The night mail for the Continent backed into Cannon Street for the
postal-vans, and then rushed away into the wet stormy night for Dover
Pier.
The journey, as far as there, proved uneventful, but as soon as I
stepped out upon the rain-swept landing-stage, I saw that our crossing
was to be a "dirty" one. Beneath the electric lamps brawny seamen
passed in shining oil-skins, and amid the bustle and shouting I saw the
neat figure of the Countess with her companion hurry across the gangway
to the shelter of a private cabin, wherein she entered and closed the
door, while Logan went below to get a drink, and change some money with
the steward, an action which was that of the constant traveller.
Not wishing to appear too obtrusive, I remained on deck watching the
mails being counted in, until the last bag had been flung into the hold,
the cry "All out!" sounded, the hatches were closed, and then slowly the
packet began to move out into the rough open Channel.
When Logan emerged on deck I stood back in the darkness, taking a good
view of him. He was dressed with every appearance of a gentleman, but
from the manner in which he paced the deck I saw that he was greatly
agitated and concerned, whether of the Countess's safety or of his own I
could, of course, not determine. Neither had I any idea why the pair
were fleeing from England, unless it was to escape some exposure which
her ladyship knew to be imminent.
That woman was the enemy of my love; she had deceived me. Therefore the
compassion I held for her had been succeeded by a fierce and unrelenting
antagonism, and I intended to watch her and discover the truth.
I sat beneath the bridge under shelter from the driving rain, and hidden
by the darkness, while the man Logan walked to and fro, utterly heedless
of the storm. He did not go to her ladyship's cabin to inquire after
her, therefore it struck me that perhaps they might have quarrelled. In
any case his anxiety was intense.
On landing at Calais he took her into the buffet, where they had hot
coffee, and a few moments later were joined by a thin black-haired
sallow-faced man, evidently a foreigner from the studied manner in which
he bowed before her as she sat at the table of the restaurant.
Then the trio sat together in earnest consultation.
The Paris express was announced to depart, but to my surprise they took
no heed. The French capital proved not to be their destination, for
presently they rose and walked to the Bale express, the _wagon-lit_ of
which they entered, the conductor apparently expecting them.
I was compelled therefore to return to the booking-office and obtain a
ticket. As, however, there was but one sleeping-car I could not travel
in it for fear of detection, and was therefore forced to enter an
ordinary first-class carriage, with the prospect of a twelve hours'
tedious journey.
On we travelled until the dawn spread into a grey damp day, then the sun
shone, it grew warmer, and I stretched myself upon the cushions and
slept. To descend to get anything to eat was to invite detection;
therefore I starved upon a pull from my flask and a couple of sandwiches
with which I had provided myself at the Calais buffet.
From Bale I followed them to Lucerne, and from Lucerne by the Gothard
railway to Milan, where we arrived late at night, her ladyship driving
alone to the _Hotel Metropole_, opposite the _Duomo_, and the two men
going off in a cab in another direction.
As soon as I had watched the Countess into the _Metropole_ I went along
to the _Cavour_, where I quickly turned in and was very soon asleep.
Milan seemed to be their destination, for at the station they had been
met by a second foreigner, an Italian evidently, a short ferret-eyed
little man, smoking the stump of a cigar, and after the exchange of a
few words he parted from them quickly and was lost to sight.
My own idea was that he had met Logan and his friend and had told them
to what address to drive. I, however, could not follow them, being bent
upon watching Marigold. Next morning I sent a telegram to Keene
informing him of my whereabouts, and then set myself to keep observation
on the Countess's movements.
Milan, the most noisy city of modern Italy, was parched and dusty at
that season of the year, and save for a few German tourists the hotels
seemed empty. There are, of course, visitors from all corners of the
earth at all seasons of the year to see the wonders of the cathedral,
but to the man who knows his Italy, and who loves it, there is something
so incongruous, so ugly, so utterly rasping upon the nerves in Milan
that it is decidedly a city to get away from. The place bears the
impress of all that is bad in Italian art of to-day, combined with all
the worst features of that complex life which is known as Modern Italy.
Opposite the hotel stood the great stucco arcade, the Gallery of Victor
Emmanuel, one of the greatest, if not actually the greatest, in Europe,
and about eleven o'clock her ladyship emerged from her hotel alone and
wandered through the arcade looking into the shop windows, some of those
establishments being the best and most expensive in Italy.
She little dreamed of my presence as I followed her. Previously I had
bought a grey felt hat of Italian shape in order that my English
"bowler" should not be conspicuous, and with my watchful eyes upon her I
sauntered on, wondering why she was waiting. She returned to the hotel
to lunch, and in the afternoon went for a drive around the bastions,
which, planted with limes now, form the _passeggiata_ of the prosperous
Milanese.
It surprised me that Logan and his companion did not return to her, and
I regretted that I had not ascertained whither they had gone. At seven
o'clock that evening, however, she went alone to the large restaurant in
the Galleria known as Biffi's, and entering found the three men seated
at table expecting her. Each greeted her with deep deference, then
reseated themselves, and she dined with them.
From where I sat, engrossed in my _Tribuna_--the top of my head
concealed by my new grey hat--I could see that now and then the
conversation was of a confidential character, and I also noticed certain
strange meaning looks exchanged between the men when the woman's
attention was otherwise engaged.
The three men were certainly not the kind of persons one would have
expected as associates of a woman of the Countess of Stanchester's
wealth and social distinction. Her beauty, however, was, I saw,
everywhere remarked, even in that foreign cafe.
"Una bellissima donna!" remarked a man seated near to me to his
companion, as he sipped his vermouth and seltzer. "English, I believe.
I wonder what those thieves want with her? She evidently don't know
their character, or she and the Englishman wouldn't be seen with them
here, in a public restaurant!"
I was quickly on the alert. These men, probably petty officials
employed in the Municipal Offices, had recognised the sallow-faced man
who had met Logan at Calais, and his companion. I recollected the
curious incident at Hayes's Farm, and the fact that two foreigners had
been of the mysterious party who had lived in concealment there. Were
they, I wondered, these self-same men. They were Italians, no doubt,
for had they not read the _Avanti_ and the _Secolo_ and other journals,
some of which they had left behind on their sudden flight?
Fortunately one of the Continental languages with which I was acquainted
was Italian; therefore I turned to the two men seated close to me, and
raising my hat politely explained that I had overheard their remarks,
and that as the lady and gentleman were my friends I would esteem it a
favour if they would give me some further information regarding the two
men seated with them at table.
"Why do you wish to know?" inquired the man who had made the remark that
had so attracted my attention.
"Well, because my English friends are negotiating some financial
business with them," I explained.
"Oh!" he smiled. "Well then, you can tell your friends that those two
men are well-known in Milan, and especially in this cafe, as knights of
industry--persons who live by their wits. I haven't see them here for
months, and believed that they'd fallen into the hands of the law. But
it seems that they're flourishing still."
"What is known against them?" I asked in Italian. "Are you aware of
their names?"
"Yes," was his reply. "I may as well tell you that I am a _delegato_ of
police myself, and I happen to know those two very interesting
gentlemen. The tall man is Tito Belotto, a Roman, and the other
Bernardo Ostini, a Lucchese. And the name of the beautiful
Englishwoman? Who is she?"
"She is from London--a Mrs Price," I answered, pronouncing the first
name that came into my head, for I was by no means anxious that this
detective should know her real name.
"Well," he remarked, "you can warn her to have nothing to do with them,
otherwise she must suffer, both in reputation as well as in pocket," he
smiled, and then, having finished his vermouth, he rose with his
companion and left.
Then the sallow-faced fellow who had met them at Calais was Tito
Belotto, an adventurer! And yet as he sat there in evening dress,
smoking his cigar and chatting affably with the handsome Englishwoman,
his outward appearance was that of a somewhat superior man. In his
shirt-front there shone a small diamond of very good water, and on his
finger was another gem that caught the electric light and flashed its
radiance towards me.
He had been relating some humorous anecdote to her ladyship, who was
laughing heartily at it. Evidently she was in a good-humour, just as
these men wished her to be. Belotto, I noticed, paid for the dinner,
and then all four walked down the arcade into the Piazza where they
entered a closed cab and were driven off.
My own idea is that they were going to a theatre, but as I followed them
in another conveyance I quickly found that we were travelling in an
opposite direction, namely up the broad Corso Venezia and out by the
city gate into that suburb that lies beyond the ancient fortifications.
Outside the town the streets are not well-lighted, and the quarter is
not one of the most aristocratic. Most of the houses were huge blocks
of flats as is usual in Italian cities, and it struck me that they were
mostly occupied by labourers. Even at that hour of the night the air
seemed close, and a strong odour of garlic permeated everything.
The cab in which the four were riding turned at last into a dark
deserted street of high prison-like houses and pulled up, when instantly
I ordered my man to stop, jumped out, paid him, and secreted myself in a
neighbouring doorway before the first man who alighted could detect my
presence.
From the house where they had stopped a man came forth, carrying a
lantern, by the light of which he conducted them into that ponderous
house of darkness.
The cab then drove off, leaving me alone in the dark dismal street. The
house they had entered was a big inartistic place apparently
newly-built, for it stood slightly apart from the other buildings, and
behind it was a waste plot of ground. From the other tenements in the
vicinity came the cries of children, the strumming of a mandoline, a
woman's song, and a man's voice raised in angry altercation--that babel
of noises that one hears at night in every crowded street of an Italian
town, and more especially in that noisiest of European cities--Milan.
Why, I wondered, had they gone there? That Marigold was unacquainted
with the place, and that she was not altogether confident in the
assurances of her conductors, was shown to me by the cautious manner in
which she followed the man with the lantern. Besides, I saw distinctly
that the two Italians, following her, nudged each other.
Not a light showed in any single window of the place, for at most of
them the wooden sun-shutters were closed, as is the Italian habit at
night. In one part of the building, however, the windows were devoid of
glass, from which I concluded that the place was not yet completely
finished. And then it occurred to me that the man with the lantern
might be its first occupant.
The minutes lengthened into hours, but I still kept my patient silent
vigil. The noises in the other houses around died down, until all was
hushed in sleep. I emerged from the doorway and strolled backwards and
forwards in the dark and dismal roadway. The closed door of the house
where the Countess had been taken was freshly painted, but beyond that I
could gather nothing from its exterior.
I looked at my watch and found that it was half-past two. Then I sat
down upon a heap of stones close by, waiting for the dawn, and thinking
always of Lolita.
I suppose I had been there some twenty minutes or so, when of a sudden I
heard a shrill whistle which, as far as I could judge, proceeded from
one of the shuttered windows of the unfinished house.
Three times was the whistle blown, when a few moments later I heard the
rattle of wheels, and the same cab that had conveyed them there drew up
again before the door.
There were no lights on it, however, neither did any light show when the
door of the house was opened.
But as I watched I saw something which caused my eyes to start out of my
head in astonishment, for the dim light was just sufficient for me to
discern two men emerging from the mysterious place, carrying between
them to the cab the inanimate form of a woman covered with a dark cloth.
The woman's arm swung helplessly to the ground as they carried her, and
I knew by their suspicious manners, and their hushed whispers, that she
was dead.