently; "you think----"
"I mean nothing--I think nothing," replied the other, quickly; "go and
see the Marchese Vassalla, and then tell me what you discover."
"And then----"
"Well, then, it depends on his answers regarding our next move."
Ronald put on his hat and gloves, then, taking his leave, went outside
into the roar and bustle of Fleet Street. Through an archway he could
see the quiet Temple Gardens, and could not help contrasting their
solitariness and charm with the turmoil on the pavements.
"Hang it!" he said to himself, as he watched the busy crowds rushing
past, "everyone here seems to live with their watches in their hands;
I should not like to live here, but I suppose I'll have to stop till I
find out all about Verschoyle's death;" and this last reflection
putting him in mind of his engagement, he stepped into a hansom, and
drove off to the Langham Hotel, to see Vassalla.
Vassalla was upstairs, in a private sitting-room, enjoying his
breakfast, when Monteith's card was sent to him. Carmela had gone out
with Sir Mark and his daughter, so the Marchese felt perfectly secure
against the chance of Ronald meeting her. He dreaded the meeting,
because disagreeable explanations might be made which would reconcile
the lovers, and ruin all his carefully prepared schemes. As he looked
at the card thoughtfully, he was rapidly running over in his mind the
reasons which might make Ronald thus seek him. No feasible one,
however, presenting itself to him, he told the waiter to show the
gentleman up, and quietly went on with his breakfast.
"He has some reason for coming," he muttered, quietly; "and I'll find
it out; don't trouble yourself Mr. Monteith--friend or enemy, I'm
equal to either."
He arose from his seat with an enigmatical smile on his face as the
Australian entered, and held out his hand. The other took it with a
slight reluctance which was noticed by the clever Maltese gentleman.
"Hum!" he thought; "not quite friendly, I see."
Ronald took a seat, declined the offer of breakfast and prepared to
talk.
"Miss Cotoner is out," he said, coldly.
"Yes, with Sir Mark Trevor and his charming daughter," replied
Vassalla. "Do you wish to see her?"
"No; I want to see you."
"Me?" the foreigner's eyebrows went up. "Well, I am at your disposal."
"It is about that murder that took place on board the 'Neptune,'" said
Ronald, going straight to the point.
"Ah, indeed!" said said the Marchese, quietly; "a most interesting
subject. Have you discovered anything yet?"
"Yes, many things."
"Such as will lead to the detection of the assassin, I presume?"
"I don't know," answered Ronald, shortly.
"That's a pity; can I assist you in any way?"
"I think you can."
"Then you may command my services," replied the Marchese, politely.
"Thank you; I will take advantage of your offer," said Ronald,
glancing at the impassive face before him.
Vassalla bowed, folded his arms, and leaning back in his chair,
prepared to listen.
"In the first place," said Ronald, "you knew him?"
Vassalla shook his head.
"No; I had not the honour of M. Ventin's acquaintance."
"His name was not Ventin."
"Indeed!"
"No; it was Leopold Verschoyle."
"Leopold Verschoyle," repeated the Marchese, looking at him sharply;
"that was the name of the man who married my cousin."
"Yes, and from whom he was afterwards divorced."
"Exactly," said Vassalla. "I see you know the whole story; so he is
the man who was killed?"
"He was, and I want to find out who killed him."
The eyebrows went up again incredulously.
"I hope you will succeed," said Vassalla, politely, "but in what way
can I help you?"
"Do you know anyone who desired his death?"
"No.
"Not even his--wife?"
Vassalla rose to his feet with a bound, and looked fiercely at Ronald.
"This is an insult, sir," he hissed out between his teeth. "Do you
dare to accuse my cousin of the murder?"
"I accuse no one," retorted Ronald, coolly. "I merely asked you if his
wife would have been sorry at his death."
Vassalla threw himself back in his chair, with a short, angry laugh.
"Upon my soul, sir," he said, coldly, "I hardly recognise your right
to speak to me about such a thing; but as you seem so bent on knowing,
I think she would have been--very sorry, indeed."
"Oh! Then she still loved him?"
Vassalla cast his fine eyes up to the ceiling.
"Passionately!"
"That is curious," said Ronald, sardonically, "as I have a document in
my possession, written five or six years ago, in which she threatens
to kill him."
"Indeed, and how did you obtain such a document?"
"I found it among some papers left by Verschoyle with his sister, Mrs.
Taunton."
"Ah!" Vassalla thought a moment: so this was the reason Monteith was
with Mrs. Taunton; it was business, not love, that brought them
together; well, at all events, he would not let Carmela know. After a
moment's deliberation, he faced his adversary with a clear brow.
"Very likely it was written in her first outburst of jealous anger at
being so betrayed by her husband; but I assure you she loved her
husband deeply, in spite of the way he wronged her, and often spoke of
him with affection."
Judging from the story told to him by Verschoyle, and the extracts
from Mrs. Dexter's diary, Ronald thought this doubtful, but restrained
his desire to give an opinion on that point.
"Did Mrs. Verschoyle come on board, the night the 'Neptune' left
Malta?"
Vassalla glanced keenly at him.
"Why should she?"
"To see you and Miss Cotoner off."
"Suppose she did come on board?"
"She might have seen her husband."
"Impossible! She did not know he was on board."
"Yes, she did. Verschoyle told me he met her in Valletta on that day."
Vassalla drummed quickly in an annoyed manner on the table with his
fingers, then answered abruptly,
"She did not come on board."
"Oh!" Ronald was disappointed; were all his suspicions groundless,
after all?
"No; she was confined to her room all the evening with a headache."
This statement, as Ronald knew, tallied with Mrs. Dexter's diary, and
he felt that, after all, it might be the truth, and that Mrs.
Verschoyle had not been on board; in which case--who was the assassin?
Vassalla saw the expression of disbelief flitting across Ronald's
expressive face, and arose to his feet.
"In order to convince you," he said, quickly, "I will show you the
letter I received from my cousin."
"There is no need," began Ronald, but Vassalla interrupted him.
"Pardon me, there is," he said coldly; "I wish you to be thoroughly
convinced that Mrs. Verschoyle was not on board, and could not have
either seen her husband or have had anything to do with his death."
"I did not say she had," interrupted Ronald, hastily.
"No, but you thought so," retorted the Marchese, as he left the room.
Ronald arose to his feet, and walked hastily too and fro. He was
wrong, then; Mrs. Verschoyle was innocent of her husband's death. Who,
then, was the assassin, for no one else appeared to have had any
reason to wish him evil. Vassalla himself? no! it could not be he,
because he had no motive. The theory of Mrs. Verschoyle's criminality
having been thus effectually disposed of, there appeared to be
absolutely no clue to the perpetrator of the crime.
Vassalla returned with the letter, and handed it to Ronald, showing
him at the same time the passage he alluded to.
"I was so sorry," said the letter, "not to have been able to come down
and see you and Carmela away by the boat, but I had a very bad
headache, and was shut up all the evening in my room."
Ronald handed back the letter in silence, but first thoughtfully
glanced at the writing. It certainly resembled that in the letter
written five or six years ago, but he could not recollect it with
sufficient clearness to satisfy himself.
"You are convinced?" said Vassalla, as he placed the letter in his
pocket-book.
"Yes," answered Ronald, "I am convinced; good-bye, and thank you for
your kindness in answering my questions."
"A pleasure," said the Marchese, and bowed his visitor out with
smiles, which, however, faded as the door closed.
"Curse that meddling fool," he muttered to himself, "why can't he mind
his own business? but I've baffled him this time, and I'll baffle him
again if he interfere."