Arthur Dalziel took his way to 5, Sparrow Alley, the address Giovanni
had given him, and after sundry ineffectual attempts, succeeded in
discovering it. The house was a wretched, tumble-down tenement in a
shabby quarter, one of those quarters that seem never far removed from
fashionable neighbourhoods, as if set there by Providence to keep the
children of fortune ever in mind of the seamy side of life.
The visitor was admitted by a dirty old woman, half idiotic with sleep
and gin combined, who conducted him to the room where "the furrin
laidy" lived, mumbling the while maudlin compliments to Dalziel with
unmistakable intent.
In a miserable den, upon a still more miserable bed, Arthur Dalziel
found the wreck of a lovely woman. He was a novice at visitation of the
sick, but a glance showed him that the end could not be far away. The
patient was speechless, but as he approached her, her eyes dwelt on him
with a yearning, pleading look which his rapid intuitions interpreted
rightly.
"Your little boy, your Giovanni, is safe," he said, "and will be well
cared for always."
The worn but still lovely face lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction
as her mute lips strove to thank him. Feebly she drew a sealed packet
from beneath the pillow and gave it into Dalziel's hand. After another
effort she contrived to whisper, "This will tell all. You are good,
kind; so like _him_, too. My love to Giovannino--oh, so dark, so
cold----"
Her head sank back--Giovanni's mother was dead.
For a few seconds they stood in silence in the majestic presence of
Death: then the old woman broke into tipsy lamentations while her eyes
wandered greedily over the room.
[Illustration: "SHE GAVE IT INTO DALZIEL'S HAND."]
"Hold your peace, woman," Dalziel cried, irritably, for the contrast
between the sweet, pure image of the dead and the vileness of his
companion jarred harshly on his delicate sensibilities. "Here," he
continued, thrusting a coin into her dirt-grimed palm, "fetch the key
of this room, quick!"
"It's in the door, sir," muttered the other, sulkily, as she clutched
the money.
"Leave me, then," said Dalziel: "I'll see to everything."
The old woman grumblingly retired.
The room was lighted by a single guttering candle, now almost burned
to its socket. There was light enough to show the visitor that beyond
a small leather travelling-box the place seemed to contain nothing
belonging to its late occupant. The box was unlocked, so he opened
it and drew out a dressing-case, which he looked at narrowly with a
sort of trembling curiosity. He attempted to open it, but it resisted
his efforts. Then he bethought him of the sealed packet, which he
opened and examined. It contained several papers, which he glanced at
hurriedly. As he read, his face grew ashen pale and his hands shook
violently. He perused one paper and was taking up a second, when the
candle with a spasmodic sputter went suddenly out. Through the dingy
window, for a single moment, one clear star shone between a rift in
the driving storm-clouds. By its faint light he groped for the door,
and was quitting the apartment when he suddenly bethought himself and
returned to the table for the papers and the dressing-case. He then
left the room, the door of which he locked, and pocketing the key he
sought the congenial companionship of the tempestuous night.
* * * * *
One afternoon Dalziel and Giovanni stood by a humble grave. The child
scarcely realized his loss, and clung to his new protector's hand with
passionate intensity. When all was over, as they turned slowly away,
Giovanni said:
"Shall I really always stay with you?"
"Yes, always."
"And learn to be a great musician?"
"Certainly, if you work very hard."
"I _shall_ work very hard, then, to please you and----" he paused and
sobbed violently.
"And whom, Giovanni?"
"And mother. She will know, will she not?"
But Dalziel gave no answer.
The same night Dalziel had another fit of musing. It followed a
lengthened perusal of the papers he had brought away with him from
the chamber of death. One paper, however, was missing. He had left it
behind the night before and could obtain no trace of it. The landlord
denied having entered the room overnight with a pass-key, but Dalziel
did not believe him, though strangely enough he instituted no inquiry
regarding the missing document.
"It is as well," he said to himself; "it is as well it should go.
Nothing can come of it, and when the boy is of age justice shall be
done. Till then, things are best as they are." Then he took up the
faded scrap of music and locked it into the secret drawer of his
writing-desk, again muttering: "Nothing can come of it. It's quite
meaningless to an outsider; no, nothing _can_ come of it. Arthur
Dalziel, your position is secure; besides, you're his proper guardian
in any case--his legal guardian."