I would have asked him to telegraph to Keene or to Lolita, but I feared
to give him the address lest he should institute inquiries, and I had no
wish to mix up Lord Stanchester or his sister with the terrible affair.
"The only course I can suggest is the engagement of a good criminal
counsel who will, without doubt, secure your acquittal at once when the
case comes on for trial," remarked the Consul. "Why the police arrested
you appears to be an utter enigma, but in Italy it is not extraordinary.
They had to make an arrest, so they detained you."
"Shall I be detained long do you think?"
"Probably a month," he replied regretfully. "Perhaps even more."
My heart sank within me. I was to remain there a prisoner, inactive and
in ignorance of the web of intrigue around my love. Too well I knew
Lolita's danger, and now, with the Frenchwoman dead, she would be
compelled to face the inevitable.
A month of absence and of seclusion! What might happen in that period,
I dreaded to contemplate. If I were free, I might be instrumental in
bringing the murderers of Marie Lejeune to justice, but detained there
it was impossible.
Of a sudden, like a flash, a brilliant idea occurred to me. There was
just a chance that I could secure my release by a very fortuitous
circumstance--the meeting of that _delegato_ of police in Biffi's cafe
on the night of the murder!
At once I explained this incident to Mr Martin Johnson, described the
appearance of the detective and his friend, and urged him to go to the
Questore, place my statement before him, and if possible ascertain who
was the _delegato_ in question and confront me with him.
In an hour the Consul returned. He had seen the chief of police, and
from my description it was believed that the detective was a brigadier
named Gozi, who was that day over at Como. They had telegraphed for him
to return, and he would come and see me at once.
This gave me hope, while knowledge of my statement and the interest the
Consul was taking in my case aroused the interest of my guards. Even
the doctor and nurses seemed to regard me differently.
The hours crept slowly by in that great house of suffering. A priest, a
kindly cheery old man, came to my bedside and chatted. He was from
Bologna, a city I knew well, and he had once when a young man been in
London, attached to the Italian Church in Hatton Garden. The sunset
that streamed through the long curtainless windows and fell upon the big
crucifix before me, faded at last, the clear sky deepened into night,
and the hush of silence fell upon the ward. Yet still beside me there
sat the immovable figure of my guard, his arms folded as he dozed.
That night I passed in the torture of suspense. My head burned, my eyes
seemed sore in the sockets, and I was apprehensive lest my hope of
release might be a futile one.
In the morning, however, my friend of the cafe entered briskly with the
doctor, who had conducted him to the scene of the tragedy on the
previous day, and in a moment our recognition was mutual.
"Well," he exclaimed, standing by me and regarding me with some
surprise. "What has happened to you?"
"I'm under arrest," was my reply. "Accused of murder."
"So I hear," he answered. "It seems that our meeting at Biffi's was
rather fortunate for you--eh?"
"Now you recognise me, I'll tell you all that occurred," I said quickly.
And then I related to them both in detail all the startling incidents,
just as I have already written them down.
"Then it was not the Englishwoman who was murdered?" he said. "You told
me her name was Price--if I mistake not. After I left Biffi's that
night I somehow felt convinced that Ostini and Belotto were up to some
mischief, and I afterwards regretted that I had not waited and watched
them. They looked rather too prosperous to suit my fancy. You, of
course, believed the dead woman to be your friend, the English lady?"
"Yes," I said.
"And the Englishman--what of him?"
"I did not see him after he entered the house," I answered.
Then, after I had furnished him with many other minute details of my
startling adventure of that night in which I had so narrowly escaped
death at the hands of the assassins, he held a brief consultation in
private with his colleague, who was apparently his superior in rank.
And presently they both returned to my bedside and, to my joy, announced
that it was decided to release me from custody.
Within half an hour an active search was being made for the four who had
sat at table that night at Biffi's, and although I hoped that the
assassin would be caught, I felt a little apprehensive lest Marigold
should fall into the hands of the police and the Earl's name be dragged
into the criminal court.
If she still remained at the _Metropole_ the police must certainly
discover her. I could only hope that she had already fled.
The mystery as to who had attacked me was still unsolved. If it were
Logan, then was it not probable that she was aware of the blow that had
been dealt me? The circumstances, indeed, pointed to the fact that, in
the murder of Marie Lejeune, she was at least an accomplice.
That day I begged the doctors to allow me to go forth, but they were
inexorable. Therefore for yet another day was I compelled to remain
there in anxious uncertainty although free from the irritating presence
of the guard.