Ripaldi’s diary—its ownership plainly shown by the record of his name
in full, Natale Ripaldi, inside the cover—was a commonplace note-book
bound in shabby drab cloth, its edges and corners strengthened with
some sort of white metal. The pages were of coarse paper, lined blue
and red, and they were dog-eared and smirched as though they had been
constantly turned over and used.
The earlier entries were little more than a record of work to do or
done.
“Jan. 11. To call at Café di Roma, 12.30. Beppo will meet me.
“Jan. 13. Traced M. L. Last employed as a model at S.’s studio, Palazzo
B.
“Jan. 15. There is trouble brewing at the Circulo Bonafede; Louvaih,
Malatesta, and the Englishman Sprot, have joined it. All are noted
Anarchists.
“Jan. 20. Mem., pay Trattore. The Bestia will not wait. X. is also
pressing, and Mariuccia. Situation tightens.
“Jan. 23. Ordered to watch Q. Could I work him? No. Strong doubts of
his solvency.
“Feb. 10, 11, 12. After Q. No grounds yet.
“Feb. 27. Q. keeps up good appearance. Any mistake? Shall I try him?
Sorely pressed. X. threatens me with Prefettura.
“March 1. Q. in difficulties. Out late every night. Is playing high;
poor luck.
“March 3. Q. means mischief. Preparing for a start?
“March 10. Saw Q. about, here, there, everywhere.”
Then followed a brief account of Quadling’s movements on the day before
his departure from Rome, very much as they have been described in a
previous chapter. These were made mostly in the form of reflections,
conjectures, hopes, and fears; hurry-scurry of pursuit had no doubt
broken the immediate record of events, and these had been entered next
day in the train.
“March 17 (the day previous). He has not shown up. I thought to see him
at the buffet at Genoa. The conductor took him his coffee to the car. I
hoped to have begun an acquaintance.
“12.30. Breakfasted at Turin. Q. did not come to table. Found him
hanging about outside restaurant. Spoke; got short reply. Wishes to
avoid observation, I suppose.
“But he speaks to others. He has claimed acquaintance with madame’s
lady’s maid, and he wants to speak to the mistress. ‘Tell her I must
speak to her,’ I heard him say, as I passed close to them. Then they
separated hurriedly.
“At Modane he came to the Douane, and afterwards into the restaurant.
He bowed across the table to the lady. She hardly recognized him, which
is odd. Of course she must know him; then why—? There is something
between them, and the maid is in it.
“What shall _I_ do? I could spoil any game of theirs if I stepped in.
What are they after? His money, no doubt.
“So am I; I have the best right to it, for I can do most for him. He is
absolutely in my power, and he’ll see that—he’s no fool—directly he
knows who I am, and why I’m here. It will be worth his while to buy me
off, if I’m ready to sell myself, and my duty, and the Prefettura—and
why shouldn’t I? What better can I do? Shall I ever have such a chance
again? Twenty, thirty, forty thousand lire, more, even, at one stroke;
why, it’s a fortune! I could go to the Republic, to America, North or
South, send for Mariuccia—no, _cospetto!_ I will continue free! I will
spend the money on myself, as I alone will have earned it, and at such
risk.
“I have worked it out thus:
“I will go to him at the very last, just before we are reaching Paris.
Tell him, threaten him with arrest, then give him his chance of escape.
No fear that he won’t accept it; he _must_, whatever he may have
settled with the others. _Altro!_ I snap my fingers at them. He has
most to fear from me.”
The next entries were made after some interval, a long interval,—no
doubt, after the terrible deed had been done,—and the words were traced
with trembling fingers, so that the writing was most irregular and
scarcely legible.
“Ugh! I am still trembling with horror and fear. I cannot get it out of
my mind; I never shall. Why, what tempted me? How could I bring myself
to do it?
“But for these two women—they are fiends, furies—it would never have
been necessary. Now one of them has escaped, and the other—she is here,
so cold-blooded, so self-possessed and quiet—who would have thought it
of her? That she, a lady of rank and high breeding, gentle, delicate,
tender-hearted. Tender? the fiend! Oh, shall I ever forget her?
“And now she has me in her power! But have I not her also? We are in
the same boat—we must sink or swim, together. We are equally bound, I
to her, she to me. What are we to do? How shall we meet inquiry?
_Santissima Donna!_ why did I not risk it, and climb out like the maid?
It was terrible for the moment, but the worst would have been over, and
now—”
There was yet more, scribbled in the same faltering, agitated
handwriting, and from the context the entries had been made in the
waiting-room of the railroad station.
“I must attract her attention. She will not look my way. I want her to
understand that I have something special to say to her, and that, as we
are forbidden to speak, I am writing it herein—that she must contrive
to take the book from me and read unobserved.
“_Cospetto!_ she is stupid! Has fear dazed her entirely? No matter, I
will set it all down.”
Now followed what the police deemed such damaging evidence.
“Countess. Remember. Silence—absolute silence. Not a word as to who I
am, or what is common knowledge to us both. It is done. That cannot be
undone. Be brave, resolute; admit nothing. Stick to it that you know
nothing, heard nothing. Deny that you knew _him_, or me. Swear you
slept soundly the night through, make some excuse, say you were
drugged, anything, only be on your guard, and say nothing about me. I
warn you. Leave me alone. Or—but your interests are my interests; we
must stand or fall together. Afterwards I will meet you—I _must_ meet
you somewhere. If we miss at the station front, write to me Poste
Restante, Grand Hôtel, and give me an address. This is imperative. Once
more, silence and discretion.”
This ended the writing in the note-book, and the whole perusal occupied
Sir Charles from fifteen to twenty minutes, during which the French
officials watched his face closely, and his friend Colonel Papillon
anxiously.
But the General’s mask was impenetrable, and at the end of his reading
he turned back to read and re-read many pages, holding the book to the
light, and seeming to examine the contents very curiously.
“Well?” said the Judge at last, when he met the General’s eye.
“Do you lay great store by this evidence?” asked the General in a calm,
dispassionate voice.
“Is it not natural that we should? Is it not strongly, conclusively
incriminating?”
“It would be so, of course, if it were to be depended upon. But as to
that I have my doubts, and grave doubts.”
“Bah!” interposed the detective; “that is mere conjecture, mere
assertion. Why should not the book be believed? It is perfectly
genuine—”
“Wait, sir,” said the General, raising his hand. “Have you not
noticed—surely it cannot have escaped so astute a police
functionary—that the entries are not all in the same handwriting?”
“What! Oh, that is too absurd!” cried both the officials in a breath.
They saw at once that if this discovery were admitted to be an absolute
fact, the whole drift of their conclusions must be changed.
“Examine the book for yourselves. To my mind it is perfectly clear and
beyond all question,” insisted Sir Charles. “I am quite positive that
the last pages were written by a different hand from the first.”