Читать книгу The Mysterious Mr. Miller - William Le Queux - Страница 10

Sammy chanced to be out, therefore I conducted her to our cosy little sitting-room at the back of the house on the first floor, and after a few minutes she had so far recovered from the shock of seeing her dead enemy that she seated herself and allowed me to talk further to her.

I told her of the request which Massari had made respecting his epitaph, and of his fearless encounter with death.

“Naturally. He was unfortunate, and he wished to die,” she said, quite coolly. “Had he lived he would only have fallen into disgrace and been placed in the criminal dock.”

“Towards me he was very pleasant, though not very talkative.”

“Ah! you have had a narrow escape,” she said, with her dark eyes fixed upon me mysteriously.

“A narrow escape? What of, pray? I don’t understand you.”

“Of course not,” she answered, smiling strangely.

“Tell me more,” I said eagerly. “This statement of yours is very puzzling, and has aroused my curiosity. Do you mean that Massari had some sinister design upon me?”

She fixed her dark eyes upon me for a few moments, then said:—

“You were once, about three years ago, in Pisa—at the Minerva, I think?”

I stood before her open-mouthed. What did this sweet-faced woman know regarding that closed page of my life’s history?

Mention of that hotel in the quiet old marble-built city where stands the wonderful Leaning Tower recalled to me a certain unsavoury incident that I would fain have forgotten, yet could never put from me its remembrance.

“Well?” I asked at last, summoning all my strength to remain calm. “What of it?”

She was silent for a moment, gazing straight into my eyes.

“Something occurred there, did it not?” she said slowly.

“And he knew of that?”

Then I recollected how the dying man had fixed his eyes upon me with that hard, intense look; how his gaze had followed me about the room, and I saw his fierce hatred and deep regret that while he himself was dying I still lived.

Perhaps he had intended that our positions should be reversed, but God had willed it otherwise.

Did Lucie Miller herself know what had taken place in Pisa?

I asked her point-blank, but from her replies I became reassured that she was entirely ignorant of the real facts. She knew that some extraordinary incident that concerned me had taken place there—that was all.

By what means had the stranger obtained knowledge of my secret? To me, her allegation that I had had some narrow escape seemed incredible. I could not discern sufficient motive. Yet she repeated her allegation, adding:—

“His motives were always hidden ones.”

“Well,” I declared, “to me the thing is really beyond credence. I can’t see what I can have done to injure him. Was it in connection with the affair in Pisa, do you think?”

“I believe it was, but of course I’m not quite certain,” was her somewhat vague reply. Perhaps she desired to mislead me.

The position was certainly a strange one. Had the dead man been a secret enemy of both of us?

The sweet face had changed as she sat with her neat patent-leather shoe stretched forth upon the shabby hearth-rug. It was even paler and more serious, while her eyes were fixed upon mine with a curious, intense gaze that caused me surprise.

“You have fortunately escaped,” she said mechanically, after a brief pause. “I am, however, a victim, and doomed.”

And sighing her eyes fell upon the carpet.

“But you will be able to clear yourself of this charge against you, Miss Miller—you must—you will. If the brute refused to clear you, then you must find other means. Why did he refuse? What had he to gain by refusing?”

“Everything,” was her low, hoarse answer. “If he had spoken the truth and cleared me then a terrible vengeance would have fallen upon him. But death overtook him instead.”

I wondered whether I should tell her of the commission he had entrusted to me, but decided that, for the present, I would say nothing.

“Are you returning at once to Italy?” I inquired presently, for our mutual connection with the dead man had aroused my curiosity concerning her. I longed to know who she was, and who was the man who lay in that darkened upstairs room.

“I hardly know what my future movements are to be,” she replied. “I came post-haste to London to face him and to compel him to speak and clear me of the foul imputation against me. Now that all is in vain—now that the future holds no hope for me—I don’t know what I shall do.”

“You have friends in England, of course?”

“I have an aunt living in the country. Perhaps I shall go to her. I must first hear what my father counsels, now that our enemy is dead.” Then after a pause she raised her eyes to mine and added: “I think you are acquainted with a certain lady named Hardwick, are you not?”

I started. She seemed to be aware of all my private affairs. It was extraordinary. Surely these people had not spied upon me?

“I knew a lady of that name some time ago.”

She smiled mysteriously, for she had watched my face and seen my expression of surprise.

“And the recollection of her is not a very pleasant one, eh?”

“How did you know that?” I asked quickly.

She shrugged her shoulders with that foreign air which showed her to be a born cosmopolitan and laughed, but made no reply. That she knew more concerning me than she admitted was quite plain.

“And what has the woman Hardwick to do with the affair?” I asked in surprise.

“She is not your friend,” she answered, in a low, serious voice. “You have seen her lately, I presume.”

“I met her last while at supper at the Savoy about a fortnight ago,” I said. “She then pressed me to go and dine with her.”

“Of course. Hitherto you had not seen her for several months.”

“No. She has been abroad, I understand.”

“Yes. In Italy.”

“And she invited me with some sinister motive?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“She wishes to resume your acquaintance, and to regain your confidence. It was, I think, part of an intrigue.”

“I refused her invitation,” I said. “I had long ago discovered that she was not my friend.”

“That is fortunate. Otherwise you might have cause to deeply regret it. The woman is an adventuress of the worst type—a fact which I daresay you are already aware of.”

“I discovered it by mere accident, and for that reason I dropped her acquaintance. But what you have told me is utterly astounding.”

“That man’s end relieves you of all further anxiety, yet at the same time it dooms me to shame—and to death!” she remarked hoarsely, rising suddenly to her feet with quick resolution.

I made no remark. What she had revealed to me was so bewildering. That the woman, before me had interests in common with myself was now plain. She was in deep distress—in fear of what the dark future held in store for her, abandoned by the one man who could clear her of this mysterious allegation, so infamous that she dare not repeat it to me, a stranger.

Her grace and beauty, too, were assuredly incomparable. Truly she was one of the prettiest women I had ever met—yet at the same time the most despairing. I saw tragedy in her countenance—the shadow of death was in her eyes, and I stood before her silent and fascinated by the mystery which enveloped her.

“I must go, Mr Leaf,” she said. “I must telegraph to my father and inform him of the contretemps which has occurred. He will direct me how to act. But before I go I would like to thank you very very much for your great kindness and sympathy towards me. I am sure that, if possible, you would seek to assist me. But it is out of the question—entirely out of the question. What must be, must be.”

And she put out her small hand to me in farewell.

“There must, I am sure, be some way in which to evade this misfortune which you apprehend,” I said. “At any rate we may meet again, may we not? Where shall you stay in London?”

“I really don’t know,” she said, in a vague, blank manner which showed that she wished to evade me, fearing perhaps lest I might make unwelcome inquiries concerning her. “As to our meeting again, I hardly think such a course would be wise. My friendship might imperil you still further, therefore let us end it now, as pleasantly as it has commenced.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You will know what I mean, Mr Leaf, some day,” she answered, with a strange look in her dark eyes. Then sighing she added: “Farewell.”

And I was compelled to take the hand she offered. Refusing to tell me where she lived, and holding out no fixed promise of returning, she at once went down with me to the front door.

After I had bowed farewell and she had descended the steps, I closed the door, and was returning along the hall when suddenly Sammy emerged from the dining-room, where he had evidently been standing, and facing me with a strange, serious expression upon his features, such as I had never seen there before, asked:—

“Godfrey! what’s that woman doing here—in this house? Do you know who she is? By Jove, you don’t, that’s certain, otherwise you would never have let her cross this threshold. Why has she dared to come here?”