From inquiries made by old Babbo next morning at the _Cross of Malta_,
it appeared quite plain that Mr. Richard Dawson, whoever he was,
constantly visited Lucca, and always with the object of consulting the
popular Capuchin brother.
Sometimes the one-eyed Englishman who spoke Italian so well would
journey up to the monastery and remain there several hours, and at
others Fra Antonio would come to the inn and there remain closeted in
closest secrecy with the visitor.
The Ceco, so called because of his defective vision, was apparently a
man of means, for his tips to the waiters and maids were always
generous, and when a guest, he and his daughter always ordered the best
that could be procured. They came from Florence, the _padrone_ thought,
but of that he was not quite certain. The letters and telegrams he
received securing rooms were dispatched from various towns in both
France and Italy, which seemed to show that they were constantly
travelling.
That was all the information we could gather. The identity of the
mysterious Paolo Melandrini was, as yet, unproven. My primary object in
travelling to Italy was not accomplished, but I nevertheless felt
satisfied that I had at last discovered two of poor Blair's most
intimate and yet secret friends.
But why the secrecy? When I recollected how close had been our
friendship, I felt surprised, and even a trifle annoyed that he had
concealed the existence of these men from me. Much as I regretted to
think ill of a friend who was dead, I could not suppress a suspicion
that his acquaintance with those men was part of his secret, and that
the latter was some dishonourable one.
Soon after midday, I crammed my things into my valise, and, impelled by
a strong desire to return to safeguard the interests of Mabel Blair,
left Lucca for London. Babbo travelled with me as far as Pisa, where we
changed, he journeying back to Florence and I picking up the
sleeping-car express on its way through from Rome to Calais.
While standing on the platform at Pisa, however, the shabby old man, who
had grown thoughtful during the past half-hour or so, suddenly said--
"A strange idea has occurred to me, signore. You will recollect that I
learned in the Via Cristofano that the Signor Melandrini wore
gold-rimmed glasses. Is it possible that he does so in Florence in
order to conceal his defective sight?"
"Why--I believe so!" I cried. "I believe you've guessed the truth!
But on the other hand, neither his servant nor the neighbours suspected
him of being a foreigner."
"He speaks Italian very well," agreed the old man, "but they said he had
a slight accent."
"Well," I said, excited at this latest theory. "Return at once to the
Via San Cristofano and make further inquiries regarding the mysterious
individual's eyesight and his glasses. The old woman who keeps his
rooms has no doubt seen him without his glasses, and can tell you the
truth."
"Signore," was the old fellow's answer. And I then wrote down for him
my address in London to which he was to dispatch a telegram if his
suspicions were confirmed.
Ten minutes later, the roaring Calais-Rome express, the limited train of
three _wagon-lits_, dining-car and baggage-car, ran into the great
vaulted station, and, wishing the queer old Babbo farewell, I climbed in
and was allotted my berth for Calais.
To describe the long, wearying journey back from the Mediterranean to
the Channel, with those wheels grinding for ever beneath, and the
monotony only broken by the announcement that a meal was ready, is
useless. You, who read this curious story of a man's secret, who have
travelled backwards and forwards over that steel road to Rome, know well
how wearisome it becomes, if you have been a constant traveller between
England and Italy.
Suffice it to say that thirty-six hours after entering the express at
Pisa, I crossed the platform at Charing Cross, jumped into a hansom and
drove to Great Russell Street. Reggie was not yet back from his
warehouse, but on my table among a quantity of letters I found a
telegram in Italian from Babbo. It ran:--
"Melandrini has left eye injured. Undoubtedly same man.--Carlini."
The individual who was destined to be Mabel Blair's secretary and
adviser was her dead father's bitterest enemy--the Englishman, Dick
Dawson.