El tesoro misterioso 💎✨ | Un misterio intrigante por William Le Queux
In a remote corner of Europe, a mysterious treasure waits to be discovered. The story of ‘The Mysterious Treasure’ by William Le Queux takes us through a series of enigmas and secrets, where the characters will be involved in a game of intrigue and suspense. Who will be able to find it first? Join us on this journey full of mystery and adventure. Chapter 1. THE STRANGER FROM MANCHESTER. –Dead! And he has taken his secret to the grave! –Never! –But he took it. Look! He has a dropped jaw. You don’t see the change, man! –So, he has made good on his threat after all! –He has fulfilled it! We have been fools, Reginaldo… truly fools!–I murmured. –So it seems. I confess that I confidently hoped that he would tell us the truth when he realized that his end had come. –Ah! “You didn’t know him like I did,” I observed bitterly. “He had a will of iron and a nerve of steel.” –Combined with a horse’s constitution, because, if not, he would have died a long time ago. But we have been deceived… completely deceived by a dying man. He has challenged us, and until the last moment he has mocked us. –Blair was no fool. He knew what the knowledge of that truth meant for us: an enormous fortune. What he has done, simply, is keep his secret. –And leave us penniless. Although we have lost thousands, Gilberto, I cannot help but admire your tenacious determination. I remember that he has had to go through difficult times, and he has been a good friend, but very good, to us; Therefore, I believe that we should not abuse him, even if we are very sorry for the fact that he has not left us his secret. –Ah, if those white lips could speak! “A single word, and we would both be rich men,” I exclaimed with sorrow, contemplating the pale face of the dead man, with his eyes closed and his beard shaved, lying on the pillow. “From the beginning his intention was to hide his secret,” observed, crossing his arms, my friend Reginaldo Seton, who was standing on the other side of the bed. “Not all men are given the chance to make a discovery like yours.” It took years to solve the problem, whatever it was; but we cannot doubt, not for a moment, that he achieved his object. “And the profit he made was more than a million pounds sterling,” I added. –More like two, estimating on the low side. Remember that, when we first met him, he was going through the greatest financial hardships… and now? In the last week alone, he gave twenty thousand pounds to the Hospital fund. And he owes all this to having been able to solve the enigma that we have been striving to discover for a long time. No, Gilberto, he has not done well with us. You must remember that it was we who helped him, straightened him out, and, in short, did everything we could for him, and instead of revealing to us the key to the secret that he discovered, and placed him among the richest men in London, he has refused to do so, even though he knew he was going to die. We lent him money when his situation was precarious, we paid for Mabel’s education when he had nothing to pay for it and… –And he paid us every last cent… with interest– I interrupted him.–Come on; Let’s stop discussing his behavior here. The secret has been lost forever: that is enough.–And I covered the poor dead man’s face with the sheet; the countenance of Burton Blair, the man who, for the last five years, had been one of London’s mysteries. A strange and adventurous life, a career more remarkable perhaps than many of those forged by novelists, had been suddenly cut short, while the secret of the origin of his enormous secret fortune which we had both longed to share for the last five years, because in some degree we have just titles to share in its advantages had disappeared with it, never to return. The room we were in was a small, well-furnished bedroom in the Queens Hotel, Manchester. The window looked out on the dark façade of the Hospital, and the noise and bustle of Piccadilly traffic. They ascended to the dead man’s room. His story was certainly one of the strangest that any man has ever told. Its mystery, as we will see, was truly astonishing. The light of that sad February afternoon was quickly disappearing, and as we slowly turned around to go down and inform the manager of the establishment of the unfortunate end that a passenger had met, I noticed that in a corner was the dead man’s suitcase, and the keys placed in its locks. “We had better take possession of them,” I observed, closing the suitcase and putting the small bunch of keys in my pocket. “Their executors will need them.” Then, we closed the door, and heading to the office, we communicated the unpleasant news of the death that had occurred at the hotel. The manager was prepared, however, because, half an hour earlier, the doctor had told him that the stranger had no remedy. From the beginning his illness had been a hopeless case. Here, in brief, what had happened: Burton Blair had said goodbye to his daughter Mabel, leaving his mansion in Grosvenor Square the morning of the previous day , to go to catch the ten-thirty express from Euston to Manchester, where he had to settle some private business, as he had said. Before the train reached Crewe, he suddenly felt ill, and one of the dining car servants found him passed out in one of the first-class compartments. They gave him brandy and some other comforting drinks, which revived him enough to get to Manchester, where he was helped off the train at London Road, and then two porters put him into a _cab_ and escorted him to the hotel. Once there, when he put him to bed, he once again fell into a state of complete fainting. A doctor was called, but he could not make any diagnosis about the disease, contenting himself with saying that the patient’s heart was seriously affected, and that, in view of that, the outcome would be fatal and quick. At two in the morning the next day, Blair, who had not given his name or who he was, to the people at the hotel, asked them to telegraph Seton and me, which resulted in both of us, full of anxiety and surprise, setting off for Manchester, where we arrived an hour before the final outcome, finding that our friend was in a desperate state. Upon entering the room we met the doctor, a certain Dr. Glenn, a young and rather pleasant man, who was assisting him. Blair was completely conscious at the time, and listened to the medical opinion without getting upset. In truth, it seemed that he welcomed death rather than feared it, for when he heard that he was in such a critical situation, a weak smile appeared on his pale wrinkled face, and he observed: –We all have to die; So, it doesn’t matter if it happens today or tomorrow.–Then, turning to me, he added:–It was very kind of you, Gilberto, to come expressly to say goodbye–and he extended his thin cold hand, looked for mine and shook it tightly, while his eyes fixed on me with that strange fixed look that only appears in the eyes of a man when he is on the edge of the grave. “It is the duty of a friend, Burton,” I answered with profound solemnity. “But you can still hope; Doctors are often wrong. Don’t you have a splendid constitution? “Since I was very young I don’t remember having been sick for almost a single day ,” answered the millionaire in a low and weak voice; “but this attack has completely defeated me.” We tried to find out exactly how he had gotten sick, but neither Reginaldo nor the doctor could make anything clear. “I suddenly lost consciousness, and I don’t remember anything else,” was all the dying man said. “But,” he added, turning to me again, “don’t tell Mabel until everything is over.” Poor creature! My only regret when leaving this world is having to leave her. You two were extremely good to her in the past years; Isn’t it true that now “Will they abandon her?” she implored, speaking slowly and with great difficulty, while her eyes shone full of tears. –Certainly not, old friend–I answered.–Seeing herself alone, she will need someone to advise her and take care of her interests. “The lawyer scoundrels will take care of that,” she exclaimed with a strange harshness in her voice, as if she had had no regard for her lawyers. “No, I want you to watch over her, to make sure that no man makes her his wife for the love of his money, do you understand me?” Dozens of people are after her right now, I know, but I would rather see her dead than married to one of them. You must marry for love… yes, for love, do you hear me? Promise me, Gilberto, that you will protect her, that you will watch over her fate, will you? Still holding his hand in mine, I promised to fulfill what he asked of me. These were the last words he spoke. His pale lips contracted again, but no sound came from them. His glassy eyes were fixed on me with a terrible, hard look, as if he had been straining to tell me something. Maybe he was telling me the big secret, the secret of how he had solved the mystery of making his fortune and possessing more than a million pounds sterling, or maybe he was telling me about Mabel. But we couldn’t know what it was. His tongue refused to utter another word ; the silence of death had taken hold of him. Thus he disappeared from this world, and thus it was that I found myself bound to a promise that I intended to keep, even though he had not revealed his secret to us, as we had confidently hoped. When he sent for us, we had believed that, realizing his dying state, he did so to make us aware of that mysterious means that would make us richer than we had ever dreamed. But in this case the disappointment had been cruel. For five years, I confess, we had hoped, confident that one day he would share with us part of his fortune in compensation for the services we had done him in the past. However, it now seemed that he had coldly disregarded the debt of gratitude he owed us, and at the same time had imposed on me an obligation not very easy to fulfill: the guardianship of Mabel, his only daughter. Chapter 2. WHERE CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS FACTS APPEAR. I must declare that, taking into account all the mysterious and curious circumstances of the past, the situation, for me, was very far from being satisfactory. As we walked together that cold night down Market Street discussing the matter, because we had preferred to go out rather than stay in the hotel lounge, Reginaldo had the idea that perhaps among the objects belonging to the dead man was the written and sealed secret. But in this case, unless it was addressed to us, it would be opened by the people whom the dying man had designated as “the lawyers’ scoundrels,” and, in all probability, they would know how to make the most of it for themselves. Their solicitors were, as we knew, Messrs. Leighton, Brown Leighton, an eminently honorable firm of Bedford Row; We therefore sent them a telegram from the head office, informing them of the sudden death of their client, and requesting that one of them come to Manchester at once, to be present at the inquests that were to be made, as Dr. Glenn had declared that they would be necessary. As the deceased had expressed the wish that, at that time, Mabel would ignore reality, we did not notify her of the tragic and painful event. Curiosity soon made us return to the hotel and go up to the dead man’s room to examine the contents of his suitcase and small suitcase, but apart from his clothes, a book of checks and about ten pounds sterling in gold, we found nothing. However, I do not think I am wrong in stating that we had both hoped to find the key to the remarkable secret that in an unknown way he had achieved, even though it was not credible that such a valuable object had been in his luggage. In the pocket of a small notebook, which was part of what was in the suitcase, I discovered several letters, all of which I examined and saw that they were of no importance, except one, dirty and poorly written in incorrect Italian, which contained some phrases that aroused my curiosity. Truly, the tenor in which that letter was written was so strange that, with Reginaldo’s approval, I decided to keep it and make some inquiries. Many secret things and facts had surrounded the life of Burton Blair, which had intrigued us for years, and consequently, we were willing, if possible, to clarify the strange mystery that had enveloped him in life, despite having taken the secret of his enormous fortune to the grave. We were the only ones in the world who knew of the existence of the secret, but we were unaware of the key necessary to open that source of inexhaustible riches. For everyone, the means he had used to make that enormous fortune was an indecipherable mystery, and even his daughter Mabel did not know it. In the City and in society, some believed that he had large sums invested in mines, and that he was a happy speculator in stocks, while others declared that he was the owner, at least, of the land, or, rather, of the entire urban plan of two large cities in the United States, some affirming, with more aplomb, that the origin of his fortune came from concessions that he had obtained from the Ottoman Government. Everyone, however, was wrong in their assumptions. Burton Blair did not own an acre of land, had not a single shilling invested in any company, was not interested in, nor engaged in, grants from any Government or industrial enterprises. No. The origin of the great fortune which, in the space of five years, had enabled him to purchase, decorate and furnish in a royal manner, one of the most splendid mansions in Grosvenor Square, to maintain three of the most expensive Panhards; automobiles were his favorite passion, and to own that magnificent old Jacobian dwelling, known as Mayvill Court, in Herefordshire, was completely unknown to everyone, and came from a place where no one even suspected. His millions were certainly very mysterious. “I would be surprised if anything would come out of the investigations that are going to be made,” Reginaldo exclaimed, a few hours later . “Undoubtedly his lawyers don’t know anything either.” “It may be that he left some papers that reveal the truth,” I answered. “Men who are silent and reserved in life often tend to confide their secrets to paper.” –I don’t think Burton did it. –Remember that it may have been done for Mabel’s benefit. –Ah! “For Job!” my friend murmured, “I hadn’t thought about that.” If she wanted it to be hers, she must have left her secret in the hands of someone she trusted implicitly. However, he trusted us… to a point. We are the only ones who have any real knowledge of the state of their affairs.–And my friend Reginaldo, blond, long-legged and six feet tall, the perfect type of the muscular and flexible Englishman, even when he was dedicated to the trade of frivolities and feminine prettiness, fell silent with a dull grunt of displeasure, and carefully lit a new cigar. We spent a sad night wandering the main streets of Manchester, feeling that with the death of Burton Blair we had lost a sincere friend; but, when the next morning we met Herbert Leighton, the lawyer, in the hall of the Queens Hotel, and had a long consultation with him, the mystery surrounding the dead man increased considerably. “You two knew my late client very well,” the lawyer observed, after some preliminaries. “Do you know if there is anyone who could benefit from his sudden death?” “That’s a strange question,” I said. “Why?” “I have reason to believe,” the dark man with sharp features explained with some hesitation , “that he has been the victim of infamy.” –Infamy!–I exclaimed astonished.–You surely don’t believe that he has been murdered, do you? That cannot be, dear friend. He fell ill on the train, and has died here in our presence. The lawyer, whose expression had taken on an even more serious appearance, simply shrugged his shoulders and said: “We must, of course, await the result of the investigation, but I have the belief, from certain information that I have, that Burton Blair did not die a natural death. ” That same night, the police medical coroner carried out his investigation in a private room of the hotel, and, in accordance with the opinion of the two doctors who had verified the death and performed the autopsy on the morning of that same day, declared that the death was due solely to natural causes. It was discovered that Burton Blair had suffered from a natural weakness of the heart, and that his fatal outcome had been hastened by the movement of the train. There was absolutely nothing that could lead one to suspect that a crime had been committed; The jury therefore returned a verdict, according to the expert evidence, that the death was due to natural causes, and granted permission to remove the body to London, where it was to be buried. An hour after the investigation was over I called Mr. Leighton aside and said: “As you know, I have been one of Blair’s close friends for several years , and I am naturally very interested to know what reasons you have had for suspecting that something infamy has been committed.” –My suspicions were well founded–was his response, somewhat enigmatic. –What were they based on? –In the fact that my client was threatened, and that, despite not communicating it to anyone but me and laughing at the precautions that I indicated to him, he lived constantly in fear of being murdered. –Strange!–I exclaimed.–Very strange! I told him nothing about that remarkable letter that I had found in the dead man’s luggage. If what he said was truly true, then the death of Burton Blair contained a most extraordinary secret, a faithful reflection of his strange, romantic and mysterious life; secret that was inscrutable, but absolutely unparalleled. I think it will be necessary to explain the curious circumstances that brought us into contact with Burton Blair, and describe the mysterious events that occurred after we made the acquaintance. This story is so remarkable from beginning to end, that many who read it will be inclined to doubt my veracity. To these, before beginning, I will indicate that they can make inquiries in London, in that little world of adventurers, speculators, moneylenders and money losers, known as the City, where I am sure that they will have no difficulty in obtaining even more interesting details about the man of the mysterious millions to which this narrative partly refers. And, indeed, the faithful facts concerning him will be seen to form, I do not hesitate to say, one of the most remarkable romances of modern life . Chapter 3. IN WHICH A STRANGE STORY IS REFERRED TO. In order to explain the truth simply and plainly, I must, first of all, say that I, Gilberto Greenwood, was a man of limited resources, to whom an aunt, ascetic and of the Baptist church, but possessor of a small fortune, had left an annuity for life; while my friend Reginaldo Seton, whom I had known since childhood, when we had been together in Charterhouse, was the son of George Seton, owner of a lace shop on Cannon Street and councilor of the Municipality of London, who died leaving Reginaldo aged twenty-five, with a heavy load of debt and an old-fashioned and noble business, but which was rapidly declining. However, as Reginaldo had been trained in a Nottingham factory, knowing the trade of lace, he bravely continued in his father’s footsteps, and, because of his dedication to the business, managed to do well enough to avoid going bankrupt in court, and was able to secure an annual income of a few hundred pounds. We were both single, and shared the comfortable rooms we had taken in the block of recently built flats on Great Russell Street; and as we were fond of fox-hunting, the only sport we could indulge in, we also rented together a cheap, old-fashioned house, in a country village, known by the name of Helpstone, eighty miles from London, situated in the possession of the Fitzwilliams. We used to go there every winter, generally spending two days a week. As none of us had many resources at our disposal, we had, as you may imagine, to cut corners, for fox-hunting is a costly diversion for a poor man. However, fortunately we had a couple of good horses each , and by putting a little effort into one thing and a little into another, we could indulge in those exciting races across the countryside, in which the blood gets in motion and seethes with excitement while rejuvenating all who take part in them. Reginaldo was sometimes forced to stay in the city due to the demands of his business; so that I frequently resided alone in the old ivy-green-clad house, having Glave, my servant, at my side to attend to me. It was a January afternoon, terribly cold; Reginald was absent in London, and I, who had spent the whole day hunting, returned on horseback completely fainted. The match meeting that morning had been at Kats Cabin, Huntingdonshire, and after two good runs I found myself beyond Stilton, eighteen miles from my house. However, the trail had been excellent, and we had enjoyed some very good sport. Once the hunt was over, I took a good drink from my flask and set off across the field, in the middle of the darkness that was beginning to spread its mantle. Happily I was able to ford the river at the Water Newton mill, which saved me the long trip through Wansford, and when I was about a mile from home, I let my horse walk at a pace, as he always did, so that he could calm down before reaching his stable. The shadows of the afternoon were already turning into deep darkness, and the strong wind cut my flesh like a knife as I passed the crossroads half a mile from the village of Helpstone, when suddenly the figure of a burly man emerged from the tall holly hedge , and a deep voice exclaimed: “Excuse me, sir, but I am a stranger in these parts, and my daughter is fainting.” Is there a house nearby? Then, as I approached, I saw cornered against a pile of stones, on one side of the road, the thin, weak figure of a girl of about sixteen years old, wrapped in a thick, dark-colored cloak, while, in the light of the last glimpses of day, I distinguished that the individual who was speaking to me was a rough-looking man, with a black beard, quite correct speech, and about forty-five years old, more or less, dressed in a used blue serge suit and a cap with visor, which gave him a certain sailor look. His face was weathered and with some scars, while his wide and energetic jaws demonstrated strength of character and tenacious determination. “Has your daughter gotten sick?” I asked him when I had examined her well. –We have walked a lot today, and I think she is exhausted. About half an hour ago he felt faint, and when he sat down he lost consciousness and became insensible. “You shouldn’t stay here,” I observed when I had realized that the father and daughter were vagabonds. “The cold is so great that you will freeze completely.” My house is a little further away. I’m going right away and I’ll come back with a person to help carry it. The man began to thank me, but I spurred my horse, and soon I was in the stable yard. I called Glave and ordered him to accompany me to the place where my two walkers had been left. A quarter of an hour later we placed the poor, fainted girl on a sofa in my comfortable and sheltered cabinet; We forced her to drink a little brandy, and at last she opened her eyes, full of astonishment, looking with childish fear at what surrounded her, which was completely unknown to her. His gaze met mine, then I saw that his face was of extraordinary beauty, of that dark, half-tragic type, and that his eyes stood out more brilliantly because of the deathly pallor of his face. Her features were well modeled, beautiful and fine in all their lines, and when she turned to her father to ask him what had happened, I noticed that she was not a simple creature born of the roads, but, on the contrary, a highly intelligent, well-mannered and well- educated girl. His father, in a few words, explained our unexpected meeting and my hospitality; Then she smiled sweetly at me and said a few words of thanks. “It must have been the intense cold, I think,” she added. “I suddenly felt numb, my head began to spin and I couldn’t stand up. But there really is a lot of goodness in you. I’m so sorry we had to bother you like this. I assured her that my only wish was to see her completely recovered, and, as I spoke, I could not help but recognize that her beauty was remarkable. Even when she was very young, because her figure had not fully developed , her face was, however, one of the most perfect I have ever seen. From the first moment my eyes saw her, I found her indescribably charming. It was evident that he was without strength, as demonstrated by the painful and restless way in which he moved on the couch. Her poor black skirt and her thick boots were full of mud and worn from walking, and I understood, from the way she cleared her forehead and brushed down the disordered mass of her hair, that her head hurt. Glave, who was not in a very good mood due to the presence of these two unknown vagabonds, entered and announced to me that the meal was served; but she firmly, even if sweetly and graciously, refused my invitation to eat, saying that, if I allowed her, she would rather stay there in front of the fire for another half hour. In view of this, I sent him a bowl of hot soup by old Mrs. Axford, our cook, while his father, after washing his hands and a little dressing himself, accompanied me to the dining room. He seemed half-starved, and at first was taciturn and reserved; but then, when he had sufficiently appreciated my character, he told me that his name was Burton Blair, that he had lost his wife ten years ago, during his absence abroad, and that little Mabel was his only child. As his appearance demonstrated, most of his life had been spent at sea, and he had his certificate of captain of a minor ship, but lately he had resided on land. “I’ve been here for three years now,” he continued, “and I can assure you that they have been pretty tough.” Poor Mabel! He is a true treasure, just like his poor dear mother was. For three years he has suffered from hunger and hardship, and yet he has never complained. You know my character, you know that when Burton Blair decides to do something for Job! he does it–and he clenched his energetic jaws tightly, while in his eyes was reflected a look of determination and tenacious persistence, the most terrible I have ever seen in a man. “But for what reason, Mr. Blair, have you abandoned the sea to perish of necessity on land?” I asked him, because curiosity had been awakened in me. “Because… because I have a reason… a very powerful reason,” was his hesitant reply. “You see me tonight homeless and hungry,” Burton Blair laughed bitterly, “but maybe tomorrow I can be a millionaire.” And his face assumed a mysterious expression, inscrutable as that of a sphinx, which left me painfully confused. Many and many times since then I have remembered those strange prophetic words that he spoke while sitting at my table, when he was nothing more than a poor wanderer on the roads, cold, hungry, dirty, poorly dressed and exhausted, but who harbored the firm belief, absurd as it may seem, that before long he would possess millions. I remember well how I smiled at his vague statement. Every man who descends very far in the social scale clings to the feeble belief that his fortunes will change, and that, by some whim of fortune, he will rise smilingly to his former level. Hope never dies inside the chest of the ruined man. Using certain prudent questions, I tried to obtain more information about the hope he harbored of becoming fortunate, but he would not tell me anything, absolutely nothing. After he had eaten well, he accepted a cigar, drank his coffee with brandy, and smoked with the tranquility of a satisfied man, who has not a single thought to afflict him nor any care in the world, or, rather , like a man who knows exactly what fate has in store for him. Thus, from the beginning, Burton Blair was a mystery. When we returned to where Mabel was, we found her sleeping peacefully, prostrated by fatigue. Then I persuaded her father to stay at my house that night, so that the poor girl could rest, and, as she consented, we returned to the dining room, where we sat down to smoke and remained for several hours talking. He told me the story of his cruel years spent at sea, the strange adventures that had happened to him in savage countries, how he escaped certain death at the hands of a tribe of natives in Camarones, and how, for three years, he had been captain of a river steamer in the Congo, playing in those regions the role of a _pioneer_ of civilization. He related his moving adventures calmly and naturally, without boasting or showing off, and his simple and true manner showed me that he was one of those men who love the life of adventure for its vicissitudes and dangers. “And now I’m after the turnstiles of England,” he added, laughing. “You must think, no doubt, that all this is very strange; But, speaking sincerely, Mr. Greenwood, I am actively engaged in a very curious investigation, the happy result of which will one day make me the possessor of a fortune that I never dreamed of in my wildest dreams. “Look!” he suddenly exclaimed, with a look of strange ferocity in his large dark eyes, as he quickly unbuttoned his blue jacket and took out from under it a square, flat piece of very worn and stained suede, inside of which it seemed that some precious document or other valuable object was enclosed. “Look!” My secret is here. Someday I will discover the key; It may be tomorrow, the day after, or perhaps next year, but it will finally happen. When? that is absolutely indifferent and worthless. The result will be the same. My years of continuous travel and research will be rewarded, I will be rich, and the world will be amazed.–And, laughing satisfied, almost triumphant, he returned to keep his precious treasure in his chest, with great care ; then he stood up and stood with his back to the fire, in the attitude of a man who completely trusts in what is written in the book of destiny. That midnight scene, with all its romantic and strange details, that episode from the past, when the weary wayfarer and his daughter had been my guests for the first time, and all their memories came to me on the cold, bright afternoon when I stepped out of a coach, on the next day of the Manchester inquest, before the great white mansion in Grosvenor Square, and learned from Carter, the solemn servant, that Miss Mabel was at home. That splendid residence, with its exquisite decorations, truly Louis XIV style furniture, its valuable paintings and magnificent examples of sculptures from the seventeenth century, the residence of a person To whom all that luxury and all that expense meant nothing, it was surely sufficient testimony that the poor, ill-dressed vagabond who had uttered those mysterious words in my small dining room five years before had not been a charlatan or a boastful fool . The secret enclosed within that dirty little chamois bag, whatever it had been, had brought him more than a million pounds sterling, and continued to bring in enormous sums, until death had suddenly put an end to its exploitation. The mystery of all that had no solution; the enigma was complete and indecipherable. These and other reflections crossed my mind as I climbed the wide marble staircase behind the footman and was introduced into the large gold and white hall , whose walls were covered with pale pink silk panels , while its four large windows had a view over the square. All those priceless paintings, those beautiful furniture, cabinets and incomparable _bric a brac_, had been purchased with the proceeds of the mysterious secret; of that secret that in the short space of five years had transformed the exhausted and homeless vagabond into a millionaire. Absentmindedly contemplating the melancholy square with its leafless trees, I stood there without knowing how I would communicate in the best possible way the sad news of which I was the bearer, when I heard behind me the soft “frou frou” of a silk skirt, and, turning quickly, I found myself in front of the dead man’s daughter, whose appearance was now, at the age of twenty-three, much sweeter, beautiful, graceful and feminine, than when we had first met, time ha, in a strange way and in the middle of a road. Her black suit, her trembling figure and her pale cheeks, moistened by tears, told me that this young woman, for whom I had to watch over, already knew the painful and sad reality. She stood in front of me, highlighting even more her beautiful and tragic presence, with her small, white hand resting nervously on the back of one of the golden chairs in the living room, as if looking for support in the midst of her pain. “I know!” she exclaimed in a broken voice, something unknown in her, and her eyes fixed on me. “I know why you have come to see me, Mr. Greenwood.” I heard about it an hour ago from Mr. Leighton, who was here. Ah, my poor dear father!–he sighed, and the words knotted in his throat as the tears flowed.–Why would I go to Manchester? Their enemies have triumphed, as I have long feared. However, he did not think ill of anyone, nor did he believe in the perversity of any man, because he had a very generous heart. He always refused to listen to my warnings, and laughed at all my apprehensions. But alas! The terrible reality is already a fact. My poor father!–he stammered, with his beautiful face white to the lips.–He is dead… and his secret has disappeared! Chapter 4. IN WHICH YOU CROSS DANGEROUS TERRAIN. “Do you suspect, Mabel, that your father has been the victim of a bad deed?” I asked the pale and nervous young woman who was standing in front of me. –Yes, I suspect so–was his clear and unhesitating answer.–You know your history, Mr. Greenwood; You know that he carried an object everywhere he went, kept in a chamois bag, an object that was his most precious treasure. Mr. Leighton told me it was lost. “Unfortunately that’s the case,” I replied. “The three of us have looked for her among her clothes and other luggage; We have made inquiries and questioned the servant of the dining car who found him unconscious on the train, the porters who took him to the hotel, and, finally, everyone who might know something, but it has not been possible to find the slightest trace of the object sought. “Because it has been deliberately stolen,” he observed. –Then you harbor the belief that he was murdered to hide the robbery. He shook his head affirmatively, his face always pale and rigid. –But remember, Mabel, there is no proof that it has been committed a crime. Both doctors, two of the best in Manchester, have declared that death occurred due to entirely natural causes. –I don’t care about anything they say. The little bag that my poor father sewed with his own hands, that during all these past years he kept so carefully, and that for some strange reason he did not want to deposit it in any bank or in a safe iron box, has disappeared. Her enemies have taken possession of her, as I was sure they would. “Remember that he showed me that chamois bag, the first night we met,” I told him. “He then declared to me that what was enclosed in it would give him fortune… and certainly that has been the case,” I added, looking around the magnificent living room. “It gave you riches, but not happiness, Mr. Greenwood,” he answered calmly. “That little bag, the contents of which I never saw, nor did I know what it was, he always carried with him, now in his pocket, now hanging around his neck, since it came into his possession, many years ago. In all of his suits he had a special pocket to store it, and at night he placed it on a belt, also made especially for the object, which he wore tightly around his waist. I think he considered it as a kind of spell, or talisman, which, in addition to being the source of his great fortune, preserved him from all misfortunes and evils. I cannot say the reason for this, because I do not know it. –Did you ever find out what kind of object he considered so precious was? –I tried to do it many times, but he never wanted to reveal it to me. “It was his secret,” he told me, and didn’t add another word. Reginaldo and I had tried countless times to find out what that mysterious little bag contained, but we had had no better success than the charming young woman who was standing in front of me. Burton Blair was a strange man, both in actions and words, very reserved in his private affairs, and yet, although it may seem rather strange, when prosperity smiled upon him, he became a prince of goodness and nobility. “But who were his enemies?” I asked him. –Ah! “I am also completely unaware of that,” he replied. “As you know, during the last two years you have been surrounded by adventurers and parasites of all kinds, as always happens to rich men, whom Ford, your secretary, has managed to keep at a good distance. It may be that the existence of that precious object was known to them, and that my poor father was the victim of some nefarious plot. At least that’s my firm idea. “Then, if so, we must inform the police,” I exclaimed. “The chamois bag that he showed me on the night of our first meeting has been lost, and even though we have all looked for it with the greatest effort and care, it has been useless.” However, what benefit can it bring to the person who possesses it, if he lacks the key to what is contained in it? “But wasn’t that key, whatever it was, also in my father’s hands?” asked Mabel Blair. “Wasn’t it the discovery of that same key that gave us everything we possess?” she repeated, with that charming feminine sweetness that was her most attractive characteristic. –Exactly. But his father, who was so prudent and sagacious, should not have carried both things with him: the problem and the key! I can’t believe I would do such a stupid thing. –Neither do I. Even though I was his only daughter, and the repository of the entire story of his life, there was one thing he persistently hid from me, and that was the nature of his secret. I have sometimes entertained the suspicion that perhaps he was not very honourable; which would probably be one of those that a father does not dare reveal to his daughter. And yet, no one has ever accused him or blamed him for an intentional or dishonest act. Other times I seemed to notice in his physiognomy and manners a seal of true mystery, which made me think that the origin of our unlimited fortune was strange and romantic, and that if the world knew about it, it would consider it an incredible thing. One night when we were sitting here after dinner, while he was smoking, he amused himself by telling me about my poor mother, who died in some rooms in a dark street in Manchester, when he was away on a trip along the west coast of Africa; but in the course of the conversation he declared that, if London ever learned the origin of his wealth, he would be astonished. “But,” he added, “it is a secret that I have the firm intention of taking to the grave.” It was very strange, but he had said these same words to me two years before, as we sat before the fire in our rooms in Great Russell Street, when I had alluded to his wonderful fortune. He was dead, and either he had carried out his threat to destroy all evidence of his secret, locked in the worn chamois pocket, or it had been cleverly stolen. The curious and poorly written letter that I had found in my friend’s luggage , while it had filled me with confusion, had given rise to certain suspicions that I had not entertained until then. I didn’t say any of this to Mabel, because I didn’t want to cause her any further grief or anxiety. Since we had first met, and throughout all the years since, we had always been good friends. Even though Reginaldo was fifteen years older than her, and I was thirteen, I think she considered us both as if we had been her older brothers. Our friendship had begun from the day we found Burton Blair dying of hunger and wandering the roads, and we joined together to pay, with our modest resources, for her education and we put her in a school in Bournemouth so that she could complete her education. We resolved that it was quite impossible to allow so young and delicate a girl to wander aimlessly all over England , in search of some vague secret report which seemed to be the end of her wandering father; Therefore, after that night when we first met at Helpstone, Burton Blair and his daughter stayed a week as our guests, and after much consultation and small savings, we managed to put Mabel in school, a service for which she later thanked us with the noblest sincerity. Poor creature, when fate made us find her, she was completely weakened and exhausted. Poverty had already left its indelible mark on her sweet face, and her beauty was beginning to wither under the weight of suffering, disappointments and wandering journeys, when we so happily discovered her and were able to tear her away from that life of deprivation, painful walks and fatigue, through endless paths. Contrary to what we expected, it was a long time before we were able to get Blair to consent to her daughter going back to school, because, in truth, both father and daughter loved each other dearly and were very attached. However, in the end we triumphed, and when the rough and bearded walker came to see his wishes fulfilled, he did not forget to thank us in a very positive way for what we had done for them. Actually, we owed our current comfortable position to him, because not only had he given Reginaldo a generous check that put him in a position to pay all the debts that weighed on his lace business on Cannon Street, but he had sent me, three years ago, on the occasion of my birthday, inside a modest silver box, a bill against his bankers, for a good amount, which provided me, since then, with a very comfortable small annual income. Burton Blair never forgot his friends… nor did he forgive a wrong done to him. Mabel was his idol, the only true repository of his secrets, and it seemed even stranger that she knew absolutely nothing about the mysterious source from which his colossal entrances came. We remained seated for more than an hour in that great hall, whose very splendor breathed mystery. Mrs. Percival, Mabel’s pleasant lady sponsor and companion, elderly widow of a surgeon naval, entered where we were, but soon left, completely upset, upon learning of the tragic event. When I told Mabel the promise I had made to her father, her pale cheeks were covered with a light blush. “It is certainly very kind of you, Mr. Greenwood, to bother with my affairs,” he said, looking at me and then lowering his eyes modestly. “I suppose from now on I will have to consider you as my guardian,” and he laughed lightly, turning his ring around his finger. –Not as his legal guardian–I answered.–His father’s lawyers will be, there is no doubt, the ones who will occupy that position, but yes, rather, as his protector and friend. –Ah!–he responded sadly–I think I will need both, now that my poor father no longer exists. “I have been your friend for more than five years, Mabel, and, therefore, I trust that you will allow me to fulfill the promise I made to your father,” I exclaimed, standing in front of her and speaking to her with profound solemnity. “However, from the beginning we must understand each other in a clear and formal manner.” Therefore, allow me, Mabel, to speak to you at this moment as candidly as possible, as a man should speak to a woman who is his true friend. You are young, Mabel, and… come on, you know, very… very beautiful… –No, Mr. Greenwood, I assure you that you are very wrong to say that–she interrupted me, blushing when she heard my compliance.–I am convinced that… –Listen to me, I beg you–I continued with feigned severity.–You are young, very beautiful and rich; She possesses, therefore, the three necessary attributes that make a woman preferred in our current modern era, since love and feelings are now valued so little. Well then; People observing our intimate friendship will no doubt declare, with malicious intent, that I am trying to marry you for your money. I am sure that the world will say this, but I want you to promise to refute such a statement on the spot. I wish you and I to be firm and sincere friends, as we have always been, without the slightest thought of reciprocal affection. I may admire you, as I have always admired you, I declare it now, but all love on my part for you is completely ruled out, bearing in mind that I am a man of limited resources. Understand well, Mabel, that I do not wish to take credit for the past, now that your father does not exist and you are alone. Please also understand, from the beginning, that when I extend my hand to you I do so as a sincere friend, the same as I would do with Reginaldo, my former classmate and best friend, and that, from now on, I will defend your interests as if they were my own.–And, then, I extended my hand to you. For a moment he hesitated, because my words had apparently made the deepest impression on him. “Very well,” he said stammering, and looked at my face for a second. “It’s an agreement, if that’s what you want.” –I wish, Mabel, to fulfill the promise I made to your father. As you know, I owe him a great debt of gratitude for his generosity, and I therefore wish, as a token of my gratitude, to take his place and protect his daughter, protect you, Mabel. “But aren’t we two, my father and I, who are, in the first place, indebted to you?” he exclaimed. “If it had not been for the benevolence of Mr. Seton and you, I would have continued wandering, perhaps, until I died on some road.” “And what was your father looking for?” I asked him. “Surely, he should have told you.” –No, he never told me. I don’t know why he spent three years traveling all over England. He had an express purpose, there is no doubt, which he ultimately fulfilled, but he never revealed to me what it was. –I suppose it must have been something related to the object he always carried with him, right? –I think so–was his response. Then he added, returning to his previous remarks: “Why do you speak of your debt to him, Mr. Seton, when I well know that you, in order to be able to pay the pension from my school in Bournemouth, sold his best horse, and was therefore unable to enjoy his hunts that season? You deprived yourself of the only pleasure you had, so that I could be in the best possible condition. “I forbid you to mention that again,” I told him quickly. “Remember now that we are friends, and that between friends there can be no issues of debt.” “Then you should not allude to the small services my father did for you,” he responded, laughing. “Come on, I’m going to be ungovernable if you don’t know how to fulfill your part in the agreement!” And so it was that we were forced, from that moment on, to renounce everything, and resume our friendship on a firm and perfectly well-defined basis. However, how strange it was! The beauty of Mabel Blair, as she stood before me in that magnificent mansion, which now belonged exclusively to her, was, no doubt, capable of turning the head of any man who was not a severe judge or a Catholic cardinal; very different, certainly, from the poor girl, fainted and without strength, who for the first time I saw fallen, next to the road, in the middle of the sad winter twilight. Chapter 5. IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES CONSIDERABLY. The disappearance or loss of the precious object, document or whatever it was, enclosed within the chamois bag, which the dead man had preserved so carefully for so many years, was now, in itself, a very suspicious circumstance, while Mabel’s vague but firm apprehensions , which she would not or could not define, had awakened in me new misgivings about the death of Burton Blair, misgivings that made me think that I had been the victim of some infamy. As soon as I said goodbye to her, I headed to Bedford Row, where I had another consultation with Leighton, to whom I explained my serious fears. “As I already told you, Mr. Greenwood,” the lawyer exclaimed when I had finished, leaning back in his chair and looking at me gravely through his glasses, “I believe that my client did not die of natural causes.” In
his life there has been some mystery, some strange romantic circumstance that, unfortunately, he never thought it appropriate to confide to me. He had a secret, he told me, and, because of the knowledge of that secret, he obtained his great fortune. Half an hour ago I made an approximate estimate of the present value of his assets, and, at the lowest level, I believe that the sum will exceed two and a half million sterling. But tell you, in confidence, that the whole of this fortune passes right to your daughter, excepting various legacies, among which are included ten thousand pounds for Mr. Seton and another ten thousand for yourself; two thousand for Mrs. Percival, and some small sums for the servants. But,” he added, “there is a clause in the will that is very enigmatic, and that affects you intimately. As we both suspect that an infamous act has been committed, I think I can show it to you right now, without waiting for the burial of my unfortunate client, and the formal reading of his will. He rose, and from a large black box of papers, with the following inscription: “Burton Blair, Esquire,” he took out the dead man’s will, and, opening it, showed me the following clause: “10 I donate and bequeath to Gilberto Greenwood, of Los Cedros, Helpstone, the chamois bag which will be found on my person at the time of my death, in order that he may profit from what is within it, and as compensation for certain valuable services he performed me. But you must always remember this rhyme: _Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens,_ _Hed one short of seven–and nine or ten scenes!_ and know how to hide the secret very well from all men, exactly as I have done.» It was everything. A strange clause indeed! Burton Blair, after all, had bequeathed me his secret; the secret that had given him his colossal fortune! However, he had disappeared… stolen, probably by his enemies. “It’s a curious couplet,” the lawyer smiled. “But poor Blair had, I believe, little literary culture. He had greater marine knowledge than poetic knowledge. However, after all, the situation is very annoying and intriguing for you, the secret of the origin of my client’s enormous fortune has been bequeathed to you, and, now, you find that it has been stolen from you in this strange way. “I think it would be better to consult the police, and explain our suspicions,” I said with bitter sadness when I saw that the chamois bag had fallen into other hands. –I completely agree with you, Mr. Greenwood. We will go together to Scotland Yard and request that they begin the necessary investigations. If, indeed, Mr Blair has been murdered, then the crime has been committed in the most secret and notable manner, to say the least. But there is another clause in the will, which is somewhat disturbing, and which relates to his daughter Mabel. The testator has appointed as his secretary and administrator of his assets, a person unknown to me, of whom I have never heard : a certain Paolo Melandrini, an Italian, who, it seems, lives in Florence. –What!–I shouted, astonished.–An Italian to be Mabel’s secretary! Who is that man? –A person I do not know, as I have already said, whose name, in truth, I never heard my client mention. When I made the will, all he did was dictate it to me so that I could write it. “But that’s absurd!” I exclaimed. –It is certainly not possible to allow an unknown foreigner, who may well be an adventurer for all we know, to have complete control over your assets. “I fear it cannot be helped,” replied Leighton, gravely. “It is written here, and we shall be obliged to inform this man, whoever he may be, of his appointment, with a salary of five thousand pounds a year.” –And will he, in fact, have complete power over his affairs? –Absolutely. To tell the truth, she inherits the entire fortune on the condition that she accepts this individual as her secretary and confidential advisor. –Blair must have been crazy!–I exclaimed.–Does Mabel know this mysterious Italian? –You’ve never heard anything about him. –In that case, I think that before informing him of poor Blair’s death and the good fortune that awaits him, we should at least find out who he is. Either way, we can watch him carefully, once he’s in place, and see that he doesn’t waste Mabel’s money. The lawyer sighed, slowly cleaned his glasses, and observed: –He will have the administration of everything in his hands, and, therefore, it will be difficult to know what disappears, or how much he keeps in his pocket. –But what motive could Blair have had, or what possessed him, to have dictated such a clause? Did you not point out the madness he was committing? –Yes, I pointed it out. –And what did he tell you? –He reflected for a moment, considered my words, sighed, and then answered me: “It is imperative, Leighton. “I have no other alternative.” That’s why I suspected that he acted this way under pressure. –Do you think that this foreigner was in a position to demand it? The lawyer shook his head affirmatively. It was evident that he was of the opinion that there was a secret reason for bringing this stranger into Mabel’s house , a reason known only to Burton Blair and this individual. It seemed strange to me that Mabel had not told me, but perhaps she would have hesitated when I told her the promise I would have made to her father, and in view of that, she would not have dared to hurt my feelings. The situation became, with each passing hour, more mysterious and complicated. I was, however, determined to do two things: first, to recover the millionaire’s most precious object, who had bequeathed it to me along with the express order to remember that extraordinary couplet, which had been imprinted on my mind; and secondly, to make secret inquiries about this unknown foreigner, who had so suddenly appeared taking part in the affair. That same afternoon, at around six o’clock, having met with Reginaldo, as we had agreed, in Mr. Leighton, the three of us got into a car and drove to Scotland Yard, where we had a long conference with one of the senior police officers, to whom we explained the circumstances and our suspicions that a crime had been committed. “I am certainly going to order inquiries to be made in Manchester and elsewhere,” he finally replied, “but as the medical evidence has so conclusively shown that this gentleman died of natural causes, I cannot entertain much hope that our detective department or that of Manchester will be able to help you.” The reasons you allege to suppose that you have been the victim of an infamous act are very vague, as you yourselves must admit, and, to the best of my knowledge, the only true basis you have for these suspicions is the theft of that document, object, or whatever it may be, that you had with you. However, a man is not killed, generally, in broad daylight, for the purpose of committing a robbery, which any skilled thief can do without resorting to that means. Furthermore, if his enemies or rivals knew what it was or knew of his habit of always carrying it with him, they could have easily seized it without killing him. “But he was in possession of a certain secret,” observed the lawyer. –What kind of secret was it? –Unfortunately, I don’t have the slightest idea about it. Nobody knows him. All we know is that its possession lifted him out of poverty and made him rich, and that there was at least one person who was eager to get possession of it. –Naturally–observed the old assistant director of the criminal investigation office.–But who is that person? –I have the misfortune of not knowing. My client told me this a year ago, but he did not give me a name. –So, you don’t harbor suspicions about someone, whoever it may be? –I can point out no one. The chamois bag, inside which the document or object was, has been stolen, and this fact has aroused our suspicions. The lean and grave clerk shook his head very doubtfully. –That is not enough basis to found a suspicion of murder, especially when we must take into account that we have all the testimonies of the investigation that has been carried out, the autopsy and the unanimous verdict of the coroner’s jury. No, gentlemen, he added, I find no serious basis for harboring true suspicions. It may be that the document was not stolen after all. It seems that Mr. Blair was of a somewhat eccentric character, like many men who suddenly arise and rise in the world, and it is possible that he concealed it in some safe place. To me, this seems most likely, especially when he had expressed fear that his enemies would try to take him over. “But, if there is suspicion of a crime, it is the duty of the police to investigate it, certainly!” I exclaimed, with some resentment. –Convinced. But where is the suspicion? Neither the doctors, nor the coroner, nor the local police, nor the jury, have the slightest doubt that he did not die of natural causes – he argued. – In this case, the Manchester police had no right or need to intervene in the matter. –But there has been a robbery. “What proof do you have of that?” he asked, raising his graying eyebrows and tapping the table with his pen. “If you can prove to me that a robbery has been committed, then I will set in motion the various influences under my command.” On the contrary, you only suspect that that bag, whose contents are unknown, has been stolen. However , it may be hidden somewhere that is difficult to discover, but nevertheless very safe. As you three, however, maintain that the unfortunate gentleman has been murdered for the purpose of seizing this mysterious little object, which he guarded so carefully, I will contact the police of the city of Manchester and ask them to make all the inquiries they can. More than that, gentlemen,” he added softly, “I fear that my department cannot help them. “Then all that remains for me to answer,” observed Mr. Leighton, harshly, “is that public opinion is entirely justified as to the futility of this branch of the police in the discovery of crimes, and I will not fail to draw the public’s attention to this matter through the press.” It is, simply, a shame. “I, sir, proceed according to my instructions, as well as in accordance with what you yourself have told me,” he replied. ” I assure you that, if I ordered investigations to be made in all cases in which homicides are suspected or alleged to have been committed , I would need a force of detectives as large as that of the English army.” Not a day goes by without him receiving dozens of secret visitors and anonymous letters, all of them reporting alleged murders, which generally mention people for whom he has some reason to dislike. Eighteen years at the head of this department I think have taught me to know how to distinguish cases that deserve to be investigated, and yours is not. All arguments proved useless. The police officer was convinced that Burton Blair had not been the victim of a crime, and therefore we could not expect any help from him. With marked disgust we got up and left Scotland Yard, returning to Whitehall. –It’s a scandal!–declared Reginaldo angrily.–Poor Blair has been murdered, everything seems to indicate it, and the police, however, do not want to lift a finger to help us know the truth, because a doctor has discovered that his heart was his weak point. “It’s setting a premium on crime,” he added, clenching his fists fiercely. –I am going to refer the whole matter to my friend Mill, the Member of Parliament for West Derbyshire, and ask him to make an interpellation in the House of Commons. We’ll see what the new secretary of the interior has to say about this! It will be a very unpleasant pill for him, I don’t doubt it. –Oh! You will already have some official typewritten apology prepared, don’t be afraid,” Leighton laughed. “If they don’t want to help us, we must do the investigations on our own. The lawyer said goodbye to us in Trafalgar Square, agreeing to meet us in Grosvenor Square, after the funeral, to formally read the will in front of the dead man’s daughter and his companion, Mrs. Percival. “And then,” he added, “we will have to take active steps to discover this mysterious individual who in the future will have to manage his fortune.” “I will be the one in charge of the investigations,” I said. “Happily, I speak Italian, and, therefore, before telling you about Blair’s death, I will go to Florence and make sure who this man is.” In fact, I harbored the suspicion that the letter I had taken from among the dead man’s papers, which I had kept secretly for me, had been written by this individual, Paolo Melandrini. Even though it had no address or signature, and was written in a heavy and uneducated handwriting, it was evidently the letter of a Tuscan, for I discovered in it a certain phonetic spelling, which is purely Florentine. The strange communication said the following: «Your letter reached me this morning. The blind man is in Paris, on his way to London. The girl accompanies him, and it is evident that they know something. Therefore , be very careful. He and his clever friends will probably try to play a trick on you. »I am still at my post, but the water has risen three meters, due to the heavy rains that have occurred. However, the exploitation has been good, so I hope to see you, at the time of vespers, in San Frediano, on the afternoon of the 6th of next year. I have something very important to tell you. Remember that “the ceco” has bad intentions, and proceed accordingly. “Addio.” Countless times I translated, word for word, this curious missive. It seemed to me full of hidden meaning and double meaning. The most probable thing was that the person known by the nickname “the blind man”, who was Blair’s enemy, as was guessed from the letter, had managed to get hold of the precious chamois bag, which, by right, now belonged to me, as well as the mysterious secret it contained. Chapter 6. WHICH ARE THREE CAPITAL AES. The event that took place the following afternoon in the library of the mansion in Grosvenor Square was, as may be supposed, very sad and painful. Mabel Blair, dressed in mourning, her eyes filled with tears, sat silent while the lawyer dryly read the will, clause by clause. He did not make a single comment, when he did not even proclaim the appointment that the dead man had made, naming the unknown Italian as administrator of his daughter’s fortune. “But who is that man, would you please tell me?” asked Mrs. Percival, in her calm and polite voice. “I never heard Mr. Blair speak of that person.” “Neither do I,” declared Leighton, who had paused for a moment to straighten his glasses, and then continued reading the document to the end. We were all happy when the grave ceremony was over. Mabel immediately indicated to me, in a low voice, that she wished to be alone with me in the morning room; and when we were both there and I had closed the door, he said to me: -Last night I was searching the small iron box in my father’s bedroom, where he sometimes kept his private papers, confidential letters and other things. I found a number of letters from my poor mother, which I had written to her years ago, when I was sailing, but nothing else, except this.–And he took out of his pocket a small, stained and wrinkled playing card, an ace of cups, on which were written certain cabalistic capital letters, in three columns. In order that my readers can clearly understand the arrangement and position in which the letters were, I think it is convenient to reproduce it here. AA O image O N of an I O heart I SN T G
K ———————–
–It’s curious!–I observed, turning it over in my hand anxiously.–Have you tried to discover what meaning these words contain? –Yes, but I think they are encrypted. You will notice that the top two columns begin with A, and that the bottom one ends with the same letter. The card is the Ace of Cups, and in all these points I discover some hidden meaning. –There is no doubt–I answered.–But have you noticed if it was carefully stored? –Yes, it was in a thread envelope, well sealed, and with a sign from my father, which said: “Burton Blair, private.” What could it mean? –Ah! “I’m also thinking about the same thing,” I exclaimed, reflecting deeply on the matter and still contemplating the three columns of fourteen letters. I tried to decipher that enigma by the generally used and known methods, but I could not extract anything intelligible. Some hidden words were contained here , and being completely indecipherable, they caused me anxiety and gave me a lot to think about. The reason why Blair had kept that letter with such deep secrecy was a mystery, to say the least. I suspected that there must be some hidden thread of his secret in it, but I could not guess what nature it would be. After we had discussed the matter at length, without reaching any satisfactory conclusion, I advised him to take a trip abroad with Mrs. Percival for a few weeks, to change his surroundings and make an effort to forget his unexpected misfortune, but he shook his head, murmuring: “No, I would rather stay here.” The loss of my dear father will be as painful to me here as abroad. “But you must try to forget,” I insisted with deep sympathy in the presence of his sorrow. “We are making the greatest efforts.” to discover the mystery surrounding his father’s actions and the causes that led to his death. Tonight I leave for Italy, in order to make secret inquiries about this individual who has been appointed your secretary. –Ah! Yes–he sighed.–What reason could my father have had to put my affairs in the hands of a foreigner? Who will this man be? “It must probably be some old friend of your dad’s,” I indicated. –No–he answered.–I know all his friends. He only had one secret for me, that of the origin of his fortune. He always refused to tell me. “I’m leaving directly for Florence, and I will try to discover everything I can before the lawyers notify this mysterious individual of his father’s death,” I told him. “It may be that I can find out something that will be of great benefit to us in the future.” –Ah! “You are very good, Mr. Greenwood,” she replied, raising her beautiful eyes and looking at me with an expression of profound gratitude. I must confess that the idea of having to be intimately linked to a stranger, and that this stranger is a foreigner, produces great fear and suspicion in me. “But perhaps the true Paolo of romance is young and handsome… and you are his Francesca,” I indicated, smiling. Her sweet lips parted slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she replied: “Do me the favor of not anticipating anything about that.” I trust and hope that he is old and very ugly. “So you can’t arouse my jealousy, right?” I exclaimed, laughing. “I assure you, Mabel, that if our friendship were not based on such well-defined foundations, you would allow me to play the role of lover.” You know that I… “Come on, stop the nonsense,” he interrupted, raising his little finger in mock disapproval. “Remember what you said yesterday.” –I said what I thought and I intend to do. –And I did the same. Speaking frankly, I will tell you that I like to consider him as if he were my older brother,” he declared. “I don’t think I will ever love anyone,” he added, thoughtfully, looking at the bright fire in the fireplace. –No no; Don’t say that, Mabel. Someday she will find a man of the same condition, she will love him, she will marry him and she will be happy.” I observed him, with my hand resting on his shoulder. “Remember that with your fortune you can choose the flower of the marriage market. –Some impoverished young aristocrat, do you mean? No, thanks. I have had the opportunity to know a good number of them, but their simulated affection has always been too weak. Most of them wanted my money so they could lift liens on their possessions. No, I would prefer, rather, a poor man… even though it is certain that I will never marry… never, ever. I remained silent for a moment; Then I said awkwardly: “I always thought you would marry young Lord Newborough.” They seemed like very good friends. –We were… until he proposed to me. And he looked at my face with that frank and serene look of his splendid eyes, in which an expression full of amazement was reflected, almost like those of a creature. His character was strangely complex. When she was a tall girl with a sinuous figure, in the first days of our friendship, I knew that she was haughty, with high thoughts and tenacious, but, at the same time, of a sweet and affectionate nature, which made her attractive and likeable to all those who knew her and had contact with her. Her nature was so calm and soft that love in her seemed like an unconscious impulse. She had often thought that she was too good, too sweet, too beautiful, to be thrown into the midst of the brambles of the world, to be exposed to falling and being hurt by the thorns of life. The world is so cruel and merciless and so full of traps for the unwary youth of high society, as well as for those of the lower classes. It was my duty, therefore , if I was willing to fulfill my promise to the man who lay silent in his grave, to protect her from the thousand and ones. a deception of those who would go out of their way to try to take advantage of her sex and inexperience. Her privations and life of suffering as a child, while her father was away at sea, and those months of fatigue and walks in search of the windlasses of England, had taken their toll on her. For Mabel, love was almost not a passion or feeling, but rather an illusory charm, a dream that a fairy spell destroyed or affirmed at its whim. Her character was so exquisitely delicate, as was her face, that it seemed as if the slightest touch would defile it. Like the notes of a sweet and melancholic music that arrives feeling on the wings of the night and silence, and that we feel rather than hear; like the soft exhalation of the violet that dies on the sense that enchants; like the snowflake that dissolves in the air before the earth has clouded it; like the light tide separated from the strong wave that a gust destroys it, such was her nature, overflowing with that modesty, grace and tenderness, without which a woman is not a woman. As I saw her standing there before me, a delicate and fragile figure dressed in rigorous mourning, with her hand in mine, thanking me for the investigation I was going to undertake on her behalf, and wishing me _bon voyage_, I shuddered to think what would become of her seeing herself thrown into the midst of an adverse and cruel fate, of all the corruptions and hungry wolves of society, perhaps without the energy to resist, without the will to proceed, or without the strength to suffer. Alone and helpless in such a case, the end had to be inevitably disastrous. I said goodbye to Mabel, walking away with the feeling that, loving her as I confess I loved her, I was nevertheless unworthy of her. Indeed, he was playing a dangerous game! Since that winter night when we met at Helpstone, I had conceived a powerful, sincere, and growing affection for her; But now that I was the owner of great wealth, I realized that there were two barriers that opposed our marriage: the age difference and the fact that I was a poor man. In truth, she had never displayed any of the feminine flirtations to captivate me, nor had she ever given me the slightest reason or pretext to make me think that I had conquered her. I had spoken with frankness and sincerity: she considered me as if I had been her older brother; that was all. That same night, as I walked on the deck of the steamer crossing the channel in the midst of a strong winter wind, contemplating the revolving light of the bay of Calais, which was becoming more clearly visible every moment , my thoughts were devoted to her. Love is the teacher, grief is the tamer, and time is the doctor of the human heart. While the machines moved, the wind roared, and the rough sea tossed violently, I paced up and down, brooding, confused by the playing card I carried in my pocket, and reflecting on all that had happened. The fertile fantasies of youth, the visions of hopes long dead, the shadows of unproduced joy, the vivid colors of the dawn of existence; In short, everything that my memory had treasured paraded before me, but they no longer existed within my heart. I remembered that truth of Rochefoucauld: «It is difficult to define love: ce quon en peut dire est que, dans lâme, cest une passion de régner, dans les esprits, cest une sympathie; et dans le corps, ce nest quune envie cachee et délicat de posséder ce que lon aime, après beaucoup de mystères.» Yes, I loved her with all my heart, with all my soul, but I recognized that I was not allowed to do so. My duty, the duty I had promised to fulfill to the dying man whose life had been a secret romance, was to assume the character of Mabel’s protector, and not to become her lover and thus take advantage of her fortune. Blair had bequeathed me his secret, in order, no doubt, to put me in a position not to hunting for riches, and since it had been lost, it was my duty to spare no effort to recover it. With these feelings, firmly rooted in the bottom of my heart I entered the _wagonlit_ at Calais, beginning the first stage of my journey across Europe from the Channel to the Mediterranean. Three days later I was walking along the Via Fornabuoni, in Florence, along that street of medieval palaces, banks and consulates, which for so many winters has been so familiar to me, until I preferred the hunting parties in England to the solar rays of the LungArno and the Cascine. That bright February morning, as I walked along the long and winding artery named above, full of idle Florentines and rich foreigners out for a walk, I saw several gentlemen and ladies of my acquaintance. Doney and Giacosa, the favorite meeting places for men, were crowded with rich idlers drinking cocktails, or that pleasant _petit verre_ known on the Via Fornabuoni by the name of _piccolo_, while the baskets of the flower sellers conveyed a soft and pleasant hue to the gloomy, severe, and colossal palace of Strozzi. The flags of different nations that flew in the consulates, standing out among all those of the always popular “Mayor”, reminded me that it was the feast of Saint Margaret. In the past years, when I used to live “in boarding house” with two artillery officers of the Italian army and a Dutchman, an art student, on the top floor of one of those great old palaces on Via dei Banchi, Via Fornabuoni was the place chosen for my morning walk, because there you meet everyone: the ladies busy shopping in the shops or passing through to the libraries and bookstores; the men chatting on the sidewalks, a habit soon acquired by all Englishmen who establish their residence in Italy. It was amazing to see how many familiar faces I met that morning; English peers and their wives, members of parliament, financial magnates, City sharks, big manufacturers and tourists of all nationalities and conditions. His Highness the Count of Turin, returning from exercises, rode by laughing with his aide-de-camp and greeting everyone he knew. Most of the women dressed in their most elegant toilettes with furs, because a cold wind was blowing from the Arno; The essence of flowers wandered in the air, and laughter and incessant chatter resonated everywhere, because the ancient city of red roofs was full of joy. Perhaps there is no city in the world so full of charms, nor of greater contrasts, than the old and strange Florence, with its wonderful Cathedral, its ancient bridge, with its rows of jewelry stores, its magnificent churches, its heavy palaces and its dark, silent and medieval streets, some of which have changed little since the time when Giotto and Dante crossed them. Time has very lightly laid its hand on the city of flowers, but when it has done so, the existing has been changed until it is unknown, and the extravagant modernity of certain streets and squares today certainly displeases those who, like me, have known the old city before Piazza Vittorio was built, always Piazza Vittorio, synonymous with vandalism, and when the old Ghetto still existed , picturesque but dirty. Two men, both Italian, stopped when they saw me passing, to greet me and wish me _ben tornalo_. One was a lawyer, whose wife was reputed to be one of the prettiest women in the city, in which , strange as it may seem, the most notable type of beauty is that of blonde hair. The other was the gentleman Alimari, secretary of the English consul general, or the “Major,” as everyone called him. I had arrived in Florence two hours ago, and after taking a bath at the Savoy, I left to deduct a check at French’s before beginning my investigations. The meeting with Alimari, however, made me pause for a moment on my way, and after he expressed to me the pleasure that my return gave him, I asked him: –Do you know, by any chance, a person with the surname Melandrini, Paolo Melandrini? His address is via San Cristófano, number 8. He looked at me strangely with his lively eyes, then he ran his hand through his dark beard, and finally he answered in English, with a slight foreign accent: –The address doesn’t seem very attractive, Mr. Greenwood. I do not have the pleasure of knowing that gentleman, but San Cristófano Street is one of the worst and poorest in Florence, exactly behind Santa Croce, going along the Via Ghibellina. But, I wouldn’t advise you to go to that neighborhood at night, because there are some very bad guys there. –The fact is, I explained, that I have come expressly to ascertain some information regarding that individual. –Then, don’t do it in person–was my friend’s advice .–Employ someone who is Florentine. If it is a case of confidential or secret inquiries, it will certainly be much more successful than you can achieve. The moment you set foot on that street, it will be known in every tenement that an Englishman is asking questions. And–he added with a meaningful smile–on the Via San Cristófano they get offended if you ask them questions. Chapter 7. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. I learned that his advice was good, and in the course of the conversation, while we were having a _piccolo_ at Giacoso’s house, he told me that I should hire a certain Carlini, a very astute but old and ugly man, who had sometimes been in charge of certain private investigations at the English consulate. An hour later the old man showed up at the Savoy. He was a small, bent, white-headed man, miserably dressed, with a soft, greasy, gray hat thrown to one side; a true typical Florentine of the town. In the markets he was known as “Babbo Carlini,” as I later learned, and the cooks and maids found pleasure in making him the butt of their pranks and jokes. Everyone believed that he was a bit stupid, and he tried to strengthen those ideas, because it gave him greater facilities for his secret investigations, since the police used to use him in serious cases, and many criminals had been apprehended due to his cunning. In my bedroom, alone with him, I explained to him, in Italian, the mission I wanted him to carry out. –Yes, _signore_–was all his response, every time I paused. His boots were in a pitiful state, all torn, and he greatly needed a change of clean clothes; but, nevertheless, from one of the pockets protruded a small packet of _toscani_, those long, thin, penny cigars , which are so favorite with the Italian palate. “Remember,” I told the old man, “that you must find, if possible, a way to establish a relationship with Paolo Melandrini, obtain from him all the information you can about him, and arrange things so that I can, as soon as possible, see him without him seeing me. This matter, I added, is strictly private, and I take you into my service for a period of one week, with a salary of two hundred and fifty liras. Here’s a hundred to pay your overhead. He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hands, and murmuring _Tanti grazie, signore_, he put them in the inside pocket of his miserable jacket. –You must not allow, not even for a moment, that this individual suspects that inquiries are being made concerning him, and remember well that he must not know that there is an Englishman in Florence who asks about him, because if this happens, then his suspicions will immediately be aroused. Be very careful with everything you say and do, and come tonight and report to me. What time will we see each other? “Late,” the old man growled. “It could be that he is a worker, and, in that case, I won’t be able to hear anything about him until the evening.” At eleven o’clock I will come to the hotel.–And he left, leaving the atmosphere impregnated with a strong smell of tobacco and garlic in a state of decomposition. I began to reflect on what the people at the hotel would think of me when they saw the kind of visitor I received, because the Savoy is one of the most elegant in Florence; but my misgivings were soon dispelled, because as I left, I heard the hall’s doorman exclaim, in Italian: –Hello, Babbo! Any new patch? The old man only made a face of satisfaction, and, giving another grunt, he went out into the street, bathed in the sun. The day was long and full of anxiety for me. I wandered along the Ponte Vecchio and in the opaque and mystical light of the Santissima Anunzziata; In the afternoon I went to visit several friends, and in the evening I ate at Doney’s house, as I preferred to dine here rather than in the crowded _table dhôte_ of the Savoy, full of Englishmen and Americans. At eleven o’clock I waited in the hotel hall for old Carlini, and when he arrived, I made him go up to my room, full of anxiety. “I have been making inquiries all day,” he began, speaking in his slightly lisping Florentine language, “but I have discovered very little.” The individual you need, _signore_, appears to be a mystery. “I hoped so,” I answered. “What have you learned about him?” –They know him on Via San Cristófano. He has a small apartment on the third floor of number 8, which he only goes to from time to time. In view of this, I then tried to question the caretaker, who is an eighty-year-old woman. I had found out that Melandrini was absent, and seeing some pieces of clothing hanging out to dry in a window, I presented myself as a police officer to notify that it was a contravention to hang clothes on the outside of houses, a contravention that was punishable by a fine of two lire. Then I took care to obtain some information about his _padrone_. The old woman told me everything she knew, which is not much. It has a habit of arriving unexpectedly, usually at night, and stays for a day or two, but never goes out in broad daylight. He doesn’t know where he lives when he’s away. Letters often arrive for him with English stamps, and she keeps them for him. He showed me one that arrived ten days ago and he has it, waiting for its owner. “Could it be Blair’s?” I thought to myself. “What kind of handwriting was on the envelope?” I asked him. –English type, thick and heavy. I noticed that the word _signore_ is misspelled. Blair’s handwriting was thick, because he generally wrote with a quill pen. I was eager to see it. –So, the old maid has no idea what her true address is? –Absolutely none. He has warned him that if they go looking for him, he should reply that he is not fixed in his movements, and that any matter or message must be left in writing. –What does the apartment look like? –It is very poorly furnished, extremely dirty and abandoned. The old woman is almost blind and without strength. –Does the old woman say that her _padrone_ is a gentleman? –I have not been able to ask her what she is like, but, from inquiries I have made elsewhere, I have learned that she is an individual who most likely has affairs with the police or something similar. The owner of a tavern on the corner of the street told me, in confidence, that about six months ago two men, undoubtedly police officers, were making very active investigations regarding this individual, and that, for a month, they established surveillance over the house, but he has not appeared since that time. He has painted me as a man of average age, with a beard, very reticent, who wears glasses, speaks with a slight foreign accent and rarely enters a tavern or spends time during the day with his neighbors. However, it is evident that he has resources, because, on several occasions, upon learning of the misery or misfortunes of some of the families living on that street, he has silently visited them and dispensed his charity in a generous manner. It is to this, it seems, that he owes the respect he has inspired, while, on the other hand, he has intentionally tried to surround his identity with mystery. “It must be for some purpose, there is no doubt,” I observed. –Certainly–was the response of that old stranger.–All my inquiries tend to show that he is a man of secrets, and that he is hiding his true identity. “It may be that those rooms are only for the address of letters,” I indicated. “Do you know, _signore_, that this is the same opinion that I have?” he told me. “It may be that he resides in another part of Florence, given what we know.” –Well, you must discover it. It is essential that I know everything concerning him before I leave here; Therefore, I am going to help you watch for his return. Babbo shook his head and began to play with his cigar, which he was eager to smoke. –No, _signore_. You should not appear on San Cristófano Street, because they would immediately notice your appearance. Leave the whole matter to me alone, _signore_. I am going to take a person to help me, and I hope that the two of us will be able, before long, to find this mysterious individual and track him down. Remembering the curious letter in Italian that I had taken from among the dead man’s papers, I asked the old man if he knew of any place called San Frediano–the place designated for the meeting between the man who had written the letter and my poor deceased friend. –Certainly–he replied.–Behind the Cármine is the market of San Frediano, and in Lucca there is the church of San Frediano, too. “In Lucca!” I repeated. –Ah! but Lucca is not Florence. However, I suddenly remembered that the letter clearly stated the time of Vespers for the interview. Therefore, the agreed place must certainly be a church. “Don’t you know any other church in San Frediano?” I asked him. –Only the one in Lucca. It was evident, then, that the interview had to take place at that point, on March 6, given that there was no other temple of that name. If in the meantime he couldn’t get more information about Paolo Melandrini, he was determined to go to the meeting and keep an eye on whoever was there. I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, sitting in a low chair, the old man soon filled my room with the strong smoke and smell of his cheap cigar, while telling me the most minute details of everything he had managed to learn in that miserable Florentine neighborhood. The secret bond that had united Burton Blair with this mysterious Italian was a problem that could not be solved. It was clear that there was some powerful reason why he had appointed him administrator of Mabel’s fortune, and yet the whole thing was a complete enigma, just like the mysterious origin from which the millionaire had obtained his enormous wealth. Whatever we discovered, I knew it had to be some strange revelation, for, from the first moment I met the wanderer and his daughter, I saw that they were surrounded by an atmosphere of remarkable romance and mystery, which, with the death of that robust man, possessor of the secret, was now even greater, and much more inexplicable. I could not help harboring strong suspicions that Melandrini, whose movements were so mysterious and full of suspicion, must have had some part in the theft from Blair of that curious little bag which he had bequeathed me in his will. This was a strange fantasy that I had formed in myself, but that, despite all my efforts, I could not get rid of from my mind. So erratic seemed the movements of that unknown man, that it was possible that he had been in England at the time of Blair’s death; If so, then the greater the suspicions that fell on him had to be. I feverishly longed to return to London, but I could not do so until I had completely completed my research. A whole week passed, and Carlini, with her son-in-law as assistant in the matter, a young man with black hair and from the lower class, established surveillance, day and night, over the house at number 8, but it was useless. Paolo Melandrini not He appeared to claim the letter from England, which was waiting for him. One night Carlini brought the letter to me to see, for he had managed to get the old servant to give it to him, by means of a prudent bribe of twenty francs. In my room we heated a kettle, with the steam we peeled off the envelope and took out the sheet of paper that was inside. It was from Blair. It was written in English, dated eighteen days ago in London, Grosvenor Square, and read as follows: ‘I will meet you, if indeed you wish. I will take the papers and entrust to you the mission of employing people who know how to keep silent. Please direct your response to the following address: Mr. Juan Marshall.–Birmingham.–_B. B._» The mystery increased. Why did Blair want to employ people who knew how to keep silent? What kind of work was it that needed so much secrecy? Evidently, Blair took all possible precautions to receive the Italian’s letters, instructing him to address them, under different names, to the hotels where he went for one night, and claim them there. Mabel had often told me about her father’s frequent absences, absences that sometimes lasted one, two, or even three weeks, and in which his destination was not known nor his address left. Now his strange wandering journeys had been clarified. Consumed by the greatest anxiety, I waited day after day, spending whole hours trying to decipher the maddening enigma of the playing card I had in my possession, until, on the morning of March 6, in the presence of Carlini having no success in Florence, I went with him to the old city of Lucca, where we arrived by the Pistoia road, at two in the afternoon. At the Hotel Universo they gave me, to stay, that immense bedroom with those wonderful fresco paintings, which was occupied by Ruskin for so long, and before the Ave Maria resounded through the hills and plains, I separated from Babbo and headed, as a tourist, to the magnificent medieval church, whose darkness was only attenuated by the candles that burned on the side altars and in front of the image of Our Lady. When I entered, they were at the time of vespers, and the dead silence that reigned in the immense interior of the temple was only interrupted by the low murmur of the reverent priest. There were a dozen people in the church, all women, except one–a man who, standing behind one of the circular columns, waited there, patiently, while the others knelt. He turned quickly when he heard my light footsteps echoing on the marble, and then I could see him face to face. I held my breath, and then I stood as if rooted to the spot, completely stunned and pale. The mystery was enormously deeper than I had imagined. The reality that was presented to me now was enough to stun and make me hesitate. Chapter 8. IN WHICH THE TRUTH IS SPOKEN. The beautiful old church, with its heavy gilding, its shining altars, and its magnificent fresco paintings, was so dark that, at first, just entering from the street, I could not distinguish anything well, but as my eyes became accustomed to the gloomy light, I saw, a few yards from where I stood, a face that was familiar to me, a face that made me hold my breath and filled me with uneasiness. Standing there, behind those few kneeling women, with the faint flickering light of the altar candles sufficiently illuminating his face, was that man with his head bowed reverently, and yet his dark beady eyes seemed to cast searching glances in every direction. From his features, hard, rather sinister features, and his gray, matted beard that I knew from having seen him once in England, I understood that this was the man with whom Burton Blair must have held the secret interview; But, contrary to what I expected, I found him dressed in the rough crimson habit and thick cord of the Capuchin monk, presenting a sad and silent figure in his standing attitude with folded arms, while the priest, in his splendid vestment, murmured the prayers. In the midst of that silent semi-darkness I felt an icy, sepulchral cold fall on my shoulders. The soft perfume of incense seemed to increase, with that atmosphere of incredible magnificence, of melancholy enchanted solitude, of opulence strangely disproportionate to the poverty and dirt that reigned in the outside plaza. Beyond the silent monk, whose penetrating mysterious eyes were fixed on me in such an inquisitive manner, were visible distant dark spots, pierced here and there by rays of multicolored lights coming through some great window, and far beyond hung from the high, vaulted ceiling the soft red light of the sanctuary lamp. The columns, next to one of which I was standing, rose high, crowded together like tall forest trees, giving evidence of the patient work of a whole generation of men; all of them carved in living stone, infinitely durable, despite the delicacy of the work, and transmitted to us through distant centuries of existence. The monk, that man whose bearded face I had once seen in England , had knelt, and was murmuring his prayers and passing the beads of the enormous rosary that hung from his waist. A woman dressed in black, her head covered with the black _santuzza_ worn by the women of Lucca, had entered quietly, and was kneeling a few steps from me. He pressed against his chest a miserable creature of only a few months, on whose wrinkled face death had already left its mark. He prayed fervently for her, while the candles were gradually spent, the poor candles that this unfortunate woman had placed in front of the humble image of Saint Anthony. The contrast between the prodigious opulence of the temple and the rags of the poor supplicant; between the persistent durability of those thousands of gold-robed saints, and the fragility of that small, hopeless being, it was cruel and crushing. The woman continued kneeling, repeating her prayers in vain and obstinately. He looked at me, with his eyes full of affliction, guessing the compassion he had awakened in me; then he turned his gaze toward the cappuccino, toward that hard-faced, gray-bearded man who held the key to Burton Blair’s secret. I stood behind the heavy column, bowed reverently, but alert. The poor woman, after a quick glance at all that splendor that surrounded her, turned, with greater anxiety than before, her eyes towards me… yes, towards me, who was an unknown stranger. And I thought: will those magnificent divine images hear his prayers ? Ah! I didn’t know. In her place, I would have preferred to take the poor creature to one of those niches on the roads, where the Virgin of the Contadini reigns sovereign. The madonnas and saints of Ghirlandago, Civitali and Della Quérica, who dwell in that splendid ancient church, seem like ceremonious beings, numbed by secular pomp. Strangely enough, I couldn’t believe that they would take care of that poor woman, or her deformed and dying son. Vespers ended. The dark figures who had been praying rose, crossed the marble floor to the door and disappeared, while the lights were quickly extinguished. The woman, with her dying son, was lost in the darkness. Wanting the cappuccino to pass by me, so that I could see him better, I let myself be in the church. Would he talk to him, or would he remain silent and have Babbo watch him? He slowly approached me, with his large hands thrust into the wide sleeves of his crimson habit, a garment that is renewed only once every ten years by those of his order, and that they wear constantly, whether they are in standing or in bed. I had stopped in front of the ancient tomb of Saint Tita, the patron saint of Lucca, whom Dante mentions in his _Inferno_. In the small chapel a single light burned in a large antique gold lamp, placed there by the proud sons of the city three centuries ago, when they feared the invasion of the Black Death. When I turned around, I saw that, even though he was watching me carefully, he seemed to still be waiting for the man who, alas! it no longer existed. Now that I could see his features better in better light, I did not hesitate to confirm my previous suspicion: it was the same man I had met a year before at Burton Blair’s table, in his mansion in Grosvenor Square. He remembered the occasion very well. It was in June, at the height of the London _season_, and Blair had invited me, in the company of several single friends, to eat at his house and then to go to the Empire Theatre. The man he had found dressed as a religious, with used sandals, had then presented himself in a very different way, as a true man of the world, in a prosperous situation, with a beautiful diamond on the front of his shirt and in a dinner suit, of especially elegant cut. Burton had introduced him to us as Mr. Salvi, the renowned engineer, and he had sat across the table from me, conversing in excellent English with everyone. He impressed me as a man who had traveled a lot, especially in the Far East, and, from certain concepts he gave, I concluded that, like Burton Blair, he had spent several years at sea, and that he was a friend of the old days, before the great secret that had been so useful to him. The other guests were all acquaintances and related to me; two of them City financiers, whose names were well known among the regulars of the Stock Exchange; the third, heir to an earldom, of which he is already in possession, and the fourth, Sir Charles Webb, an elegant young man, of a modern type, belonging to the Corps of Guards. After enjoying the exquisite food served to us, prepared by the famous French _chef_ Burton Blair, we drove to the Empire Theatre, and after spending a couple of hours at the Grosvenor Club, we concluded the night at the Bachelors Club, of which Sir Charles was a member. As I stood there in the silent gloom of the majestic church, looking at that dark mysterious figure that walked patiently along the nave, waiting for him who would never come again, I remembered what, on that distant night, had awakened in me a strange feeling of disgust against him. In brief words I will relate the incident. After leaving the Empire, we stopped in Leicester Square to get into the cars we had taken, when I heard the Italian saying to Blair in his language: “I don’t like that friend of yours, the one called Greenwood. “He is too curious and inquisitive.” My friend laughed when he heard this, and replied: “Ah, my dear, you don’t know him. “He’s my best friend.” The Italian grunted back: “He’s been asking me important questions all night, and I’ve had to lie to him.” Again Blair laughed, murmuring, “This isn’t the first time you’ve had to commit that sin.” “No,” replied the other in a low voice, with the intention that I should not hear him, “but, if you introduce me to your friends, be careful that they are not as cunning or as inquisitive as this Greenwood.” He may be a good guy, but even if he is, he certainly must not know our secret. If he finds out, it could mean ruin for us, remember! And then, before Blair could answer him, he climbed into a _hansom_ that at that very moment had approached and stopped at the curb. Since then I had nourished a manifest antipathy against that man who had been introduced to me by the name of Salvi, not because I view every foreigner with suspicion and prevention, as do some Englishmen who participate so foolishly in that insular prejudice, but because he had gone out of his way to warn Blair against me. However, after a week the incident had faded from my memory and I had no longer remembered it, until this unexpected and strange encounter had renewed it. Could it be possible that this monk, with a face tanned by the sun, was the same man who had rented that small apartment in Florence, and whose appearances were so mysterious and surreptitious? Maybe so, because all that secrecy surrounding her home could be attributed to the fact that a Capuchin is not allowed to own any house outside his convent. These visits to Florence, from time to time, were probably made when he was sent to travel the countryside to collect donations and alms from the _contadini_, which were intended for the poor of the city. Throughout the province of Tuscany, whether in the poor man’s hut, or in the palace of a prince, the patient, humble and charitable Capuchin friar is well received; In the house of every _contadino_ a piece of bread and a bottle of wine is always prepared for him, and in the villas and palaces of the rich they always find a place in the servants’ room. It would be impossible to calculate how many poor Italians are annually saved from perishing from hunger by the soup and bread that they receive every day at the door of every Capuchin monastery. Suffice it to say that this order of crimson habit and black cap is the greatest and most sincere friend that the most needy and poor class has. Babbo Carlini must undoubtedly have been waiting for me outside, sitting on the steps of the church. Would I recognize in this monk, I reflected, the description I had obtained of Paolo Melandrini, the unknown man who was to occupy the position of secretary and advisor to Mabel Blair? The last people who had remained praying in the old chapel of the Blessed Sacrament had left, their footsteps echoing on the tiles until they had disappeared, and I found myself alone with the silent and almost ecstatic figure of the man beside whom, a year before, I had stood in the Grand Circle of the Empire theater, watching and criticizing a dance. Would I go to him and remind him of our knowledge? His open demonstration against me made me hesitate. It was evident that I had entertained doubts about myself that evening at dinner in Grosvenor Square; Therefore, under the current circumstances his suspicions would increase, there was no doubt. Would I boldly face him and thus demonstrate my fearlessness, as well as let him know that I was aware of his subterfuges? Or would I withdraw and monitor his movements? I finally decided to do the first, for two reasons. In the first place, because I was confident that he had recognized me as a friend of Burton’s; and secondly, because, having to deal with a man of that class, it is always more advantageous and gives better results to proceed in a frank manner and declare the knowledge of things, than to carefully conceal facts such as those I knew. If he established surveillance, his suspicions would be greater, while if he proceeded openly, he could disarm him. Turning on my heel, I headed straight to where he had stopped to wait patiently for Blair’s arrival, it seemed. “Excuse me, _signore_,” I exclaimed in Italian, “but I think, if I’m not mistaken , that we met… in London, a year ago… isn’t that true?” “Ah!” he replied, softening his face with a smile as he extended his large, hardened hand to me, “I have been wondering all this time, Mr. Greenwood, whether you would recognize me in this suit.” I am very, very happy to be able to renew our relationship. And he gave greater emphasis to his words, meaningful or feigned, with a strong, close handshake. I expressed to him the surprise that caused me to find the man of the world and traveler, converted into a monk living in a cloister, to which he respectfully responded in a low voice, since we were inside a sacred precinct: –Later I will tell you everything. It is not as remarkable or surprising as it no doubt seems to you. I assure you, in my capacity as a Capuchin, that my quiet and meditative life is much more preferable than that of the man of the world who, like you, is forced to lead the feverish existence of modern times, in which the fortunate without conscience or scruples is appreciated as meritorious and the misfortunes of one’s life are considered the greatest sin when they are discovered. “Yes, I understand well what you are telling me,” I replied, surprised however by your statement and wondering if, after all, you were not simply trying to deceive me. “The life of the cloister must be one of infinite calm and sweetness.” But if I’m not mistaken, I added, you are here waiting for our mutual friend, Burton Blair, with whom you had an interview scheduled. He raised his black eyebrows slightly, and I could have sworn that my words startled him; but, nevertheless, he hid with the greatest care the surprise they caused him, and answered me in a natural and calm tone: –That’s right. I’m here to see it. “Then, I’m sorry to have to tell you that you will never see him again ,” I said in a low voice and with all seriousness. “Why?” he stammered, opening his black eyes wide in stupor. “Because,” I answered, “because poor Burton Blair is dead… and his secret has been stolen.” “What!” he shouted, with a look of terror and a voice so loud that his exclamation echoed under the high, vaulted ceiling. “Blair dead… and the secret stolen!” God! It’s impossible…impossible! Chapter 9. THE HOUSE OF SILENCE. The effect of my words on the corpulent Capuchin, whose figure seemed almost gigantic, due to the thickness of his unartistic habit, was as curious as it was unexpected. The announcement of Blair’s death seemed to leave him completely unnerved. It seemed that he had been there waiting, in fulfillment of the commitment made, completely unaware of the premature end befallen the man with whom such an intimate and secret friendship had linked him. “Tell me… tell me what it was like,” he stammered in Italian, “and his voice was almost a whisper, as if he had feared that some curious person might be hiding in that dark solitude.” In a few words I explained to him what had happened, and he listened to me in silence. After I had finished, he murmured something, crossed himself, and, as we were awakened by the approaching footsteps of the sacristan, we went outside and headed towards the wide plaza, which was already enveloped in semi-darkness. Old Carlini, who was sitting on a bench having just finished smoking a cigar, saw us the moment we appeared, and I noticed that he opened his eyes full of astonishment, but other than that, he did not express suspicion or make the slightest movement. –_Poverino! Poverino!_–repeated the monk as he slowly walked along the old walls of the once proud city.–To think that our poor friend Burton has died so suddenly… and without saying a word! –Not exactly a word–I said:–Before he died he gave several instructions and left some orders, among which is having placed his daughter Mabel under my care. “Ah, little Mabel,” he sighed. “It’s certainly been ten years since I saw her in Manchester.” She was then a child of about eleven years old, tall, with black hair, pretty, very similar to her mother… poor woman! “Did you know his mother?” I asked him with some surprise. He shook his head affirmatively, but refused to give further information. As we headed towards the Ponto Santa María, the city gate, where the uniformed employees of the _dazio_ were doing nothing but ready to collect the tax on every article of consumption, even if it was very insignificant, that entered there, he suddenly turned to me and asked me: -How did you know that I had an appointment scheduled for tonight with our friend? “For the letter that you wrote to him, and that was found in his suitcase after his death,” I answered honestly. He grunted with obvious satisfaction. I supposed, in truth, that he must have been suspicious that Burton had let me know some details of his life before he died. I remembered at that moment the curious encrypted enigma that was contained in the playing card, but I did not make the slightest allusion to it. –Ah! “I see!” he exclaimed immediately. But if that little bag, or whatever it was, that he always carried with him, hidden in his clothes or suspended around his neck, has been lost, doesn’t that mean that there has been a tragedy, that is, a robbery and a murder? “There are strong suspicions,” I answered, “even though, according to the doctors, he died due to purely natural causes.” –Ah! “I don’t think so!” exclaimed the monk, clenching his fists fiercely. One of them has finally managed to steal that little bag that he always kept so carefully, and I am convinced that the murder was committed to hide the theft. “One of which?” I asked anxiously. –One of his enemies. –But did you know what that bag contained? “She never wanted to tell me,” was the Cappuccino’s response, looking me squarely in the face. “She only told me that her secret was locked inside her… and I have reason to believe that it was.” “But did you know his secret?” I asked him, with my eyes fixed on him. I noticed by the change that occurred in his dark countenance how much my question had alarmed him. He could no longer completely deny his ignorance, but, there was no doubt, he was looking for some means of deceiving me. “I only know what he explained to me personally,” he replied. “And it wasn’t much, because, as you know, he was a very reticent man.” He told me, a long time ago, however, about the somewhat romantic circumstances in which he met you, what a good friend you were to him before luck smiled on him, and how you and your friend I have forgotten his name put Mabel at school in Bournemouth, tearing her away from that life of fatigue and wandering walks that Burton had undertaken. “But why were you wandering the roads like that?” I asked him. “For me it has always been an enigma.” –And for me too. I think he was busy looking for the key to the secret he carried with him, the secret he has bequeathed to you, as he told me. “Didn’t he remind you of anything else?” I asked, remembering that this man must have been an old friend of Blair’s, from the observations he had made about Mabel when she was a child. –Nothing else. His secret always belonged to him, and he did not reveal it to anyone, because he feared being betrayed. “But now that it is in other hands, what do you presuppose?” I said, always walking at his side, because we had already left the city and were going along that wide dirty road that leads to the Mariano Bridge and continues ascending towards the mountains, for an extension of fifteen miles, to that leafy and quite cheerful summer spot, well known to all Italians and some Englishmen, which is called the Lucca Baths. “From what I learned in London when we had the opportunity to meet,” my companion replied, very gravely, “I assume that poor Blair’s secret has been stolen in a very ingenious way, and that the person in whose possession it is now will know how to make good use of it.”
–To the detriment of your daughter Mabel? –Certainly. “She should be the main victim, the one who has the most to lose,” he answered, with a kind of sigh. –Ah, if he had entrusted his affairs to someone, he could, knowing the truth, combat that cunning conspiracy! But it seems that we are all, as in fact happens, in complete darkness. Even their lawyers know nothing! “And you, to whom the secret has been bequeathed, have lost it!” he added. “Yes, sir, the situation is certainly very critical.” –In this matter, Mr. Salvi, I told him, as friends of poor Blair, we must endeavor to do all we can to discover and punish their enemies. Tell me, therefore, do you know the origin of our unfortunate friend’s vast fortune? “Here I am not Mr. Salvi,” was the monk’s calm reply. ” They know me as Brother Antonio de Arezzó, or, more briefly, Brother Antonio.” The name Salvi was given to me by poor Blair, who did not want to introduce a Capuchin monk among his worldly friends. As to the origin of his fortune, I believe I know the truth. –Then tell me, tell me!–I shouted full of anxiety.–It may be that he will give us the thread to know who those people are who have conspired so successfully against him. Again the monk turned his penetrating dark eyes towards me, those eyes that in the dim darkness of San Frediano seemed so full of fire and also of mystery. –No–he answered, in a hard and decisive tone.–I don’t have permission to say anything. He has died, let’s let his memory rest. “But why?” I asked. “In these circumstances of grave suspicion, and in which the secret, which by right belongs to me, has been stolen, it is surely your duty to explain what you know, in order that we may obtain a thread to guide us.” Remember also that your daughter’s future depends on the discovery of the truth. “I can’t tell you anything,” he repeated. “My lips are sealed no matter how sorry I am.” –Because? “Because of an oath I took years ago, before entering the order of Capuchins,” he answered. Then, after a pause, he added, with a sigh:–It is all very strange… much stranger than any man has dreamed, perhaps… but I can tell you nothing, Mr. Greenwood, absolutely nothing. I remained silent. His words had been too mortifying and enigmatic, as well as disappointing. I still couldn’t tell if he was actually my enemy or friend. At certain moments he seemed simple, frank and sincere, as are all those of his religious order; but in others there seemed to be within him that remarkable cunning, skillful diplomacy, and penetrating double vision of the Jesuit. The very fact that Burton Blair, having concealed from me his friendship–if friendship existed–with this vigorous monk, with his tanned, wrinkled face, made me harbor a kind of vague distrust of him. And yet, when he remembered the tone of the letter he had written to Blair, how could he doubt that their friendship, however secret, was not real and sincere? However, those words that I had heard from him in Leicester Square came back to my memory, which renewed my doubts and musings. I walked alongside this man, not caring where we were going. We were already in the middle of the countryside. The immobility of everything, the silence that reigned and the luminous glow of the last tints of that winter sunset, communicated a certain melancholy to the gray Tuscan mountains covered with olive trees. That tranquility, that immense calm that spread over everything, that unalterable calm of the atmosphere, those motionless lights and those great shadows, produced in one the impression of a pause in the dizzying movement of centuries, of an intense wait, of a moment of reflection, or rather perhaps, a look of melancholy towards the distant past, when the stars, human beings, races and religions did not exist. Ahead of us, as we rounded a bend in the road, I saw rising high on the side of a hill, half hidden by the green and gray trees, a huge, white ancient monastery. It was the Capuchin Convent, his home, Brother Antonio told me. I stopped for a moment, and looked at the white building, almost windowless, burned by the heat and sun rays of three hundred summers, rising like a bastion–as it once was–against the background of the purple Apennines. I heard the sound of the old bell that issued its calls with the same old note, with the same old voice of centuries past. It was then, at that moment, when the charm of Lucca and its beautiful surroundings were engraved in my spirit. I felt, for the first time, that an atmosphere of loneliness and separation from the rest of the world was springing up from everywhere ; an atmosphere of mystery, living essence of what that place is, easy to destroy, alas! but that all things still exhale it because they are impregnated with it: certainly, it is the dying soul of the once brilliant Tuscany. And there, at my side, crushing all my thoughts, as the shadow of a giant sphinx expands and lengthens over the desert sands, stood that corpulent monk, with a tanned complexion, bare feet, a habit of a faded crimson, his waist tied with a hemp cord , and with a countenance of mystery, while within his heart was enclosed the great secret that had been bequeathed to me and that hid the origin of the fortune of Burton. “Poor Blair is dead!” he repeated incessantly, as if he had still doubted that his friend no longer existed and it was impossible for him to believe it. However, I was slow to convince myself of his sincerity, because he could well be deceiving me after all. As he invited me, I accompanied him up the winding and steep path until we reached the heavy door of the monastery, which he knocked on. A loud and solemn bell rang, and a few seconds later the small grille window opened , appearing behind the face of the white-bearded doorman brother, who ushered us in immediately. He led me along the silent cloister, in the middle of which there was a wonderful medieval wrought-iron well, and then along endless stone corridors, each illuminated by a single kerosene lamp, which made the house seem more somber and melancholy. From the chapel, which was at the end of the great building, came the murmur of the chant that the monks sang in low voices; but beyond there reigned the silence of a tomb. Dark and spectral figures passed noiselessly past us and seemed to disappear in the darkness; The door of the refectory was open, and in the dull light cast by two or three lamps, I could distinguish magnificent sculptures, splendid fresco paintings, and the two long rows of oak benches, blackened by time, on which the Capuchin brothers sit to eat . Suddenly my guide stopped in front of a door, which he opened with his key, and I found myself inside a tiny, bare cell, without a carpet, whose furniture consisted of a bed on wheels, a chair, a desk, and a well-stocked bookshelf. On the wall there was a large wooden crucifix, in front of which he crossed himself as he entered. “This is my house,” he explained in English. “Not very luxurious, it’s true, but I wouldn’t change it for any palace in the world.” Here we are all brothers, and the superior is our father who provides for all our human needs, including the snuff we consume. Here there is no jealousy, no rivalries, no slander or disputes. We are all equal, we are all perfectly happy, because we have all learned that very difficult lesson of brotherly love. And he brought out the only chair there was for me to sit on, since I was sweaty and tired after that long walk and steep climb from the city to the convent. “It is a very hard life, indeed,” I observed. –At first, yes. One has to be strong in mind and body, to be able to successfully pass the trial period,” he answered. But then the life of the capuchin is undoubtedly one of the most delicious on earth, united as we are to do good and exercise charity in the name of Saint Anthony. But,” he added, with a smile, “I have not brought you here, sir, to try to convert you from your Protestant faith to ours. I asked you to accompany me, because you have communicated to me a fact that contains a deep and notable mystery. He has informed me of the death of Burton Blair, the man who was my friend, and who in his own interest should come to see me tonight in San Frediano. There were particular reasons, the most powerful reasons a man could have, why he had kept his promise and kept the appointment. But he hasn’t done it. His enemies have prevented him, and have stolen his secret! As he spoke, he searched for something in a little drawer of the small desk, and finally pulled out an object, adding with profound solemnity: –You knew Blair intimately, more intimately than I, perhaps, in recent years. He knew his enemies as well as his friends. Tell me, have you ever had a chance to see the original of each of these men? And he put two portraits before my eyes. One of them was completely unknown to me, but the other I recognized immediately. “This is my old friend Reginald Seton,” I exclaimed, “who was also a friend of Blair’s.” –No–declared the monk, in a harsh and significant tone,–not your friend, sir… your most terrible enemy. Chapter 10. THE MAN OF SECRETS. “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said, “resentful of seeing the accusation he made of my closest friend.” Seton has been a better friend than I to poor Blair. Fray Antonio smiled in a strange and mysterious way, as only the subtle Italian can do. He seemed to pity my ignorance, and felt like mocking my faith in Seton’s sincerity. –I know–he laughed;–I know almost as much as you on the one hand, while on the other hand my knowledge extends somewhat further than yours. All I can tell you is that I have observed, and, therefore, I have drawn my conclusions. –That Seton wasn’t your friend? “Yes, that Seton was not his friend,” he repeated slowly and very clearly. “But you certainly don’t make a direct accusation,” I exclaimed. “Surely, you don’t believe that he is responsible for this tragedy, if there has been a tragedy in this death, right?” “I am not making a direct accusation,” was his ambiguous response. Time will reveal the truth, there is no doubt. I longed to be able to ask him openly if he did not sometimes pass himself off as Paolo Melandrini; However, he was afraid to do so, for fear of arousing their undue suspicions. “Time will be the only one that will be able to reveal that Reginaldo Seton was one of the dead man’s best friends,” I said thoughtfully. –Apparently, yes–was the cappuccino’s dubious reply. “An enemy as mortal as Ceco?” I questioned him, looking at his face in the meantime. –El Ceco!–he stammered, full of surprise at my bold question.–Who told you about him? What do you know about that man? The monk had evidently forgotten what he had written in the letter to Blair. “I know he’s in London,” I replied, taking his own words as a guide. The girl accompanies him, I added, despite the identity of the person I was referring to being completely unknown to me. –Well?–I asked myself. –And if they are in London, it is surely not with good intentions. –Ah!–he exclaimed.–Has Blair said anything to you… has he expressed his misgivings to you? “Now, at last, the fear had taken hold of him that he would be secretly murdered on the least expected day,” I answered. –Without a doubt, he feared Ceco. “And certainly I was right to fear him,” exclaimed Friar Antonio, with his dark eyes shining, turned towards mine in the midst of the semi-darkness. “El Ceco is not an easy individual to handle.” “But for what purpose did you go to London?” I asked him. “Have you gone with bad intentions?” –The portly monk shrugged his shoulders, and replied: –Dick Dawson has never been a man of very good temper. Evidently he must have discovered something, and has sworn revenge. His observations had made me aware of a very important fact: that the man known in Italy by the nickname “the blind man” was an Englishman named Dick Dawson, most likely an adventurer. “So, do you suspect that you have been an accomplice in the theft of the secret?” I indicated. –Since the small chamois bag has disappeared, I am inclined to think that it must have passed into his hands. –And the girl? –Dolly, his daughter, will help him with everything, that’s for sure. She is as shrewd as her father, and possesses remarkable feminine ability; She is a dangerous young woman, to say the least. I warned Blair to take care of both of them,” he added, suddenly remembering, it seems, his letter. “But I am glad that you recognized one of these two individuals whose photographs I have shown you. You said your name is Seton, didn’t you? Well then, if it is your friend, I advise you to always be alert. Are you sure you have never seen this other man? Don’t you know this friend from Seton? He questioned me very earnestly. I took the portrait in my hand and approached where the opaque kerosene lamp was. I examined it very carefully and paid attention to all its details. He was a man with a long face, bald, full beard, very high collar, black frock coat and an elegant bow tie. The decoration he had on the front of his shirt was somewhat peculiar, as it looked like a small cross from some foreign order of chivalry, and produced rather a delicate and novel effect. The eyes were those of a shrewd man, lively and penetrating, while the sunken cheeks gave his face a notable and slightly haggard appearance. It was a physiognomy that, according to my recollection, I had never seen before, but, nevertheless, its peculiarities were such that it was immediately etched indelibly in my memory. I told him that it was impossible for me to know who he was, to which he replied, insisting: “When you return, watch the movements of your titled friend Seton, and then you may have the opportunity of meeting your friend, whose portrait I have shown you.” Once this happens, write to me, and leave it to me. He put the photograph back in the drawer of his table, but, as he did so, my eyes managed to distinguish a playing card inside, the seven of clubs, with some letters written on it in the same way or very similar to those on the card that I had kept in my pocket. I mentioned it, but he simply smiled and immediately closed the drawer. However, the fact of finding the encrypted enigma in his possession was certainly something more than strange. “Are you usually away from home?” I finally asked him, remembering how I had met him at Blair’s table, during the meal at his house in Grosvenor Square, but not very satisfied with the discovery of the letter with the curious enigmatic inscriptions. “Rarely… very rarely,” he answered. “It is extremely difficult to obtain permission, and when you do obtain it, it is for the sole purpose of visiting family.” If there is a monastery near the place where we are moving, we must ask to be granted a bed there, rather than staying in a private house. The rules seem harsh to you,” he added, smiling; “but I assure you that for us they are not, nor do we suffer at all. All of them are beneficial for the happiness and well-being of man. Again I tried to direct the conversation to what interested me, endeavoring to obtain some information about the dead man’s mysterious secret, which I was convinced was known to him. But it was useless. He didn’t want to tell me anything. All he told me was that the reason for that interview, which was to have taken place that night in Lucca, was very powerful, and that if the millionaire had not died, he would undoubtedly have gone to it. “He had the habit of meeting me from time to time, either in the church of San Frediano, or in other parts of Lucca, as well as in Pescia or Pistoia,” added the monk. “From time to time, we changed the meeting place.” “And this explains, by the way, his mysterious absences,” I observed, remembering that his movements had often been very erratic, so that even Mabel had ignored his address. It was generally supposed that he had left for Scotland or the north of England; Well, no one ever imagined that his sudden trips were so far away, and that he found himself, when least expected, in central Italy. The monk’s reports also showed that Blair had had some very powerful reason for holding these secret interviews. Fray Antonio, his ignored friend, had undoubtedly been the most intimate and most trusted. –Why had he hidden this strange and mysterious friendship from all of us, even from Mabel herself? I stared at the sun-baked Italian monk’s stern face and tried to penetrate the mystery written on it, but in vain. There is no man in the world who knows how to keep a secret as well as the priest confessor, or the humble friar, whose home is his poor cell. “And what is your intention, after what happened with poor Blair?” I finally asked him. “My intention, like yours, is to discover the truth,” he replied. “It will be a difficult thing, there is no doubt, but I am confident that in the end we will triumph, and that you will recover the lost secret.” “But couldn’t Blair’s enemies use it in the meantime ?” I asked. –Ah! We will not be able to prevent that, by the way,” answered Friar Antonio. “We must worry about the future, and let the present take care of itself. You, in London, will do everything possible to discover if Blair was the victim of an infamy and who were the authors of it, while I, here in Italy, will try to know if there has been any other motive, apart from the theft of the secret. “But if the chamois bag had been stolen, don’t you think Blair would have missed it?” He was fully conscious for several hours before he died. –He could have forgotten about her. Men’s memory often declines in the last hours before death. The night had spread its black mantle before the bell with its large wooden clapper, the same one that served to wake up the monks at two in the morning, the time when they get up to pray, resounded throughout the cloister, as if reminding me that I should leave that silent abode, where I was a stranger. Fray Antonio got up, lit a large old bronze lantern, and guided me through the lonely and quiet corridors, the small square and the side of the hill to the royal road, which stood out white and straight in the midst of the darkness. Then, after he had guided me, he took my hand between his large palms, rough and calloused, due to the hard work in his piece of garden, and said to me: –Trust me, I will do everything I can. I knew poor Blair; yes, I knew him better than you, Mr. Greenwood. I also knew something of his remarkable secret, I know how strange what happened is, and how mysterious all the circumstances are. While you return to London and continue your research, I will work here, doing mine. I’m going to give you a hint, though, and it’s this: If you ever meet Dick Dawson, make friends with him and Dolly. They are a strange couple, father and daughter, but friendship with both of them can be beneficial. –What!–I exclaimed.–Friendship with the man who you have confessed to be one of the cruelest enemies Blair had? –And why not? Isn’t it a trait of diplomacy to be well received in the enemy camp? Remember that you are the one who risks the most in this matter, since the secret that has been bequeathed to you is at stake–the secret of Burton Blair’s millions! “And I intend to get it back,” I stated firmly. “I hope you will succeed, sir,” he exclaimed in a voice that seemed to me full of double meaning. “I hope you will succeed,” he replied again. Then saying goodbye with a _Adio, e buona fortune_, Brother Antonio, the man of secrets, turned and walked away, leaving me standing on the dark royal road. He had not advanced fifty yards, when from the middle of the shadow From some bushes on one side, a small black figure appeared, and from the voice that greeted me, I knew that it was old Babbo, whom I had not expected, as I had thought he had grown tired of waiting for me. But I understood that he had followed us and that when he saw us enter the monastery, he had begun to wait for my return with complete patience. “Has the gentleman discovered what he wanted?” the old Italian asked me promptly. –Something, not everything–was my reply.–Have you seen that monk I have been with? –Yeah. While you were in the convent, I made some inquiries, and I learned that the most popular Capuchin in all of Lucca is Brother Antonio, and that his acts of charity are well known. It is he who goes begging from door to door, throughout the city, to get the cents and liras that allow the poor to have their clothes and bread daily. It is said that he was very rich, and that upon entering the Capuchin convent he donated his wealth to the order. It is also known that he has a friend who he loves very much, an Englishman known to the people of the city, with the nickname El Ceco, because he has one eye that is almost missing. –El Ceco!–I shouted.–What have you discovered about this one? –The owner of a small cheese factory next to the door where we left the city is very communicative. Like everyone of her kind, she seems to greatly admire our friend the cappuccino. He has told me about the frequent visits of this one-eyed Englishman, who has lived in Italy for so long that he can almost pass for Italian. It seems that Ceco has the habit of stopping at the old inn of the Croce di Malta, sometimes accompanied by his daughter, a very pretty young woman. –Where do they usually come from? –Oh! I haven’t been able to find out that yet,” answered Babbo. “However, it seems that Ceco’s constant visits to the Capuchin monastery have aroused public interest. People say that now Brother Antonio is not as active as before in raising money for the poor, because he is too busy with his English friend. –And the girl? “She must be of remarkable beauty, because she is famous even in Lucca, which is a city of pretty girls,” answered the old man, making a face. “She speaks Tuscan perfectly, and can easily pass herself off as an Italian, so they say.” “His back is not stiff like that of those other English people that one sees on Via Tornabuoni, if the Lord will forgive my criticism,” he added apologetically. These reports proving that Dick Dawson, against whom the monk had warned Burton Blair, was in fact the Capuchin’s friend, made the situation more enigmatic and complicated. I recognized that in these frequent visits and conferences the secret plot against my poor friend must have been hatched, a conspiracy that had been carried out successfully, it seemed. Young Dolly had never been to the monastery, but it was evident that she had been in Lucca, as an accomplice in the plot to obtain the valuable secret of Burton Blair, the secret that today belonged to me by law. In view of this, we resolved to make some inquiries at the Croce di Malta, that ancient old inn situated in a narrow side street, peculiarly Italian, and which prefers to still be designated by the name of _albergo_, instead of the modern name of hotel. Dick Dawson, known as Ceco, was undoubtedly in London, but with the help and connivance of the ingenious and cunning man of secrets, who had so cleverly tried to establish a false friendship with me. –Could this man, who concealed his bad acts under the very poor religious habit, be responsible for the death of the unfortunate Blair and the mysterious disappearance of that small and strange object, which was his most precious treasure? I don’t know why, I was convinced that this suspicion was a reality. Chapter 11. IN WHICH THE DANGER OF MABEL BLAIR IS EXPLAINED. Of the inquiries that old Babbo made the next morning in the Maltese Cross, it became evident that Mr. Ricardo Dawson, whoever he was, came to Lucca constantly, and always with the purpose of visiting and consulting the popular Capuchin monk. Sometimes the one-eyed Englishman who spoke Italian so well would go to the monastery and stay there for several hours, and other times Brother Antonio would come to the inn and lock himself in with the guest in the greatest secrecy. The “ceco”, so called because of his defective eye, was apparently a man of resources, because his tips to the waiters and maids were always generous, and when they were staying there, both he and his daughter, ordered the best they could get. They came from Florence, the _padrone_ thought, but he was not sure of this. The letters and telegrams he usually received, asking him to reserve rooms for them, arrived dated in different cities in France or Italy, which seemed to show that they were constantly traveling. These were all the reports we could obtain. The identity of the mysterious Paolo Melandrini remained undiscovered. The main object that had brought me to Italy had not been filled, but, nevertheless , I was satisfied to have finally discovered two of poor Blair’s most intimate and at the same time secret friends. But why this mystery? When I remembered how close our friendship had been , I was surprised, and even a little disgusted, to see that he had hidden the existence of these two men from me. As much as I was sorry to have to think ill of a dead friend, I couldn’t help the suspicion that his relationship with these individuals was part of his secret, and that the latter was something dishonorable. Shortly after noon, I put my things inside my suitcase, and impelled by a powerful desire to return in order to defend the interests of Mabel Blair, I left Lucca, leaving for London. Babbo accompanied me to Pisa, where we changed trains; He to return to Florence and I to take the sleeping car of the express that runs from Rome to Calais. While standing on the platform of the Pisa station, the ragged old man, who had been pensive for more than half an hour, suddenly exclaimed: “A strange idea has occurred to me, sir.” You will remember that I learned on Via San Cristófano that Mr. Malandrini wore glasses with gold arches. Is it not likely that he uses them in Florence to hide the defect in his eyesight? –I think the same too!–I responded.–I think you guessed! But, on the other hand, neither his maid nor his neighbors suspect that he is a foreigner. “He speaks Italian very well,” the old man agreed, “but they say he has a slight accent.” “Return immediately to the Via San Cristófano,” I told him, excited by his latest theory, “and make further inquiries about the eyesight and glasses of this mysterious individual.” The old woman who is in charge of his rooms must have seen him without glasses, there is no doubt, and she will be able to tell him what is really there. “Yes, sir,” he answered. And then I gave him my written address in London, where he was to send me a telegram if his suspicions were confirmed. Ten minutes later, the noisy express from Calais to Rome, the limited train consisting of three sleeping cars, a restaurant car and a baggage car, entered the great domed station, and, bidding farewell to the ridiculous old Babbo, I boarded the train and was shown my compartment to Calais. Describing the long and tedious journey back from the Mediterranean to the Canal, always hearing the creak of the wheels, and with the same monotony, interrupted only by the announcement that food was served, is useless. All those who read this strange story of a man’s secret , who have traveled back and forth along that iron road that goes to Rome, know well how annoying and tiresome it is when one becomes a constant traveler between England and Italy. Suffice it to say that thirty-six hours after boarding the express in Pisa, I crossed the platform of Charing Cross station, entered in a _hansom_ and left for Great Russell Street. Reginaldo had not yet returned from his business, but, on my table, among a quantity of letters, I found a telegram from Babbo, in Italian, which said: “Melandrini’s left eye is spoiled. It’s the same man; There is no doubt about that.–_Carlini_.» The individual who was destined to be Mabel Blair’s secretary and advisor was the most terrible enemy of her late father, the Englishman, Dick Dawson. I stood looking at the telegram, completely bewildered. The strange couplet that the dead man had left written in his will, recommending that I remember it, beat incessantly in my head: _King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens,_ _Hed one short of seven–and nine or ten scenes!_ What hidden meaning could it contain? The historical facts of King Henry VIII’s marriages and divorces were as familiar to me as they are to every English child in the United Kingdom who has reached the fourth grade. However, Blair must certainly have had some reason for putting this strange rhyme in his will; Maybe it was the key to something, but what would it be? After having a quick _toilette_ and brushing myself well, because I was very dirty and tired from the long journey, I took a car and headed to Grosvenor Square, where I found Mabel dressed delicately in black, sitting reading in her comfortable and pretty private room, which her father, two years before, had had her luxuriously and tastefully decorated and furnished as her _boudoir_. He stood up the moment he saw me, and greeted me hurriedly when the servant announced my presence. “You’re back again, Mr. Greenwood,” he exclaimed. “Oh, how glad I am!” I have really missed not having heard from you. Where have you been? “In Italy,” I replied, taking off my overcoat at her request, and then sitting down next to her in a low chair. “I have been making certain inquiries.” –And what have you discovered? –Several pieces of information that tend to increase rather than clarify the mystery that surrounded his poor father. I noticed that her face was paler than when I had been away from London, and that she seemed unnerved and strangely anxious. I asked him why he had not gone to spend some time in Brighton or some other point on the South Coast, as I had previously indicated, but he replied that he had preferred to stay at home, and that, frankly speaking, he had been impatiently awaiting my arrival. I explained to him, in brief words, what I had discovered in Italy, telling him about my meeting with the Capuchin monk and our curious conversation. “I never heard my father talk about him,” he told me. “What kind of man is he?” I described him to him as best I could, and told him how I had met him at a dinner at his house, during his absence in Scotland with Mrs. Percival. “I thought that a monk, once he entered a religious order, could not go back to wearing the dress of secular life,” he observed. “He certainly can’t do it,” I replied. “That same fact increases the suspicions I harbor against him, together with the words I overheard him outside the Empire theater.” And then I related the incident to him, exactly as I have done in a previous chapter. He remained silent for a moment, with his delicate fine beard resting on the palm of his hand, contemplating the fire thoughtfully. Then, finally, he asked me: “And what have you learned about this mysterious Italian in whose hands my father has left me?” Have you met him? “No, I haven’t seen him, Mabel,” I answered. “But I discovered that he is an Englishman of average age and not Italian, as we had thought.” I think I will not be jealous of the attention he shows you, since you suffer from a physical defect. He only has one eye. “He only has one eye!” he repeated stammeringly, covering his face with an instant deathly paleness as he jumped to his feet: “A man who only has one eye… and English! You certainly don’t mean to refer to that individual called Dawson, Dick Dawson? “Paolo Melandrini and Dick Dawson are one and the same person,” I answered frankly, completely shocked to see the terrifying effect my words had had on her. –But it is not possible that my father has left me in the hands of that demon, that individual whose name alone is synonymous with everything that implies brutality, cunning and evil. It can’t be true… there must be some mistake, Mr. Greenwood… there must be! Ah! You do not know the reputation of that one-eyed Englishman like I do, because if you did, I would rather see myself dead than associated with him. You must save me!–she screamed terrified, bursting into a torrent of tears.–You have promised to be my friend. You must save me, you must save me from that man… yes, from that man whose mere touch spreads death! As soon as she had uttered these words, she hesitated, dazedly stretched out her thin white hands, and would have fallen senseless to the ground, if I had not jumped forward and taken her in my arms. –Who could this Dick Dawson be, I mused, that he should produce so much terror and hatred; this one-eyed man who was evidently linked to his father’s mysterious past? Chapter 12. MR. RICARDO DAWSON. I confess that I eagerly wanted to see this one-eyed Englishman, of whom Mabel Blair was terrified, appear so that I could judge him. What I had managed to learn about him until then was not very satisfactory. It seemed evident that, in combination with the monk, she possessed the secret of the dead man’s past, and perhaps Mabel feared some unpleasant revelation relating to her father’s actions and the origin of his fortune. This was the thought that occurred to me when I was helping to apply some remedies and comforters to the insensitive girl, since I had raised the alarm when I saw her fall fainting, with her faithful companion, Mrs. Percival, arriving immediately. While he remained unconscious, with his head reclining on a lilac silk pillow, Mrs. Percival knelt at his side, and I think she looked at me with considerable suspicion, because, not knowing what had happened, she believed that I was the cause. He questioned me somewhat harshly about the reason for Mabel’s unexpected fainting, but I simply replied that it had been a sudden decomposition, and that I attributed it to the suffocating heat of the room. When she came to, she asked Mrs. Percival and Bowers, her maid, to leave us alone, and, when the door closed, she asked me, pale and anxious: “When is that man going to come here?” –When Mr. Leighton informs you of the clause included in your father’s will. “He may come,” he said firmly, “but before he crosses this threshold, I will have left the house.” He may proceed as he sees fit, but I will not reside under the same roof with him, nor will I have any communication with him, whatever that may be. “I understand your feelings, Mabel,” I exclaimed, “but do you think it is wise to follow that line of conduct?” Wouldn’t it be better to wait to monitor the individual’s movements? –Ah! “But you don’t know him!” he shouted. “You don’t suspect what I know to be the faithful truth!” –And what is that? “No,” he answered in a low, hoarse voice, “I can’t tell you.” It won’t be long before I discover it, and then you won’t be surprised that I hate even the guy’s name. –But what reason could your father have had for inserting such a clause in his will? “Because he was forced,” she replied hoarsely. “He couldn’t help it.” –And if he had refused… if he had refused to leave her in the hands of such a person… what would have happened then? “His ruin would have been inevitable,” he answered. “I suspected everything the moment I learned that a mysterious and unknown man had been appointed secretary and administrator of all my affairs. His discoveries in Italy have confirmed my misgivings. –But you are going to follow my advice, Mabel. At least at first, he must arm himself with patience and suffer it – I insisted, wondering, meanwhile, whether his hatred was due to the fact that perhaps he knew that he was his father’s murderer. Her antipathy towards him was violent, but I could not discover what reason she had for it. She shook her head at my argument and said, “I’m sorry I’m not diplomatic enough to be able to hide my dislike in this way.” We women are skilled at many things, but we always inevitably make known what we dislike. “It will be very sensitive,” I observed, “to treat him with open hostility, because it may ruin all our future chances of success in discovering the truth regarding his father’s death and the theft of his secret.” The best advice I can give you is to maintain absolute silence, seem indifferent, but always be on guard and alert. Sooner or later, this man, if indeed he is your enemy, will find out himself. Then it will be time enough for us to proceed firmly, and, at last, you will triumph. For my part, I believe that the sooner Leighton notifies this individual of his appointment, the better. “But is there no way to avoid this?” she screamed, terrified. –My poor father’s death is certainly too painful without the need for this second misfortune to increase the affliction! He spoke to me with the same frankness as he would have done with a brother, and I understood from his vehement manner, now that his suspicions had been confirmed, how great and complete was his desperation. In the midst of all the luxury and splendor of that royal mansion, she emerged as a pale and abandoned figure, with her tender youthful heart destroyed by the grief of her father’s death and by a terror that she did not dare to declare. An old proverb, often repeated, says that fortune does not bring happiness, and, indeed, that there is often more peace of mind and pure enjoyment of life in a cottage than in a palace. The poor man is inclined to look at the rich with envy; However, it must be remembered that many men and women who are comfortably seated in their luxurious carriages and served by liveried servants, look with longing at these humble workers of the streets, well convinced that those millions of beings that they designate with the term “the masses” are, in truth, much happier than them. Many women of title, disappointed and tired of the world, often young and beautiful, would gladly change their positions with the daughters of the people, whose existence, even if it is one of hard work, is, nevertheless, full of innocent pleasures and as much happiness as it is possible to obtain in our world of struggle. This statement may seem strange, but I declare it to be true. The position of gold can give luxury and fame; It can put men and women in a position to eclipse their peers, as well as win them honor, esteem and even popularity. But what’s the point of all this? Ask the opinion of the big landowner, the rich man and the millionaire, and, if they speak sincerely, they will tell you, in confidence, that they are not as happy as they seem, nor do they enjoy life as much as the modest man of independent resources, who is subject to a reduction due to the income tax. As I sat there with the dead man’s daughter, endeavoring to persuade her to receive the mysterious individual without marked hostility, I could not help noticing the vivid contrast between the luxury of all that surrounded her and the heavy burden of tribulations in her heart. He considered selling the house and retiring to Mayvill, to live quietly in the country with Mrs. Percival, but I insisted that he wait, at least for now. It was a pity to think that the splendid collections of paintings belonging to Burton Blair, all notable works of the old masters, the beautiful tapestries which he had bought a few years ago in Spain and the incomparable collection of majolicas, fell under the hammer of an auctioneer. Among the various treasures in the dining room was the painting of the Holy Family by Andrea del Sarto, which had cost Blair sixteen thousand five hundred pounds sterling at Christie’s, and which was considered one of the most beautiful originals by that great master. Furthermore, the Italian Renaissance furniture, the antique porcelain china from Montelupo and Sayona, and magnificent old English silver, constituted a fortune, and would remain Mabel’s property, to my great satisfaction, as everything had been bequeathed to her. –Yes, I know–he responded upon hearing my arguments.–Everything is mine except for that little bag that contains the secret, which is his, and which, unfortunately, has been lost. “You must help me get it back,” I insisted. “It is in our mutual interests to do so.” “I will certainly help you in every way I can, Mr. Greenwood,” she replied. “After you left for Italy, I had the house searched from top to bottom, and I myself examined the drawers where my father kept his correspondence, his other two iron boxes, and certain places where he sometimes used to hide his private papers, in order to discover whether, fearing some attempt that might have been made to steal the little bag, he had left it at home. But everything has been in vain. Certainly, it is not in this house. I thanked him for his efforts, knowing that he had proceeded with all his energy for my benefit; but, convinced that any search carried out inside the house was useless, and that if the secret was ever recovered, it would be by discovering it in the hands of one or another of Blair’s enemies. We stayed together for a long time discussing the situation. The reason for his hatred of Dawson he did not want to say, but this did not cause me any surprise, because in his attitude I saw the desire to hide some secret from his father’s past. However, after much persuasion, I managed to get him to consent to the mysterious man being notified of the position he was to occupy, and to receive it without giving the slightest sign of displeasure or antipathy. This I considered a triumph of my diplomatic skill, because, to a certain extent, I had complete influence over her, as I had been her best friend during those sad and painful days of her past years. But when it came to a matter involving his father’s honor, he was completely powerless and achieved nothing. She was a girl of firm individuality of her own, and, like all those who possess this quality, had the gift of quick penetration, and peculiarly exposed to prejudice, due to her high sense of honor. She flattered my self-esteem by declaring that she would have liked me to have been appointed her secretary, to which I replied, thanking her for her compliment, but stating that such a thing would never have been possible. “Why?” he asked me. –Because you told me that this Dawson is coming here to occupy that position in his own right. His father was forced, under duress, to put that unfortunate clause in his will, which means that he feared him. –Yes–he sighed softly.–You are right, Mr. Greenwood. It’s absolutely right. That man had my father’s life in his hands . This last observation seemed very strange to me. Had Burton Blair been guilty of some unknown crime, which made him afraid of this mysterious one-eyed Englishman? Maybe yes. Perhaps Dick Dawson, who for years had resided in rural Italy posing as Italian, was the only surviving witness to some dishonorable act Blair had committed, which, in the days of his prosperity, he would have wished to erase, for which purpose he would have gladly given a million gold. Such was, in truth, one of the many ideas that arose in my mind, seeing the mystery that surrounded the terror that the mere fact produced in Mabel. Dawson’s name. However, when he remembered Burton Blair’s kind and firm honesty, his sincerity, his lofty thoughts, and his anonymous acts of beneficence out of pure love of charity, he cast aside all such suspicions and resolved to respect the memory of the dead. The next night, before nine o’clock, while Reginaldo and I were drinking coffee and talking in our comfortable little dining room in Great Russell Street, Glave, our servant knocked on the door, entered and handed me a card. I jumped out of my seat, as if I had received an electric shock. “This is really funny, man,” I shouted, turning to my friend. “Here we have Dawson himself.” –Dawson!–stammered the man against whom the monk had warned me.–Let’s make him come in. But by Job! We must be careful what we say, because, if everything said about him is true, he must be extraordinarily insightful. “Leave it to me,” I said. And then I added, turning to Glave: “Show that gentleman forward.” And we both remained in eager expectation awaiting the appearance of the man who knew the truth of Burton Blair’s well-hidden past, and who, for some mysterious reason, had long concealed himself under the guise of an Italian. A moment later he was introduced into our presence, and, greeting us, he exclaimed, with a smile: “I suppose, gentlemen, I must introduce myself.” My name is Dawson, Ricardo Dawson. –And I am Gilberto Greenwood–I said with some coldness.–My friend, here present, is called Reginaldo Seton. “I heard about both from our mutual friend, Burton Blair, today, unfortunately, deceased,” he exclaimed; and slowly he sat down in my grandfather’s big armchair , while I stood on the mantelpiece , with my back to the fire so I could see it better. He was dressed in a well-tailored evening suit and a black overcoat, but there was no feature in his appearance to indicate that he was a man of character. Of medium height, of a regular age, about fifty years old, in my opinion, with round glasses, gold arches and thick rock crystal, through which he seemed to wink at us like a German professor, his general appearance was that of a serious and observant man. Beneath a mass of gray-brown hair appeared his wrinkled forehead and a pair of sunken blue eyes, one of which contemplated the world with speculative wonder, while the other was opaque, nebulous, and sightless. His strange eyebrows were coming together over his somewhat fleshy nose, and his beard and mustache were already gray in color. From the sleeves of his overcoat protruded his hands with small, dark fingers, which twisted and hit with nervous persistence, and in a way that indicated the high tension of that man, the upholstered arms of the chair in which he was sitting in front of us. “The reason I have come to bother you at this hour,” he said apologetically, but with a mysterious smile on his thick lips, “is that I have arrived in London this very night, and I have just learned that, by his will, my friend Burton Blair has left the administration of his daughter’s affairs in my hands. –Oh!–I exclaimed, feigning surprise, as if that had been new to me.–And who said that? “I have private information,” he replied evasively. “But before proceeding, I thought it was better that I come to see you, so that we can understand each other well from the beginning.” I know that you two have been very good and close friends of Blair, while I, due to certain curious circumstances, have been forced, until today, to remain entirely in the background, as your secret friend. I am also well aware of the circumstances in which you met and of your kindness and charity towards my dead friend and his daughter; In a word, he told me everything, because he had no secrets from me. However, you, for your part,” he continued, looking at us with his single blue eye, “must have considered his sudden fortune as a complete mystery. “That’s how it has been, certainly,” I observed. “Ah!” he exclaimed quickly in a tone of ill-concealed satisfaction. “Then he hasn’t revealed anything to you!” I immediately realized that I had inadvertently told that man what he most wanted to know. Chapter 13. BURTON BLAIR’S SECRET IS REVEALED. “Anything that Burton Blair has told me has been in the strictest confidence,” I exclaimed, offended by the intrusion of that individual, but, nevertheless, inwardly glad to have had the opportunity to meet him and to be able to try to ascertain his intentions. “By the way,” Dawson responded with a smile, while his only eye blinked at me through his gold-rimmed glasses. “But his friendship and gratitude never made me reach the point of revealing his secret.” No. If you will excuse me and permit me, Mr. Greenwood, I will tell you that I think it is useless for us to be fighting in this way, considering that I know much more about Burton Blair and his past life than you do. –Accepted–I told him.–Blair was always very reticent. He dedicated himself to solving a mystery and achieved his goal. –And with that he earned a fortune of more than two million pounds sterling, which people still consider a mystery. However, there is no mystery in those piles of sureties that are deposited in your Banks, as there was no mystery in the money with which you bought them – he laughed. –It was in good notes from the Bank of England and in solid gold coins of the kingdom. But the poor no longer exists; “Everything is over,” he added with a somewhat thoughtful air. “But his secret still exists,” observed Reginaldo. “He has bequeathed it to my friend.” –What!–the one-eyed man burst out, turning towards me with real horror.–Has he left his secret to you? He seemed completely upset by Reginaldo’s words, and I noticed the perverse gleam in his eyes. –He left it to me. “The secret is mine now,” I replied, even though I didn’t tell him that the mysterious chamois bag had gone missing. “But don’t you know, man, what that implies?” he cried, standing in front of me and intertwining and twisting his thin fingers nervously and agitatedly. –No, I don’t know–I answered laughing, because I tried to pretend that I took his words lightly.–He has left me as a legacy the little bag that he always carried with him, along with certain interesting instructions that I will endeavor to comply with. “Very well,” he growled. “Proceed as you see fit; But I prefer that you remain the owner of the secret and not me, that’s all. His disgust and terror apparently knew no bounds. He struggled to hide his feelings, but all efforts were in vain. It was evident that there was some very powerful reason for trying to prevent the secret from coming into my hands; but his belief that the bag was already in my possession destroyed my suspicion that this mysterious man was linked to the strange death of Burton Blair. “Believe me, Mr. Dawson,” I said, most calmly, “I have no fear of the result of my friend’s kind generosity.” In truth, I don’t see what reason there could be to entertain any misgivings. Blair discovered a mystery that, by dint of patience and almost superhuman efforts, he managed to solve, and I presume that, guided, probably, by a feeling of gratitude for the small help that my friend and I were able to give him, he has left his secret in my custody. The man remained silent for a few minutes with his only eye fixed on me, motionless and irritated. –Ah!–he finally exclaimed impatiently.–I see that you completely ignore everything. Maybe it’s better to continue like this.–Then he added:–Let’s talk now about another matter, about the future. “And what does the future have?” I asked him. –I have been appointed secretary of Mabel Blair and administrator of her assets. “And I promised Burton Blair on his deathbed to defend and protect the interests of his daughter,” I told him, in a calm and cold voice. –May I ask you, then, while we are discussing the matter, if you have marital intentions regarding her? “No, you shouldn’t ask me anything like that,” I shouted angrily. “Your question is an insulting impertinence, sir.” “Come on, come on, Gilberto,” Reginaldo interrupted. “There is no need to start a dispute.” –No, by the way–declared Mr. Ricardo Dawson with an imperious air.–The question is very simple, and as the future administrator of the young woman’s fortune, I have a perfect right to ask it. I understand,” he added, “that she has become a very attractive and kind girl. “I refuse to answer your question,” I said vehemently. “I could also ask you why you have been living secretly in Italy all these past years or why you received your correspondence addressed to a house on a side street in Florence.” His face lost its vigor, his eyebrows contracted slightly, and I noticed that my observation had caused him some suspicion. –Oh! And how do you know that I have lived in Italy? But in order to mislead and confuse him, I smiled mysteriously and replied: –The man who possesses Burton Blair’s secret also knows certain secrets concerning his friends.–Then I added pointedly:–El Ceco is well known in Florence and Lucca. His face turned white, his thin, sinewy fingers moved again, and the contortion that quivered the corners of his mouth showed how deep and intense the impression had been made on him by the mention of his nickname. –Ah!–he exclaimed–Blair has betrayed me, so he has sworn falsely to me, after all. That’s what he told you, huh? Very good!–And he laughed with the strange hollow laugh of a man contemplating revenge.–Very good, gentlemen. I see that in this matter, my position is that of an outsider. “Speaking frankly, sir, I will tell you that this is precisely the case,” Reginaldo intervened. “You were unknown until the dead man’s will was read, and I don’t think I’m going too far in saying that Miss Blair will have some anxiety about being forced to take care of a stranger.” –A stranger!–he laughed with haughty sarcasm.–Dick Dawson a stranger! No, sir, you will see that I am no stranger to her. On the other hand, I think that you will also have the opportunity to know that the young woman will welcome my intention instead of displeasing her. “Wait and see,” he added, in an extremely confident tone. “Tomorrow I intend to go to Mr. Leighton’s office, and take charge of my duties as secretary to the daughter of the late millionaire Burton Blair,” and accentuating the last words, he laughed again defiantly in our faces. He was not a gentleman. The moment he entered the room I met him. His outward appearance was that of a man who had had contact with respectable people, but it was only a superficial veneer, for when he lost his cool and became agitated, he showed that he was as rough as the rough seaman who had so suddenly expired. His accent was pronouncedly London, although it was said that, because he had lived in Italy for so many years, he had become almost an Italian. A truly son of London can never hide his nasal _enes_ even if he has spent his life in the farthest corner of the world. We had both quickly realized that the stranger, although rather thin in build, was extraordinarily muscular. And this was the man who held those frequent secret interviews with Fray Antonio, the grave Capuchin monk. He had shown that he was not afraid of us, by the bold manner in which he had come to see us, and the frankness with which he had spoken to us. It was known that he had complete confidence in his position, and that inwardly he laughed at our ignorance. “You speak of me, gentlemen, as of a stranger and unknown,” he exclaimed, buttoning his overcoat after a short pause and taking up his cane. “I suppose I will be one tonight… but tomorrow I will no longer be one.” I hope that very soon we will learn to know each other better; then they may trust me a little more than they did tonight. Remember that for many years I have been the dead man’s closest friend. On the tip of my tongue I had the observation that poor Burton’s motive for putting that strange clause in his will was the fear that he inspired in him, and that he had inserted it under duress; but happily I controlled myself, and with some courtesy I said “good night.” “Hang me, Gilberto,” Reginaldo shouted, when the one-eyed man had retired. “The situation becomes more interesting and complicated every moment.” Clearly Leighton is going to have to deal with a tough customer. –Yes–I sighed.–He has the best part of all of us, because it is clear that Blair was aware of everything, since he was completely trusted. “It is my opinion, Greenwood, that Blair has treated us shabbily!” burst out my friend, choosing a new cigar, and biting the end angrily. –Remember that he left me his secret. “It may be that he destroyed it after making the will,” Reginaldo pointed out. –No; Either it must be hidden, or it has been stolen, that is what has not been clarified. For my part, I believe that the idea we entertained that a murder had been committed is gradually dissipating. If he had suspected that he had been the victim of infamy, he would surely have told us something before he died. Of that I am completely convinced. “It is very likely,” he observed with some doubt, however. “But what we now have to discover is whether that little bag that he always carried with him still exists.” –It is evident that this Dawson was in England before poor Blair’s death. “It may have come into his possession,” I indicated. “In any case, it is very likely that he will try to seize her,” Reginaldo agreed. “We must know exactly where she was and what she did the day Blair so mysteriously lost consciousness on the train.” I don’t like the guy, aside from his _alias_ and secret friendship with Blair. Your intention is bad, old man, very bad. I have seen her shine in the only eye she has. Remember what he said about Blair having betrayed him. It seems to me that he harbors the idea of taking revenge on poor Mabel. “I better not try to offend her,” he exclaimed fiercely. “I have to keep the promise I made to poor Burton, and I will keep it.” Yes, I swear to God I will! to the letter. I will be careful not to let it fall into the hands of that adventurer. –She fears him in advance. Why would it be? –Unfortunately, he doesn’t want to tell me. It is possible that this man is in possession of some dishonorable secret of the dead man, the knowledge of which, if made public, could result in Mabel’s discredit and expulsion from polite society. Seton grunted, leaned back in his chair, and stared thoughtfully at the fire. –By Job!–he exclaimed, after a brief pause.–Will that be so? The next morning, while we were having lunch, a messenger boy arrived with a card from Mabel, in which she asked me to come to her house immediately. Without wasting a minute, therefore, I sipped my coffee, hurriedly put on my greatcoat, and a quarter of an hour later entered the cheerful morning room of the mansion in Grosvenor Square, where the dead man’s daughter, with her face flushed with agitation, was waiting for me. “What’s wrong?” I asked her as I took her hand, afraid that the man she detested had already come to see her. “Nothing serious,” he answered, laughing. “I just have very good news for you.” –For me? what is it? Without answering me, he placed on the table a small, smooth silver cigarette case, which on the corner of the lid had the initials BB, a monogram that could be seen engraved on all of Blair’s dishes, on his carriages, harnesses, and other objects of his own. “See what’s inside it,” he exclaimed, pointing to the box he had. ahead, and smiling sweetly with deep satisfaction. I took it eagerly, lifted the lid, and looked at what was in its bosom. –What!–I shouted, almost beside myself with joy.–It can’t be true! –Yes–she laughed.–It is. And then with trembling fingers, I took out from inside the box the precious object that had been bequeathed to me, the small used chamois bag the size of a man’s palm, to which was attached a thin but very strong gold chain so that it could be hung around the neck. “I found it this morning by chance, exactly as it is, in a secret drawer of an old desk in my father’s dressing room, ” he explained. “The one who must have placed it there as a precaution before leaving for Scotland.” I held it in my hand completely astonished, but, nevertheless, with the deepest delight. Didn’t the fact that Blair had separated from it, leaving it stored in that box, rather than risk taking it with him during that trip to the North, prove that he had feared being the victim of an attack to obtain its possession? However, the small and curious object, which in such strange conditions had been bequeathed to me, was now in my hand, and it was a flat, carefully sewn bag of chamois skin, blackened by use and time, about half an inch thick, and enclosing something hard and smooth. Within it was hidden the great secret, the knowledge of which had transformed Burton Blair, the poor homeless sailor, into a millionaire. What it was, neither Mabel nor I could for a moment imagine. We were both breathless, equally eager to ascertain reality . There is no doubt, no man has ever faced a more interesting or enigmatic problem in his life. He silently took a pair of small buttonhole scissors from the desk next to the window and handed them to me. Then, my hand trembling with agitation, I inserted the tip into the end of the bag and cut it length by length, but what fell on the carpet a moment later elicited two loud exclamations of surprise from us. Burton Blair’s most valuable possession, the great secret that he had always carried with him during all those past years and in his wandering travels , at last discovered, turned out to be truly astonishing. Chapter 14. THE OPINION OF AN EXPERT. On the carpet, at our feet, lay scattered a packet of very small, rather dirty, playing cards that had fallen from the bag, and which the two of us stood looking at with surprise and disappointment. For my part, I had hoped to find inside that suede treasure bag something of more value than those pieces of hard cardboard, handled and quite worn, but our curiosity was instantly aroused when I bent down, lifted one of them and discovered certain letters written in dark, half-erased ink, similar to those on the letter I already had in my possession. It turned out to be a ten of pentacles, and in order that the readers may get a clear idea of how the letters were arranged, I reproduce a copy of it opposite. –How strange!–exclaimed Mabel, taking the letter and examining it carefully.–It must be some encrypted enigma, just like the other one I found inside a sealed envelope in the iron box. “There is no doubt,” I said, noticing, while I was bending over, picking up the rest of the package, “that all of them, both on the front and the back, had fourteen or fifteen letters written in three columns, all, by the way, entirely unintelligible.” I counted them. They formed a pack of thirty-one cards, missing the ace of cups, which we had found earlier. Due to having always carried them with him, the constant rubbing for so long had worn down the tips and edges, while the luster had long since disappeared. ————————- O T S CP O J E L O L O JN N ————————-
Helped by Mabel, I spread them all out on the table, truly stunned by those columns of letters that showed that they contained some deep secret, but that it was completely impossible for us to decipher. On the obverse of the ace of wands there were three parallel columns, of five letters each, arranged in this way: EHN WED TOL IEH WHR Then, I turned over the king of spades, and on the reverse I found only these fourteen letters: QWF TSW JHU OFE YE “What will all this mean?” I exclaimed, carefully examining the written characters in the light. The letters were capital letters, and as clumsily and insecurely drawn as those of the ace of cups; there is no doubt, they must have been made by an uneducated hand. The A’s denoted a foreign rather than an English form of letter, and the fact that some letters were written on the front and others on the back seemed to indicate that there was some hidden meaning. Whatever it was, it presented itself as an enigmatic and intricate problem. “It is certainly very curious,” observed Mabel, after having spent some time trying in vain to put together some intelligible words with the letters in columns, using the easy method of calculation. “I had not the slightest idea that my father had kept his secret hidden in this way.” “Yes,” I said, “it’s truly amazing.” There is no doubt, its secret is written here, and we would know it, if we possessed the key. But it is likely that his enemies know of its existence, or else he would not have left it stored here when he left for Manchester. Maybe Dawson knows. “It’s very likely,” she answered. “He was the man in my father’s most intimate relationship.” –His friend, he says it was. –Friend!–she shouted offended.–No, your enemy. –And, therefore, your father feared you, right? It was that reason that induced him to insert that imprudent clause in his will. Then I told him about Dawson’s visit to us the night before , everything he had said to us, and the daring defiance he had adopted toward us. He sighed, but didn’t say a single word. I noticed that while I was speaking her face had become somewhat paler, but she remained silent, as if she had been afraid to speak, for fear that I would inadvertently reveal what she intended to remain a secret. My absorbing thought at that moment was, however, the clarification of the problem that was hidden within those thirty -two well-handled letters that were before me. The secret of Burton Blair, the knowledge of which had produced his fortune of millions, was locked there, and now that it belonged to me by legacy, it was in my interests to make every effort to discover the exact truth. I remembered the immense care he had taken with that little bag that lay empty on the table, and the negligent confidence with which he had shown it to me that night when he was nothing more than a homeless vagabond wandering the roads in search of the turnstiles. As he held it in his hand showing it to me, I had seen his eyes shine with a living light of hope and anticipation. Someday I would be a rich man, he had prophesied to me, and I, in my ignorance, had believed then that he was a dreamer, a deluded person. But looking around the room in which he was now standing and seeing works by Murillo and del Tintoretto, that each of them constituted a small fortune, I was forced to confess that I had made a mistake and that my distrust had been unjust. And now the secret written on that little, insignificant-looking packet of letters was mine—if only I could decipher it! It was impossible that there could be a more enigmatic and mortifying situation for a poor man like me. The man whom I had once been able to protect had left me, as proof of recognition, the secret of the origin of his enormous wealth, but hidden so well that neither Mabel nor I could decipher it. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked me, after having remained silent for ten minutes examining the letters. “Isn’t there an expert in London who can find the key?” It is likely that those people who are dedicated to the art of cryptography can help us. “There is no doubt,” I answered, “but in that case, if they managed to do it, they would discover the secret for themselves.” –Ah, I hadn’t thought about that! –The instructions that your father has left in the will are very explicit and strict, he recommends the greatest reserve in the matter. “But the possession of these letters without the key is certainly not of much benefit,” he argued. “Could you not consult some expert person and ascertain by what means it would be possible to decipher this key of enigmas?” “I could make inquiries in a general sense,” I replied, “but to blindly place the packet of letters in the hands of an expert would be, I fear, handing over your father’s most reserved possession to others.” It may be that there is some information written here that is neither convenient nor pleasant for the world to know. –Ah!–he exclaimed, quickly raising his eyes and looking at me.–Some information concerning your past, you mean. Yes. You are right, Mr. Greenwood. We must be very cautious and know how to keep the secret of these letters well, especially if, as you have indicated, Dawson knows the means of making this enigma intelligible. “The secret has been bequeathed to me, and, therefore, I am going to take possession of them,” I told him. “I will also make some inquiries, and ascertain by what means these figures can be put into understandable English.” I thought at that moment of a Mr. Bayle, a teacher at a preparatory school located in Leicester, who was a real expert in these matters of figures, codes and anagrams, and I resolved not to waste time in going there and getting his opinion. At noon I caught the train at St. Pancras, and around two-thirty I was sitting with him in his private room at school. He was a man of average age, clean shaven and of quick intelligence, who had frequently won prizes in the various competitions offered by different newspapers; a man who seemed to have memorized Bartlett’s _Dictionary of Family Quotations_, and whose ingenuity and ability to decipher riddles was incomparable. While we were smoking, I explained to him the point on which I wanted his opinion. “Can I see the cards?” he asked me, taking the pipe out of his mouth and looking at me with some surprise, it seemed to me. My first impulse was to refuse to show it to him, but then I remembered that he was one of the greatest experts there was in these matters, and, consequently , I took the small package out of the envelope in which I had put it. –Ah!–he exclaimed the moment he had them in his hand and ran through them quickly.–This is the most complicated and difficult of the coded enigmas, Mr. Greenwood. It was in vogue during the 17th century in Spain and Italy, and later in England, but in the last hundred years or more it seems to have fallen into disuse, probably due to its great difficulty. With the greatest care he placed all the cards in rows on the table, and devoted himself to long and complicated calculations between the heavy puffs of smoke that his pipe gave off. –No!–he finally exclaimed.–It’s not what I expected. Through the system of deductions you will never get the solution. You can try to decipher it for a hundred years, but it will be in vain if he does not discover the key. There is, in fact, so much ingenuity in this kind of cipher, that a writer of the last century calculated that in a packet of cipher letters such as these, there are at least fifty-two million possible arrangements and combinations. “But how is the figure written?” I asked, very interested, even though dejected when I saw that he couldn’t help me. “In the following way,” he replied. “The author of the secret decides what he wants to record, and then arranges the thirty-two letters in the order he wishes. Then he writes the first thirty-two letters of his record, souvenir, or whatever, on the front or back of the thirty-two letters, one letter in each one consecutively, starting with the first column, and then continuing through the second and third columns, in their order, until he writes the last letter of the figure. Certain letters are
also usually placed in the place of the spaces, and sometimes the enigma becomes even more difficult to decipher for the one who happens to find the cards, when they are shuffled in a specially arranged way when reaching the middle of what is being written. “Very clever!” I observed, completely confused by the extraordinary complication of Burton Blair’s secret. “And yet the letters are written so clearly!” –That’s right–the professor laughed.–At first glance it seems the simplest of all the methods of figures, and yet, it is completely unintelligible, unless you know the exact formula in which it is written. When that is achieved, the solution is easy. The letters are arranged in the order they were in when they were written, and taking a letter from each successive letter, the riddle is spelled, reading down one column after another and ignoring the letters placed in the place of the spaces. –Ah!–I exclaimed anxiously.–How I wish to know the key! “So it’s a very important secret?” Bayle asked. –Extremely important–I responded.–It is a reserved matter that has been placed in my hands, and that I am obliged to resolve. –I fear that I will never be able to achieve it, unless the key exists, as I have already told you. It’s too hard for me to try to do it. The complications, which seem so simple in construction, effectively protect the secret from every possible solution and guarantee it from any danger. Therefore, all efforts made to decipher it without knowing the order in which the letters were placed will necessarily be useless. He put them back inside the envelope and handed them to me, feeling like he couldn’t help me at all. “You can try to figure it out every day for years and years,” he declared, “and you won’t be able to get close to the real solution.” It is too well protected to be solved by chance, and is, in truth, the most ingenious and surest cipher that the ingenuity of man has ever devised. I stayed a while longer and had a cup of tea with him; but at four- thirty I boarded the express and left for London, disappointed with my completely sterile journey. Given what he had explained to me, the secret became more impenetrable and inscrutable than ever. Chapter 15. CERTAIN THINGS WE DISCOVERED IN MAYVILL. “Miss Blair, sir,” Glave announced to me the next day, a little before twelve. I was alone in my private room, smoking and completely confused in the task of solving the problem of the dead man’s letters. I jumped up to greet Mabel, who was charming and very elegant in her rich, warm furs. “I suppose that if Mrs. Percival knew that I had come here alone, she would give me a serious lecture on the impropriety of coming to visit a man in his rooms,” she said, laughing, after I greeted her and closed the door. –You can almost say that it is the first time that you have honored me with a visit, right? And it seems to me that you don’t need to worry much about it. Let Mrs. Percival think. –Oh! “It’s getting stiffer every day,” Mabel grumbled. “I shouldn’t go here, nor there; He is scared that I will talk to this man or that other, and so on in the same style. Truly, I am getting tired of this, I assure you,” he declared, sitting down in the chair that I had just vacated, detaching the collar of his heavy fur cloak and bringing his precious foot closer to the fire in the fireplace. “But she has been a very good friend to you,” I argued. –According to what I have been able to see, she has been the most comfortable of the companion ladies. “The truly model is the one who disappears completely five minutes after she has entered the room,” said Mabel. “And it is only fair that I give Mrs. Percival what she deserves, because she has never taken a fancy to me at balls and meetings, she has always left me at liberty, and if she has found me sitting in some secluded and dark spot, she has had an excuse at hand to direct me elsewhere . Yes,” she sighed, “I suppose I shouldn’t complain when I remember those old nags in whose power other girls are. For example, Lady Anetta Gordon and Violeta Drummond, two beautiful girls who have debuted in this last _season_, suffer real torture from those old witches who accompany them everywhere. Both have told me that they cannot raise their eyes to look at a man without having to endure a harsh lecture the next day on polite manners and girlish modesty. –In truth, I don’t think you have, until now, many reasons to regret. “Your poor father was very lenient with you, and I am sure that Mrs. Percival, though she may sometimes seem a little stiff, is only doing it for your own good,” I said frankly, standing on the stove-cloth and contemplating her beautiful figure. –Oh! I know that in your opinion I am a very willful girl,” she exclaimed, with a smile. “You always used to say that when I was at school. “It was, to be honest,” I answered openly. –By the way. You men never have indulgence with a girl, nor do you grant her anything. They are owners of their freedom when they wear their long pants for the first time, while we, the poor girls, are not left alone or free for a second, neither inside nor outside the house. It doesn’t matter whether we are as ugly as a witch or as beautiful as Venus, we have to be tied to some elderly woman, who very often happens to be as fond of a moderate “flirt” as the naive young woman in her charge. Forgive me, Mr. Greenwood, for speaking so candidly, but my opinion is that the modern methods of society are all pretense and deceitful. “It seems that you are not in a very good mood today,” I observed, unable to stop smiling. “No, I’m not,” he confessed. “Mrs. Percival is getting very annoying. ” I want to go to Mayvill this afternoon, and she won’t let me go alone. –Why do you want, so badly, to go alone? She blushed slightly, and for a moment seemed taken aback. –Oh! “I’m not so determined to go alone,” she replied, trying to convince me. “What I object to is the foolishness of wanting to prevent me from traveling alone like any other young woman does.” If a maid is free to make a railway journey alone, why can’t I do it too? –Because you have to respect the conveniences of society, and a servant does not need that. “Then I prefer the lot that was her lot,” she declared in a way that made me understand that something must have bothered her. I, for my part, would have been very sorry if Mrs. Percival had allowed her to go alone to Herefordshire, but it was evident that she had some secret reason for not wanting her respectable companion to go with her. –What could it be?–I mused. I asked him why he wanted to go to Mayvill even without a maid, but he excused himself by saying that he wanted to see if they were all right. The other four hunting horses were taken care of by the head of the stud, as well as to make a complete search in his father’s study, in case there were important or intimate papers left there. She had the keys in her possession, and she wanted to do this before that hateful man took her place. This indication, evidently invented as an excuse, seemed to me to be carried out without further delay; but it was so clear that she wished to go alone, that at first I hesitated to offer her my company. Our friendship was of such an intimate and close nature that I could, by the way, make that proposal to him without going beyond my own limits; However, I decided to first try to find out the powerful reason I had for wanting to travel alone. But Mabel was a smart woman, and she had no intention of telling me. It was known that she was dominated by a secret desire to go alone to that splendid country mansion that was now her property, and that she did not want Mrs. Percival to accompany her. “If you are going to search the library, wouldn’t it be better, Mabel, if I accompanied you and helped you?” I finally indicated. “This is, by the way, if you allow me,” I added apologetically. She remained silent for a moment, like someone devising a way to resolve a dilemma; Then he answered me: –If you want to come, it will be a real pleasure for me. Yes, you must help me, because we may discover the key to the encrypted enigma of the letters. My poor father, half a month before he died, was there for about three days. –And when will we leave? –At three thirty, from Paddington station. Will it be comfortable for you? He will come with me and be my guest. And he laughed mischievously at seeing how conventions were broken, and no account was taken of the probable displeasure it would cause to Mrs. Percival. –Very well–I agreed; and ten minutes later he accompanied her down and made her climb, smiling sweetly, into her elegant victory, whose coachman and footman were now dressed in mourning. Is it not true that you suppose that he was playing a very dangerous game? And it was like that, in fact, as you will have the opportunity to see later. At the appointed hour I met Mabel at Paddington, and leaving her sad musings and misfortune aside , we set out on the journey to Dunmore Station, beyond Hereford. Once here, we got into the car that was waiting for us, and after walking almost three miles, we got off in front of the splendid old mansion that Burton Blair had bought two years before, because the place was admirably suitable for hunting parties and angling. Standing in the midst of its beautiful park, midway between Kings Pyon and Dilwyn, Mayvill Court was, and still is, one of the country’s landmarks worth seeing. It was an ideal hereditary mansion. The great old house, with its lofty square towers, its King James entrance, its porte-cochère, the beautiful box-trees of fantastic shapes, and the sundial in its fine old-fashioned garden, had a delightful charm of which few old mansions could boast; and, furthermore, in its perfect state of conservation, without any alteration even in its smallest details, another interesting feature of its attraction was contained. For almost three hundred years it had been in the possession of its original owners, the Baddesleys, until Blair had bought it, including the furniture, the paintings, armor, and, in short, everything in it. It was nearly nine o’clock when Mrs. Gibbons, the old housekeeper , received us, her eyes full of tears for the death of her master, and we entered the great hall paneled with oak panels, in which were seen the sword and the portrait of the brave knight, Captain Henry Baddesley, of whom a romantic story was still remembered there . Having barely escaped the battlefield with his life, the captain spurred his steed and headed home, closely followed by some of Cromwell’s soldiers. His wife, a lady of great value, barely had time to hide him in the secret chamber before the man arrived. enemy to search the house. Without flinching much, she helped them herself and personally guided them throughout the mansion. As happened in many other cases, you had to go through the main bedroom to enter the secret room, and when the soldiers entered the first one to inspect it, their suspicions were aroused. Therefore, they decided to stay there for the night. The wife of the persecuted man sent them a hearty dinner and some wine, conveniently mixed with a good dose of drugs, which resulted in the unpleasant guests falling into a deep sleep, and the brave captain, before the effects of the wine had worn off, being very far out of reach. From that day on the old mansion had remained absolutely as it was, without suffering the slightest alteration, with its row of dark and aged family portraits in the great hall, its King James-style furnishings, and its ancient helmets and lances that had suffered the blows and crashes of the battle of Naseby. The night was terribly cold. Huge pieces of wood were burning in the large open fireplace, and as we stood before the fire, warming ourselves after the journey, Mrs. Gibbons, who had been informed of our visit by a well-delivered telegram, announced that she had prepared a good dinner for us, as she knew we would not be able to arrive at dinner time. She and her husband expressed to Mabel their deepest regret for her recent misfortune. After taking off our coats, we went to the small dining room, where Gibbons and a servant, in livery, waited on us and served dinner, with all that ancient majesty characteristic of that splendid mansion that had existed for so many centuries. Gibbons and his wife, old servants of the former owners, were somewhat surprised, it seemed to me, to see that I had only come in company with their young mistress, although Mabel had explained to them that she wished to make an examination of all the objects belonging to her father in the library, and that for that reason she had invited me to accompany her. However, I must, for my part, confess that I had not yet drawn any conclusion regarding the true motive for that visit; although he was convinced that there was some ulterior motive, which he could not even suspect. After dinner, Mrs. Gibbons led my pretty companion to her room, while Gibbons showed me the one she had prepared for me. It was a large room on the first floor, the windows of which gave a wide view over the rolling meadows stretching to Wormsley Hill and Sarnesfield. He had occupied this same room on several previous occasions, and knew it well, with its large antique, carved, four-poster bed, its antiquated tapestries and hangings, chests of drawers and wardrobes in the King James style, and its burnished oak ceiling. After having a light _toilette_, I met my elegant and delicate young guest in the library again. It was a large, long, ancient room, where a bright fire burned, and the lamps were softly shaded with shades of yellow silk. From one end to the other were rows of books with their gray spines, which had probably not been touched for half a century. After Mabel allowed me to smoke a cigarette and told Gibbons that she wished no one would bother her for an hour or more, she got up and locked the door so that we could begin our research work without interruption. “I don’t know if we will discover anything of interest,” she said, turning her beautiful eyes towards me, overcome by an agitation that she could not suppress as she went to the large desk and took her father’s keys from her pocket . “I suppose this task falls to Mr. Leighton,” she added, “but I prefer that you and I take a look at my father’s affairs, before the lawyer comes to examine them with his searching eyes. It seemed that he had some hope of finding something that he wanted to hide from the lawyer. The dead man’s desk was a heavy old-fashioned piece of furniture, made of carved oak, and when she opened the first drawer and took out what it contained, I pulled up two chairs and began to help him, in order to make a methodical and complete examination. The papers were mostly letters from friends and correspondence with lawyers and commission agents in the City, who told him about their different money investments. I was able to realize, from some that I read, how enormous the benefits had been that I had obtained from certain negotiations carried out in South Africa, while in others allusions were made to matters that for me were extremely enigmatic. Mabel’s anxious attitude was that of a person searching for a document she believes is there. He hardly bothered to read the letters; He just examined them quickly and put them aside. Thus we searched one drawer after another until I saw in his hand a large blue envelope, sealed with black sealing wax, and which had the following inscription, written by his father: “To be opened by Mabel after my death.–_Burton Blair._” “Ah!” he murmured almost out of breath , “what will this contain?” other papers. Something else also fell out of the envelope, which I picked up, and to my great surprise I found that it was a very worn and cracked snapshot, but that it was preserved because it was attached to a piece of canvas. It represented a landscape of crossroads in a flat and rather desolate country region, with a solitary little house, which had probably at one time been a gatehouse, with high chimneys, located on the edge of the royal road, with a small garden surrounded by a fence on one side . In front of the door was a rustic portico covered with climbing roses, and outside, on one side of the path, an old Windsor armchair, which seemed to have just been vacated. While examining the photograph under the light, the dead man’s daughter quickly read the document her father had written. Suddenly she screamed in horror, as if horrified by some discovery she had made, and, startled, I turned to look at her. His face had changed completely; Even his lips were white. –No!–she stammered hoarsely.–No… I can’t believe it… I don’t want to believe it! Once again he looked at the paper in his hand to reread those fateful lines. –What is there?–I asked anxiously.–May I know?–And I approached where she was. –No–he responded firmly, placing the document behind him.–No! Nor should you know this!–And with astonishing speed he tore it to pieces, throwing the fragments into the fire before I could save them. The flames rose, and a moment later the dead man’s confession, if such a thing it was, was consumed by them and disappeared forever, while his daughter stood, haggard, stiff, and pale as a dead woman. Chapter 16. IN WHICH TWO CURIOUS FACTS ARE CONFIRMED. That sudden and unexpected action of Mabel surprised and upset me, because I had believed that our friendship was of such an intimate and close nature that it would have allowed me, at least, to take a look at what her father had written. However, when I reflected a moment later that the envelope had been specially addressed to her, I realized that its contents had been expressly intended for her eyes only to see. “Have you discovered something that has upset you?” I asked, staring at her pale, wrinkled face. “I hope it’s nothing too disconcerting.” He held his breath for a moment, with his hand instinctively placed on his chest, as if he had wanted to calm the strong and violent beating of his heart. –Ah! Unfortunately it is,” he replied. “Now I know the truth, the terrible truth… horrible. And, without adding another word, she covered her face with her hands and burst into a sea of tears. I was immediately at her side trying to console her, but I soon realized the deep impression of horror and terror that those words written by her father had produced in her. His pain was immense; His entire being was overcome by inconsolable grief. The silence that reigned in that long, old-fashioned room was interrupted only by her bitter sobs and by the solemn ticking of the large antique clock at the far end of the room. My hand rested tenderly on the poor girl’s shoulder, but it was a long time before I could get her to wipe away her tears. When she did, I saw from her face that she had changed and was another woman. He returned to the desk and lifted the envelope, reading a second time the inscription Blair had written on it, and then his eyes fell on the photograph of the solitary house near the crossroads. “What!” she exclaimed, startled, “where did you find this?” I explained that it had fallen out of the envelope; then he took it and looked at it for a long time. Then, turning it over, he discovered something I had not noticed: written faintly in pencil and half erased, were the following words: ‘Owston Crossroads, 9 miles beyond Doncaster, on the Selby Road.–_B. B._» –Do you know what this is? –No, I don’t have the slightest idea–I answered.–It must be something that your dad took great care of. It looks very worn, as if someone had kept it in their pocket. “Well, then I’ll tell you,” he told me. –I had no idea that he still had it, but I think he has kept it as a souvenir of those tiring journeys on foot from the distant past. “This photograph represents the place I was looking for throughout England,” he added, still holding it in his hand. “I had only this snapshot as a guide, and, therefore , we were forced to travel up and down all the royal roads of the country, in order to find the point we were looking for. It was not until almost a year later that you and Mr. Seton had the generosity of putting me at school, in Bournemouth, that my father managed to discover what he had been searching for for three long years, as he continued his weary excursions alone. One summer night he finally managed to identify the crossroads of Owston, and found living in the house the person he had searched for so hard and with so much sacrifice. “It’s curious,” I exclaimed. “Tell me more about it.” –Nothing more needs to be said, except that, due to the discovery of the house, he obtained the key to the secret; At least, that’s what I’ve understood him whenever he’s talked about this,” he replied. “Ah! I remember well those endless and tiring walks as a child; how we traveled those long, white, endless roads, in sun and rain, envying the people who rode in cars and carts, the men and women who rode bicycles, and yet my courage was always sustained by my father’s words of encouragement and his declaration that one day we would possess a great fortune. He carried this photograph with him constantly, and at almost every crossroads he took it out, examined the landscape and compared it, without knowing, of course, whether the old house had been demolished after the snapshot was taken. –Didn’t he ever tell you the reason he had for wanting so badly to visit that house? –He used to tell me that the guy who lived there, the same one who had the habit of sitting on the chair placed outside the house on summer afternoons , was his friend, even though they hadn’t seen each other for a long time and he didn’t know if my father was still alive. I think they had been friends abroad, when my father had been sailing. “And the reason your father had for these constant wandering trips was to identify said place?” I exclaimed, happy to have clarified the finally a point, which, for five years or more, had been a real mystery. –Yeah. A month after he had obtained his desired object, he came to Bournemouth to see me, and told me in confidence that his golden dream of possessing a great fortune was close to being realized. He had solved the problem, and within a week or two he expected to have abundant resources. Almost immediately after this he disappeared, and was absent for a month, as you remember. After that time he returned rich; so rich, that you and Mr. Seton were entirely confused. Don’t you remember that night we were in Helpstone, when I left school for a week to be with my father, because he had just returned from his trip? We had all gathered together after the meal and my poor father remembered the time when we had also gathered there for another purpose, when I fell ill on the way and was brought to your house. And don’t you remember that Mr. Seton seemed to question my father’s statement that he already had a fortune of fifty thousand pounds? “I remember,” I replied, as his beautiful pure eyes met mine. –I remember well how your father left us completely confused when he came down and brought his banker’s account book, which proved to have a balance in his favor of fifty-four thousand pounds sterling. After this it was a bigger mystery than ever for us. “But tell me,” I added in a low and anxious voice, “what did you discover tonight that impressed you so much?” –I have almost found proof of a fact that for years I have feared was true; a fact that not only affects my poor father’s memory , but also affects me. I am in danger… yes, in personal danger. –How?–I asked him quickly, without understanding the meaning of his words.–Remember that I promised your father to be your protector. –I know, I know. “That’s a lot of kindness from you,” she said, looking at me gratefully with those wonderful eyes that had always fascinated me with the spell of her beauty. “But,” she added, shaking her head sadly, “I’m afraid that you are helpless in this.” If the blow falls, as it must sooner or later, I will be crushed and lost. There is no power that can save me then; Not even your faithful and noble friendship will serve me. –Certainly, Mabel, you speak in a very strange way. I don’t understand it. –I think so–was his brief answer.–You don’t know everything. If I knew, I would understand how risky my position is and how great the danger that threatens me. He stood motionless as a statue, his hand resting on the corner of the desk and his eyes fixed on the cheerful fire. –If the danger is so great and true, I think I should know it. “To be forewarned is to be prepared!” I observed him decisively. –It is very real and great, but since my father’s confession was only for me, I cannot reveal it. Your secret is mine. –Certainly–I responded, accepting his resolution, which was natural, given the circumstances. He could not reveal his late father’s confidences . However, if he had done so, how different the course of events would have been! Undoubtedly, the story of Burton Blair was one of the strangest and most romantic that any man had ever been given to tell, and the strange circumstances that occurred after his death were, certainly, even more remarkable and enigmatic. The whole thing, from beginning to end, was a complete enigma. Later, when Mabel had calmed down a little more, we concluded our investigative work, but discovered very little of interest outside of several letters in Italian, undated and unsigned, even though they were evidently in the handwriting of Dick Dawson, the millionaire’s friend… or enemy. Reading them, I found that it was the correspondence of an intimate relationship, which participated in Blair’s fortune and secretly helped him in the acquisition of his wealth. HE They mentioned “the secret” a lot in them, and I also discovered repeated warnings that I should not reveal anything about it to Reginaldo or to me. In a letter I found this paragraph in Italian: «Your daughter is becoming a real lady. I hope that one day she will be a countess, or perhaps a duchess. I know, for her part, that Mabel, in turn , is becoming a very pretty young woman; and I think that you should, given his position and name, make him contract a good bond. But I know how outdated your ideas are on the matter, since you are one of those who believe that a woman should marry only for love. »
The reading of these letters left a decisive fact vividly impressed on me, and it was: that if this Dawson secretly participated in Blair’s fortune, he certainly had no need to obtain his secret by nefarious means, since he knew it. The stable clock struck twelve before Mabel called Mrs. Gibbons, and her husband also came soon, bringing me a comforting whiskey and some hot water. My pretty little companion shook my hand cheerfully, wishing me good night, and then retired, accompanied by the housekeeper, while Gibbons remained mixing my drink. “Sad thing, sir, what has happened to our poor master,” the well-educated servant risked saying, who had spent his entire life in the service of the previous owners. “I fear that the poor young lady feels the weight of her misfortune too much.” “You’re too sorry, Gibbons,” I responded, taking a cigarette and standing with my back to the fire. “She was a very loving and devoted daughter to her father.” –She is the owner of everything now, according to what Mr. Ford told us when he was here, about three days ago. “Yes, everything is hers,” I said; “and I hope that you and your wife will serve her as faithfully and as well as you have served your father.” “We will try to do it, sir,” was the response of the grave, gray-haired servant. “Everyone loves the young lady very much, who is today our young mistress.” She is very good with all the servants. Then, as I remained silent, he placed my light ready on the table, greeted me and bid me goodnight. He closed the door on his way out, and then I was alone in that great old silent room, where the moving flames cast strange shadows and lights in the dark spots, and the tall old Chippendale clock ticked as solemnly as it had done for a century. After drinking my hot drink, I approached my dead friend’s desk again, and carefully examined it to see if it had any secret drawers. I subjected it to a methodical search, but as I could not find any unsuspected cavity or hidden button, after taking one last look at that photograph that had made Blair wander exhaustedly for months and years to identify it, I turned off the lamps and crossing the great ancient hall, with its standing armor that seemed to conjure visions of spectral knights, I went up to my room. The bright fire gave the old room, with its funereal hangings, a cheerful and comfortable appearance that contrasted with the strong frost outside, and not having the desire to sleep yet, I lay down in an armchair and sat down to reflect deeply. Again the clock in the stable struck the hour, the middle hour, and I think I must have dozed for a while afterwards, because I woke up suddenly when I heard light furtive footsteps on the polished oak floor in front of my door. I listened, and heard distinctly, that someone glided gently down the grand staircase, which creaked very slowly. The strange appearance of that old mansion and its many historic traditions gave me some misgivings, it seems, for I found myself thinking of robberies, thieves, and nocturnal visitors. Once again I began to listen with all attention. Maybe he was just a servant after all! However, when I looked at my stopwatch and saw that it was missing a room for two, the idea that the servants were not already resting was immediately discarded from my mind . Suddenly, in the room below mine, I clearly heard a slow, harsh and unpleasant noise. Then everything fell silent again. However, about three minutes later, I thought I heard a vague murmur of voices, and then, quickly extinguishing the light, I drew one of the heavy curtains in my room, and looked out, seeing, to my great surprise, two figures crossing the meadow towards the forest of bushes. The moon was somewhat hidden by the clouds, but in the opaque and hazy light that it spread, I could distinguish that those two figures were a man and a woman. It was impossible for me to recognize him from behind; but the bearing and gait of his companion, as she hurried toward the shadowy circle of dark, bare trees, were very familiar to me. That was Mabel Blair. The secret was discovered. His sudden desire to come to Mayvill had been for the purpose of holding a midnight interview. Chapter 17. WHICH REFERS PURELY TO A STRANGER. Without a moment’s hesitation I put on my overcoat, covered my head with a golf cap and went down to the room below mine, where I found one of the large windows open, and through it I quickly emerged onto the sandy road. She intended to discover the reason for this nocturnal interview and the identity of her companion, who must evidently be some secret boyfriend whose existence she had hidden from us all. But to follow her straight across the moonlit meadow was to be discovered instantly. Therefore, I was forced to make a circular and tortuous circuit, always seeking the protection of the shadows, until at last I reached the forest of bushes, where I stopped and began to listen anxiously. There was nothing to be heard except the soft creaking of the branches and the sad moan of the wind. A distant train was crossing the valley, and somewhere in the nearby village a dog was barking. I could not, however, distinguish human voices. Slowly I made my way through the fallen leaves until I had skirted the edge of the entire forest, and then I concluded that they must have crossed some lost path and then entered the park. My march became more difficult, because the moon was not sufficiently covered by clouds for my movements to have been protected by shadows, and I was afraid to make my presence known if I went out into the open. But Mabel’s behavior in coming here to see this man, whoever he was, filled me with confusion and embarrassment. Why didn’t she meet him in London?–I mused.–Would this boyfriend be so unpresentable that his appearance in London would be impossible? It is neither unusual nor novelty for a well-born girl to fall in love with the son of a farmer, any more than it is for a gentleman to love a peasant woman. Many pretty girls in London today feel a secret admiration for some young farmhand or handsome groom of their father’s estate, the gravity of this undeclared love being contained in the complete impossibility of its realization. Being all eyes and ears, I continued my march, taking as much advantage as possible of the shadow, but it seemed that they had gone in a different direction than I had believed, since they had started almost five minutes before me. At last I managed to reach the comparative darkness projected by the old beech avenue that led directly to the gatekeeper’s house on the Dilwyn road, and I continued along it for about half a mile, when suddenly my heart leaped with joy, because in front of me I distinguished the two walking side by side, conversing animatedly. My jealousy and anger were immediately aroused by seeing this, and fearing that they might hear my footsteps on the road covered with hard snow, I slipped behind the trees and took over the grass of the park, soon managing to approach almost alongside them without making noise or attracting their attention. When they reached the old stone bridge across the river, which formed the outlet of the lake, they stopped, and I, hiding behind a tree, was then able, in the light of the moon, which had fortunately acquired greater brightness, to see well the features of Mabel’s mysterious companion. I judged that he must have been about twenty-eight years of age, and he seemed to me to be a vulgar, ill-educated man, with a flat, broad nose and yellow hair, whose heavy figure, leaning as he did against the low parapet, was undoubtedly that of a farmer. His face was hard-featured and prematurely weathered, while the cut of his suit was of that marked type of “tailoring” made in the emporium tailoring shops of provincial cities. He had his hard felt hat tilted a little to one side, as neighborhood dandies and peasant lads usually wear on their Sunday walks . From what I could observe, it seemed to me that he treated her with extraordinary disdain and great familiarity, talking to her about “you” and lighting an ordinary cigarette in her presence, while she, for her part, did not seem to be very calm, as if she had attended, rather forced, than of her choice. He had wrapped himself comfortably in a thick woolen cloak and a well-fitting peaked cap, which, pulled over his forehead and eyes, half hid his features. –Really, Herberto, I cannot understand the object you are pursuing– I heard her argue.–What possible benefit could such an action be for you? “Very much,” answered the man, adding in a rude and rude voice, which bore the unspeakable mark of the countryman’s uneducated language. “What I say I will do.” You know that well, don’t you? –By the way–he answered.–But why do you treat me this way? Think of the danger I expose myself to by coming to see you here at night. What would people think if they knew? “What do I care about what people think?” he exclaimed indifferently. “You have, without a doubt, managed to keep up appearances… but I haven’t, happily. “But isn’t it true that you won’t do what you say in a threatening tone?” he asked, in a voice of true tenor. “Remember that our secrets are mutual.” I have never discovered you… neither a little nor a lot. –You haven’t done it, because you knew what the result would be, in that case–he laughed with contempt.–I have never trusted a woman’s word … I assure you never. “Now that the old man has died, you are rich, and I want money,” he added decisively. “But I still don’t have anything,” he replied. –And when are you going to have it? –I don’t know. First you must comply with all legal formalities; That’s what Mr. Greenwood told me. –Oh! “Damn Greenwood!” the guy burst out. “They say he’s always in London with you; Ask him, then, to make you give a little money for the lawyers. You can tell him that you are in a hurry, because you have to pay some bills, or something else like that. Any lie will be good for him. –Impossible, Herberto–she answered, trying to remain calm.–You must be patient and wait. “Oh, yes, I know!” he cried. “Tell me I’m good and faithful like a dog and all that stuff; but you should know that for me it is not that kind of game… do you understand me? I have no money, and I must… rather, I need some now… on the spot… this very night. “I tell you I have nothing,” he declared. –But you have a good amount of jewelry, silverware and other knick-knacks. Give me some of that, and I can easily sell it in Hereford tomorrow. Where do you have that diamond bracelet, the one you showed me, that the old man gave you on your last birthday? “Here,” he replied, and, raising his wrist, he showed the beautiful jewel of diamonds and sapphires that his father had given him, worth, at the very least, two hundred pounds sterling. “Give me this, then,” he exclaimed. “It will last me a day or two until you get me money.” She hesitated, making it known that she was not willing to agree to such a request, and more especially when the bracelet was the last gift her father had given her. However, when that man repeated his demand in a more threatening tone, it became clear that his influence was supreme, and that in his unscrupulous hands she saw herself as helpless as a poor creature. The situation was a real revelation for me. I could only suspect that it was the result of an innocent “flirtation” before fortune had smiled on her, which had caused great arrogance to develop in that vulgar man, trying to prevail over his good nature; and then, seeing that she was generous and tender, he had assumed this attitude of control over her actions. It is very difficult to follow the course of the peasant’s thoughts and way of being. In rural England today there is very little sincere gratitude from the poor to the rich, and it reaches such a degree that in the country districts the gift of charity is hardly appreciated, while the rich people grow weary of their efforts to please or improve the condition of the people. The modern peasant, although very honest in his dealings and business with his class, cannot resist the temptation to be immoral when he sells his products or his work to the man of fortune. It seems to be part of their religion to extract, whether by licit or illicit means, all they can from the gentleman, and then insult him in the village ale-house and mock him, presenting him as a fool who allows himself to be deceived in this way. Much as I am sorry to have to declare it, however, all this is a bitter and self-evident truth, for immorality and deceit are at the present time the two most notable features of English village life. He was standing, motionless and stunned, listening to this strange conversation between the millionaire’s daughter and her secret lover. That man’s arrogance made my blood boil. More than a dozen times, when he despised her by insulting her, or then flattered her, then threatened her, and finally feigned repellent affection, I felt impelled by the desire to pounce on him and teach him a good, wholesome lesson. But I held my hand, because I recognized that in this matter, in view of its gravity, I could only help Mabel by remaining hidden and using what I knew to her advantage. No doubt Mabel had believed herself, in her youthful inexperience, to be in love with that man, but now the horror of the situation was presented to her in all its vivid reality and she found herself hopelessly involved and trapped. He had probably come to the appointment nursing the vain illusion of seeing if he could get rid of his dangerous position; but the man whom he called Herbert soon discovered that he was the owner of all the honors in the game at hand. “Come on,” he finally said, in his rude language, “if it’s true that you don’t have money, give me the bracelet and that’s it.” I don’t think we want to wait here all night, as I have to be in Hereford early tomorrow. The less said, the better. I saw her tremble with terror, white to the lips, shrinking as if to avoid his touch. –Ah! Herberto, yours is too cruel,” he said crying, “too cruel… after everything I have done to help you. Don’t you have pity, don’t you have… compassion? “No, I don’t have any,” he howled. “I want money, and I must get it.” You have to pay me a thousand pounds within a week… have you heard? –But how can I do that? Wait and I will give you that sum later, I promise. “I’m telling you, I’m not going to let myself be fooled anymore,” he shouted furiously. “I’ve stated that I want the money, because otherwise, I’m going to make everything public.” “So where are you going, eh?” And he laughed in a harsh and triumphant way, while she retreated pale, terrified and breathless. I clenched my fists in anger, and to this day I am amazed at how I was able to control myself not to jump out of my hiding place and throw that impudent man to the ground. peasant. I would have been able at that moment to leave him dead on the spot. –Ah!–she cried, with her hands together, extended towards him in an attitude of supplication,–surely you do not intend to do what you say, it is not possible for you to think of such a thing, no; you can’t do it! You will free me, you will save me that suffering, won’t you? Promise me! “No, I won’t spare you, unless you pay me well,” was his brutal response. “I will, yes, I will,” she assured him in a hoarse voice, in the voice of an eminently desperate, terrified woman, afraid of seeing some terrible secret of hers discovered. “Ah!” she exclaimed with contempt, curling her lip, “once you treated me with disdain, because you considered yourself a great lady, but now I am going to take revenge, as you will see.” You are currently the owner of a great fortune, and I openly declare to you that I intend for you to share it with me. Proceed as you see fit, but remember what refusing will mean to you: exposure! –Ah!–she cried desperately,–tonight you have revealed yourself under your true face! Rough! You would lose me, without the slightest remorse! “Because, dear girl, you are not playing fair to me,” was his arrogant and cold reply. “You thought you had gotten rid of me forever very cleverly, until tonight I showed up here again, as you see, soon, come on… ready to be a pensioner, shall we call him that?” Don’t think I have the heart to allow you to deceive me this time; Therefore, give me the bracelet as a first payment, and let us speak no more. And he threw a fist at her arm, which she avoided, making a quick movement. “I don’t accept,” he exclaimed with a sudden and fierce determination. “Now I know you!” You are brutal and inhuman, without a hint of love or esteem… one of those men who, in order to get money, is capable of driving a poor woman to suicide. Now that you have been freed from prison, you intend to live on me: your letter with that proposal is sufficient proof. But tonight I declare to you here that you will not get from me a penny more than the sum now paid to you every month. –To seal my lips–he interrupted.–And I saw in his black eyes an evil, criminal lightning. “You don’t need to keep them sealed any longer,” she replied in an openly defiant manner. “I myself am going to reveal the truth, and thus put an end to this brilliant blackmail plan of yours.” “Therefore, I think you have understood me now,” he added firmly, with a courage that was admirable. There was silence between them for a moment, interrupted only by the strange cry of an owl. “So this is absolutely your decision?” he asked in a harsh voice, and I noticed that his face was white with anger and disgust as he recognized that if she spoke the truth and faced the consequences of her own exposure, whatever it was, her power over the young woman would be destroyed. –My resolution is made. I am not afraid of any revelation you may make concerning me. “Anyway, give me that bracelet,” he demanded savagely, gritting his teeth, grabbing her by the arm and forcibly trying to remove the clasp from the jewel. –Let go of me!–he shouted.–Brutus! Let go of me! Are you going to rob me, after insulting me? “Rob you!” he murmured, with a perverse expression of unbridled hatred on his rude pale face. –Rob you!–he hissed pronouncing a dirty oath,–I’m going to do more than that! I’m going to put you where your damn tongue won’t move anymore, and where you won’t be able to tell the truth! And unfortunately, before I could know his designs, he took her by the wrists and, with a swift movement, forced her to retreat so violently against the low parapet of the bridge, that for a moment they were united in a deathly embrace. Mabel screamed in terror, realizing his intentions, but a moment later, with a vile imprecation, he threw her backwards over the wall, falling noisily and helplessly to the bottom of the walls. deep and dark waters. I immediately rushed to save her, while the criminal fled, but alas! It was too late, because I saw to my horror, as I anxiously peered into the darkness of that abyss, that the floating mass of ice had covered it, and it had completely disappeared from sight. Chapter 18. THE CROSSROADS OF OWSTON. The noise of the murderer’s quick steps, as he fled along the shadowy avenue towards the road, brought me out of the despondency I was in and gave me a vivid sensation of my responsibility in the presence of that, and I immediately took off my overcoat and jacket, then stopping to look full of anxiety at the black darkness under the bridge. Those seconds seemed like hours, until suddenly I saw a white lump in the middle of the river, and without a moment’s hesitation I jumped into the water in search of it. The impression of the water was very hard, but, fortunately, I am a strong swimmer, and neither the intense cold nor the force of the current had much power to prevent my progress towards where the body of the unconscious girl was. After I took it, however, I had to fight terribly to prevent it from dragging me towards the bend, where I knew that the river, joined with another of its tributaries, widened, and where the chances of effecting rescue would have been very slight. For a few minutes I struggled with all my might to keep the poor unconscious girl’s head above the surface, however, the current was so powerful, with its masses of floating ice, that any resistance seemed impossible, and we were both dragged some distance downstream, until at last, calling my last strength to my aid, I managed to get out of danger with my insensible load and reach a sandbank, where I was able, with a fierce struggle, to jump ashore and drag the poor girl onto the frozen shore. Many years before I had attended a first aid course for a while, and I remembered at that moment the instructions I had received then and immediately set to work to produce artificial respiration. It was hard work to do alone, with my wet clothes clinging to my body, cold and hard from the terrible cold; but I nevertheless persevered, determined, if possible, to bring her back to life, and this I happily accomplished half an hour later. At first she couldn’t say a word, and I didn’t question her. It was enough for me to know that she was still alive, because when I brought her ashore I believed that all human help was useless, and that her vulgar lover’s cowardly attack had been successful. He shivered and shook from head to toe, because the night wind cut like a knife, and finally, at my instruction, he stood up and, leaning heavily on my arm, tried to walk. The attempt was very weak at first, but then she quickened her pace somewhat, and, without either of us mentioning what had happened, I led her down the long avenue to the house. Once inside, he told me that it was unnecessary to call Mrs. Gibbons, and in a very low voice he implored me to keep quiet about everything I had witnessed. He took my hand in his and held it. “I want you to forget, if it is your will, everything that has happened,” she exclaimed, deeply anxious. “Since you followed me and heard what happened between us, I want you to consider that those words have never been uttered.” I want… that…–he stammered, and then fell silent without finishing the sentence. “What do you want me to do?” I asked him after a brief moment of painful silence. “I want you to still look at me with some esteem, as you always have,” she murmured, bathed in tears, “because I don’t like to think that I have fallen in your appreciation.” Remember that I am a woman… and a woman’s impulses and indiscretions can be forgiven. “You have lost absolutely nothing of my esteem, Mabel,” I assured her. “The only thing I am sorry for is that that scoundrel has committed a crime against you.” that terrible and outrageous attack. But it has been a happiness that I have followed her, even though I think I should apologize for having assumed the character of a spy. “He saved my life,” he answered in a whisper, shaking my hand affectionately as if thanking me. Then he slid quickly and silently down the grand staircase and was out of sight. The next morning he appeared in the dining room at lunchtime, apparently hardly noticing the damage caused by his dangerous escape from death, perhaps the only visible traces being two large black circles around his eyes, which revealed his terrible anxiety and insomnia. But nevertheless he chatted cheerfully, as if he had not had a care in the world to grieve about. While Gibbons was serving us, he could not speak with confidence, but when his eyes were fixed on me, his gaze was full of meaningful expression. Finally, when we finished, and together we crossed the great hall to return to the library, I said to him: – Are you going to allow last night’s unfortunate incident to go unnoticed? If you do, I fear that this man may make another attempt on your life. It will certainly be much better for you to know, once and for all, that I have witnessed your infamous cowardice. –No–he responded in a low and painful voice.–I beg you not to discuss that. It must go unnoticed. –Because? –Because, if I tried to get him punished, he might declare something… something I want to remain a secret. I knew that, and I remembered every word of that heated late -night conversation. The rascal knew some secret of hers, which she feared would be revealed, as it must be depressing and harmful. From beginning to end it was indeed a most remarkable and strange enigma! From the winter night when I found her lying on the side of the high road at Helpstone, until this very moment, mysteries had been piling up upon mysteries, secrets upon secrets, until, with the death of Blair and the packet of little letters she had so curiously bequeathed to me, the problem had assumed gigantic proportions. “That man would have murdered her, Mabel,” I exclaimed. “Are you afraid of him?” “Yes, I have him,” he answered simply, with his gaze fixed across the meadow and the distant park, and sighed. “But shouldn’t you now assume the defensive in view of the fact that this man has deliberately tried to take your life?” I argued. “His villainous action last night was truly criminal!” “It was,” he said with a hollow and confused voice, turning his eyes toward me. “I had no idea of his intention.” I confess that I came here because he forced me to come and have an interview with him. He has learned of my father’s death and now understands that he can get money from me; that I will have to give in to their demands. “But I think you can tell me your name, at least,” I exclaimed. “Herberto Hales,” he answered, not without some hesitation. Then he added:–But I wish, Mr. Greenwood, that you would do me the favor of not mentioning this painful matter again. Don’t you know how much I depend on this man’s silence upsets me? I promised her, even though I had previously made every effort to try to induce her to give me some clue as to the nature of the secret that this rude peasant possessed. But he was adamant and refused to tell me anything. That the secret was something that affected her or her honor seemed evident, because every time I indicated to her that it would be good to force that man to come face to face with her, she shuddered with terror at the mere idea of the frightful revelation that she could make in revenge. She wondered whether this document, dedicated to her alone, written by the one who no longer existed, and which she had destroyed the night before, might not have some connection with the secret of Herbert Hales. In truth, whatever the nature of what this man knew, the fact is that it was so His secret was powerful, forcing her to come from London to arrange conditions with him, if possible. Fortunately, however, all the inhabitants of Mayvill were completely unaware of the events of the previous night, and when we left the mansion at noon , returning to London, Gibbons and his wife bade us farewell at the door and wished us a safe journey. The butler and his wife believed, indeed, that the object of our rapid visit had been to record the dead man’s effects, and with the natural curiosity of servants, both were eager to know if we had discovered anything of interest, although they could not question us directly. Curiosity increases the greater the fidelity and trust one has in a servant, until this servant, generally faithful and reserved, knows as much and knows as well the affairs of his or her master or mistress as they do themselves. Burton Blair had been particularly fond of the Gibbons couple, and it almost seemed that they considered themselves slighted because they were not informed of all the provisions of their late master’s will. We only shared with them the legacy of two hundred pounds each that Blair had given them, which gave them the deepest pleasure. After leaving Mabel in Grosvenor Square and bidding her farewell, I immediately returned to Great Russell Street, and found that Reginald had just returned from his business in Cannon Street. Proceeding in accordance with the plea of my sweet and charming little friend, I did not tell her anything about the unpleasant and exciting incident of the previous night. All I told him was the examination we had done of Blair’s desk and what we had discovered in it. “We must go and see that Crossroads house, I think,” he exclaimed when he had seen the photograph. “From Kings Cross to Doncaster is a quick trip; We can go and come back tomorrow. I’m interested in knowing the house that Blair was looking for all over England and for which reason he wandered for months and years until he discovered it. This photograph must have come into his possession,” he added, handing it to me, “without any name or indication of its location. I agreed that we should go and see the mysterious house with our own eyes; therefore, after spending a pleasant and quiet night at the Devonshire, we started the next day for Yorkshire by the first morning train. When we arrived at Doncaster station, to which we drove from London without stopping, we took a wheel and headed along the wide, snow-covered high road through Benttey, covering some six miles or more, until, after passing Owston Park, we suddenly found ourselves on the Crossroads, where stood the solitary old house, just as the photograph represented it. It was an old and strange building, similar to those old gate houses that you see in ancient engravings, only it was missing the old iron bar. However, the gate posts were still preserved, and as a sheet of snow had fallen during the night, the appearance of the place was truly wintery and picturesque. The old house, with its wide chimneys giving off smoke, seemed to have been enlarged after the photograph was taken, because in the right corner stood a new wing of red brick, which transformed it into a comfortable dwelling. However, as we drew nearer to it, seeing it rise from the white snow-covered plain, we felt that it was silently breathing the atmosphere of that forgotten time, when the messengers from York and London passed by, the masked knights of the roads were hidden in the gloomy forest of fir trees that stretched beyond the open commons of Kirkhouse Green, and the postilions never tired of praising those wonderful and famous cheeses at the old Bell inn, in Stilton. Our driver passed us by, and about a quarter of a mile from the point we made him stop, got out and retreated on foot, ordering him to leave us. I would wait. We knocked on the door and an old woman with a cap and ribbon decorations opened it . Reginaldo, who assumed the role of interlocutor, apologized and told him that we had been passing by; but, having noticed from its exterior that it was evidently an old gatehouse, we had not been able to resist the desire to call and ask to be allowed to see the inside. “Welcome, gentlemen,” replied the woman, in her rude Yorkshire dialect. “It is an old house and I assure you that many people have come to visit it in the years that I have been in it.”
Through the room you could see the old black beams, two centuries old, while in one corner was the old-fashioned fireplace, which presented a comfortable and attractive appearance with its well-polished oak seat , and the large pot boiling over the cheerful fire. The furniture had changed little from what existed in that old era of cars and couriers, but the general atmosphere that reigned was one of abundance and comfort. “Have you lived here long?” asked Reginald, after we had examined our surroundings and saw the little triangular window in the corner of the chimney, from where the gatekeeper could formerly command with his eyes many miles along the road that stretched through the heath. –Next Saint Michael’s Day I will have been here for twenty-three years. –And your husband? –Oh! “Here he is,” the woman laughed, then calling him: “Come, Enrique, where are you?” and then she added: “He has not been away from here for a day, since he returned to his homeland eighteen years ago and left the sea.” We are both very attached to this old abode. A bit lonely, people might say, but just a mile away is Burghwallis. When we heard her mention that her husband had returned from sea, we both paid full attention to her words. This was evidently where the man Burton Blair had sought from one end of England to the other resided. Chapter 19. IN WHICH A TRACE IS FOUND. A door opened and a tall, thin, old man with white hair and a pointed gray beard stepped forward. It was known that he had left when we arrived to change his jacket, because he was wearing a folded blue jacket that had been used very little, but whose collar was crooked, showing that he had just put it on at that moment. His face was deeply furrowed with large, straight wrinkles across his forehead; It was the physiognomy of a man who for years had been exposed to the rigors and inclemencies of the wind and weather of different climates. After greeting us, he laughed happily when we explained our admiration for old houses. We told them that we were from London, and that we always loved the portage houses, due to their relationship with the ancient means of transportation in the past. “Yes, those were very hectic days,” he said in a rather thin voice for such a rough appearance. “Today the automobile has taken the place of the picturesque stagecoach and its pairs of horses, and they pass here drinking in the winds at all hours of the day and night, making their bugles resound. Imagine such a thing at the same point where Claudio Duval stopped the Duke of Northumberland and then gallantly escorted Lady Maria Percy to Selby. Famous highwayman, of French nationality, but who went to England as a young man. The old man seemed to deplore the disappearance of the good old days, for he was one of those men who are known as “of the old school,” full of narrow prejudices against every new idea, whether of medicine, religion, or politics, and he declared that, when he was young, men were men and knew how to hold their own successfully in competition with the foreigner, whether in the peace of commerce or in the clash of arms. He told us that his last name was Hales, which gave me the greatest surprise, since it was the same as Mabel’s secret boyfriend, and in the run From the conversation we learned that he had spent a good number of years at sea, mainly on commercial voyages through the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. “But now it seems that you are very comfortable,” I observed, smiling; “you have a comfortable and attractive house, a good wife, and everything that can make you happy.” “You say well,” he answered, taking a long clay pipe from the andiron of the open fireplace. “A man needs nothing more.” I am overjoyed and wish everyone in Yorkshire was as comfortable as I am in this tough time. The old couple seemed to be flattered by our visit, and kindly offered us a glass of strong beer. “It’s homemade beer,” declared Mrs. Hales. “People like us can’t afford to have wine, but try it yourself,” she insisted, and as we were urged, we were pleased to find an excuse to prolong our visit. The old woman went to the kitchen to bring glasses, and taking advantage of this circumstance, Reginaldo stood up, quickly closed the door, and, turning to Hales, said in a low voice: –We want to talk privately with you for about five minutes. “Do you recognize this?” he added, taking out the photograph and putting it in front of the old man. –It’s my house!–he exclaimed surprised.–But what about that? –Nothing, except that you must answer my questions. They are of the greatest importance, and the real object of our coming has been to be able to make them for you. First, have you met a man named Blair, Burton Blair? –Burton Blair?–the old man repeated, resting his hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned forward anxiously.–Yes; because? –That man discovered a secret, right? –Yes, through me… and he made millions because of that, they say. –When was the last time you saw him? –It will be five or six years ago. –When did you finally discover that you lived here? –That is. He traveled all the roads in England to find me. –Was it you who gave him this photograph? –No, I think he must have stolen it. –Where did you first meet him? –On board the Mary Clowle, in the port of Antwerp. He was a sailor, like me. But why do you want to know all this? –Because,-Reginaldo answered,–Burton Blair has died, and his secret has been bequeathed to my friend, Mr. Gilberto Greenwood, here present. “Burton Blair is dead!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet, as if he had received an electric shock. “Burton is dead!” Does Dick Dawson know? “Yes, and it’s in London,” I replied. “Ah!” he exclaimed impatiently, as if all his plans had been upset by Dawson’s advance knowledge of the news. “Who told you?” How the hell did he know? I had to confess my ignorance on the matter, but, in answer to his question, I deplored the tragic and unforeseen end of our friend, and told him how he had been left in possession of the packet of cards, on which the encrypted enigma was written. “Do you have any idea what his secret really was?” asked the wiry old man. “I mean, do you know where his great fortune came from?” –I know nothing, absolutely nothing. Maybe you can tell us something, right ? –No–he said,–I can’t. Suddenly he became rich, even though a month or two before he had been wandering and dying of need. He found me, and I gave him certain information, for which he later rewarded me very well. It was these reports, he told me, that formed the key to the secret. “Did they have nothing to do with this packet of letters and the figure?” I questioned him impatiently. –I don’t know, because I have never seen the letters you mention. When he arrived here one cold night, he was exhausted, starving, and completely despondent. I made him eat, gave him a bed to rest in , and told him everything he wanted to know. The next morning, with money which I lent him, he took the train to London, and when I heard from him again, it was by a letter in which he informed me that he had paid to my order to the County Bank, in York, one thousand pounds sterling, as we had agreed would be the sum he would pay me for my reports. And I assure you, gentlemen, that no one was more surprised than I, when the next day I received a letter from the Bank confirming his. Then he deposited an equal sum in the same bank every year on January 1st , as a small gift, as he said. –So, you never saw him again after that night when you finally managed to find him? “No, not once,” answered Hales, then turning to his wife who had just entered, to tell her that he was engaged with us in a reserved conversation and to ask her to leave us alone, which she did immediately. “Burton Blair was a man of original character,” he continued, turning to me, “and always was.” There was never a better sailor who ate salted beef than him. He was a splendid navigator and truly intrepid. He knew the Mediterranean as well as other men know Cable Street in Whitechaple, and his life had been full of adventure. But on land he was a giddy madman. I remember with what difficulty we once escaped with our lives from a small town on the Algerian coast. Moved by a mischievous impulse, he lifted the veil of an Arab girl we met on the road, and when she screamed for help, we barely had time to run away quickly, I assure you–and he laughed heartily as he remembered her antics on land.–But we both had a hard time in Camarones and in the Andes. I was older than him and when I first met him I couldn’t help but laugh at what I thought was his ignorance. But I soon realized that he had gotten twice as much benefit as I from his travels and adventures in the short time he had been sailing, since he had a skillful ability to desert and enter the points he wanted, whenever an opportunity was offered. He fought in half a dozen revolutions in the countries of Central and South America and used to tell us that, on one occasion, the rebels in Guatemala had elected him their minister of commerce. –Yes–I confirmed–he was a very notable man in many ways with a very notable story as well. From the beginning to the end his life was a mystery, and it is that mystery that I am trying now, after his death, to discover. –Ah! But I fear that yours is a very difficult task,” answered his old friend, shaking his head. “Blair was extremely reserved in everything. He never allowed his right hand to know what his left was doing. You will never be able to fully understand all his liveliness and ingenuity, or his motives. “And can’t you guess the reason he had for letting you know his secret?” he added, as if it had been a sudden thought. –He did it only out of gratitude. On one occasion I was able to give him a little help. –I know. He told me everything that happened, telling me how you two had put your daughter in school to finish her education. But,” he continued, “Blair has had some reason for leaving you that unintelligible figure; you can be sure. He knew very well that he would never get his solution alone. –Because? –Because others, before you, have tried and failed. “Who are they?” I asked, with great surprise. –One is Dick Dawson. If he had succeeded, he would have taken Blair’s place , becoming a millionaire. The thing is, he wasn’t insightful, and the secret was passed on to our friend. –So, you don’t believe that I can ever discover the solution to the encrypted riddle? –No–answered the old man, very frankly,–I don’t believe it, nor do I predict it to you either. “And what about your daughter?” he added. “I think her name was Mabel, isn’t that right?” “He is in London and has inherited the entire fortune,” I answered. Hearing this, the old man’s wrinkled face lit up with a severe smile, and he observed: –There is no doubt, he will make a splendid marital conquest. Ah! If you could get him to tell you everything he knows, it would put him in possession of his father’s secret. –That! “Does she even know him?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure about that?” –I am; she knows the truth. Ask him. “I will,” I declared. “But can’t you tell us what kind of information you gave to Blair that night you finally found him again?” I asked him persuasively. “No,” he replied in a decisive tone, “it was a reserved matter, and it should remain so.” My services were rewarded, and as far as I am concerned, I have washed my hands of it and have nothing to do with it. –But you can tell me something about this strange investigation of Blair’s; something, I mean, that can put me on the path to solving the secret. –The secret of how he obtained his fortune, you say, eh? –By the way. –Ah! My dear sir, you will never discover that, mind you, even if you live to be a hundred years old. Burton Blair was careful to hide that from everyone. “And he was very well helped by men like you,” I said, with a bit of impertinence, “I’m afraid.” “Maybe, maybe, yes,” he replied quickly, his face reddening. –I
promised to remain silent and I have kept my promise, because the comfortable and comfortable position that I now enjoy, I owe solely to your generosity. –A millionaire can do anything, certainly. His friends assure him of his money . “Friends, yes,” answered the old man, gravely; “but not happiness.” Poor Burton Blair was one of the most unfortunate men, I’m pretty sure of that. I knew he spoke the truth. The millionaire had confessed to me many times, in confidence, that he had been much happier in his days of hardship and reckless adventures beyond the seas, than now that he was the owner of the great mansion in West End and the first rural estate in the county of Herefordshire. “Attention,” Hales exclaimed suddenly, shifting his penetrating gaze from Reginaldo to me and on, “I’m going to give you a warning,” and he lowered his voice until it became almost a weak murmur. “You say that Dick Dawson has returned.” Be careful with him! You can bet your head, sure that man has bad intentions! Also, take great care of your daughter; She knows more than you think. “We harbor a slight suspicion that Blair did not die of natural causes,” I observed. “Do you have misgivings?” he exclaimed, startled. “Why do you think that?” –The circumstances have been so notable that they have made us enter into doubts–I replied, and then I went on to explain the tragic end of our friend and everything that happened, as I have already had the opportunity to relate it. “Don’t you suspect anything about Dick Dawson?” asked the old man anxiously. –Because? Did he have any reason to wish to be free of our friend? –Ah! I don’t know. Dick is a very entertaining customer. He always had Blair under his control. They were a very notable couple; one emerging as a millionaire, and the other living abroad, I believe in Italy, in the greatest secrecy and seclusion. “Dawson must have had some very powerful reason for remaining so hidden,” I observed. “Because he was forced to be,” Hales answered, with a mysterious movement of his head. “There were reasons for him not to show his face to the light .” I myself am amazed to see how he has dared to show himself now. –What!–I shouted anxiously–does the police need it? “I imagine that you would not welcome a visit from any of those scrutinizing gentlemen from Scotland Yard,” answered the old man, after some hesitation. “Remember that I am not making any accusations, absolutely none.” However, if he intends to commit any evil action, you can mention to him, in passing, that Henry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming to London to pay him a visit. morning Observe then the effect that these words will produce on him–and the old man laughed, adding:–Ah! Mr. Bird Dawson, I imagine you still have to settle your score with me. “Then you will help us?” I exclaimed vehemently. “Can you save Mabel Blair if you want?” “I will do my best,” was Hales’ reply, “because I recognize that a most ingenious conspiracy is being hatched somewhere .” Then, after a short pause, during which he refilled his pipe with tobacco, and with his eyes fixed on me thoughtfully, he added: “You have been saying a moment ago that Blair has bequeathed you his secret, but you have not explained to me the exact terms of his will.” Didn’t he say anything about that? –In the clause in which he makes the donation to me, there is a strange couplet that says: _King Henry the Eighth_ _was a Knave to his queens,_ _Hed one short of seven_ _and nine or ten scenes!_ and also insists that I hide the secret from all men, exactly as he has done. But, since the secret is encrypted, I added, it will be impossible for me to know it. “And you don’t have the key?” smiled the old sailor, his face hardened by the inclemencies of the sea. “None… unless the key is hidden within that rhyme!” I exclaimed, this strange and quick thought occurring to me for the first time. And again I repeated the verse out loud. Yes, all the playing cards in that pack of playing cards are mentioned in it: _King king, eight eight, Knave jack,_ _Queen queen, seven seven,_ _nine nine, ten ten._ My heart jumped. Would it be possible that by arranging the cards in the following order the record could be read? If that was so, then Burton Blair’s strange secret was mine at last! I expressed my surprising and sudden idea, and the old man’s tanned face lit up with a triumphant smile, exclaiming: –Arrange the cards and try it. Chapter 20. READING THE RECORD. The envelope that contained the thirty-two letters was in my pocket, along with the photograph attached to the canvas; Therefore, I cleared the square old oak table, eagerly took them out, and placed them on it, while Reginald and the old man looked at me breathlessly. “The first one mentioned in the rhyme is the king,” I said. “Let’s put the four kings together.” Once arranged, I placed the four eights, the four jacks, the queens, aces, nines and tens, in the order they were in the poetry. Reginaldo was quicker than I to read the first column and declared that it was an entirely unintelligible mess. Then I read it, and, deeply disappointed, I was forced to confess that, after all, the key was not to be found there. However, I remembered what my friend from Leicester had explained to me, noting how it could be found in the first letter of each letter, reading one after the other consecutively throughout the whole packet, and I tried, repeatedly, to arrange them in an intelligible manner, but had no success. The figure remained as confusing and enigmatic as ever. I had spent entire nights with Reginaldo, trying, in vain, to discover something, but it had always been useless, since we had never been able to decipher a single word. I changed the letters from top to bottom, but the result was the same. –No,-observed old Hales,–he has not yet managed to find what he sought; but I am sure, however, that he is close by. That couplet gives the key, you have pointed it out to me. “I sincerely believe that is so, but the point is to discover the convenient arrangement of the cards,” I declared agitated and breathless. –Precisely–Reginaldo observed sadly.–That is the ingenuity of the figure. It is so simple, and yet so extraordinarily complicated at the same time, that the possible combinations that can be made with it amount to millions. Think about it! –But we have the rhyme, which, distinctly, tells us its arrangement.–And I repeated the couplet again.–It’s quite clear, and we should have seen it from the beginning–I responded. “Then try the king of one suit, the eight of another, the jack of another… and so on with the rest,” Hales indicated, bending over the small cards with keen interest. Without loss of time I followed his advice, and carefully replaced them in the manner he had said. But again the result was unintelligible, as it was nothing more than a group of enigmatic, deceptive and disappointing letters. I remembered what my friend, an expert in the matter, had told me, and my heart sank deeply. “Do you not know, in fact, the means by which the problem can be solved?” I asked old Mr. Hales, for I had been seized at that moment by the suspicion that he knew them well. “I assure you that I can’t tell you anything,” was his quick reply, “because I don’t know them.” However, it seems to me that that couplet forms, in some way, the key. Try another arrangement of the cards. –Which? “What else can I try?” I asked confused, but he just shook his head. Reginaldo, with paper and pencil in his hand, was trying to decipher and make the letters understandable by means that I had tried several times, namely: substituting A for B, C for D, and so on for all the others. Then he tried adding two letters, then three, and even more, in order to discover the key, but, as had happened to me before, his work was entirely lost. Meanwhile, the old man, who seemed to handle the letters with too much interest, was, I saw, trying to rearrange them himself, placing his finger on one, then on another, and then on a third, as if he had known the specific arrangement of them, and reading the record to himself. Perhaps it was possible that he was in possession of the key to the problem we had there, and that he was learning Burton Blair’s secret , while we remained in the dark! Suddenly, the old, wiry sailor straightened up, and, looking at me, exclaimed, with a smile of triumph: –Look, Mr. Greenwood; There are four suits here, aren’t there? Take the test in alphabetical order: the clubs, cups, swords and pentacles. First take all the clubs and arrange them like this: king, eight, jack, queen, ace, seven, nine, ten; then the cups, and then the other two suits. Once the arrangement is finished see what you can get out of it. Helped by Reginaldo, I proceeded to place the cards on the table again as he had indicated, and I arranged them, according to the strange rhyme, in four columns of eight cards each, in alphabetical order. –Finally!–cried Reginaldo, almost beside himself with joy.–Finally! We already have it, man! Look! Read the first letter of each letter all the way down, one column after the other. What do you spell? The three of us were gasping for breath, and apparently the most agitated of all was old Hales, or, perhaps, he had been leading us astray and feigning ignorance. He had only arranged the first row, the one of clubs, but it already read the following: King BONTDRNNCROAUIT Eight EITYGOJTAENNWNH Jack TNHJENTYNDJOIDE Queen WTESJTHFDTOLLTC Ace EWJIWHEOEHNDLHR Seven EHLXHEFUFEEEFEO Nine NEEPEFIRERWOIOS Ten TRFARIFJNEINNLS –The first column begins with the word _Between_ Come in!–I shouted, contemplating in astonishment the first understandable thing I had discovered. “Yes, and I see other words in the other columns!” exclaimed Reginaldo, snatching from me, full of agitation, some of the cards that I had, and helping me to arrange the other rows. Those moments have been the most hectic, nervous and solemn of my life. The great secret that had produced all his fabulous wealth for Burton Blair was going to be revealed to us. I could become a millionaire, just like its late owner had ! Once all the cards have been arranged in the corresponding order: the eight of cups, the eight of swords and the eight of gold below the eight Of course, I took a pencil and wrote the first letter of each letter. –Yes!–I shouted, almost out of my mind and prey to the greatest excitement,–the arrangement is perfect. Burton Blair’s secret is out! –It’s a kind of record!–exclaimed Reginaldo. And it begins with the words: Between the _Ponte del Diávolo_… This name is Italian, and I suppose it means: Devil’s Bridge! “The Devil’s Bridge is an old medieval bridge near Lucca,” I explained quickly, and then I remembered the serious face of the Capuchin monk, who lived in the silent monastery near said place. But at that moment all my attention was devoted to clarifying the enigma, and I had no time to reflect. The letter Y was placed at some points instead of space, apparently with the aim of confusing, and thus hiding the secret of any probable or casual solution. At last, after almost a quarter of an hour, because some of the letters were quite erased, I discovered that the coded record I had been writing was a strange document containing the following: “Between the Devil’s Bridge and the point where the Serchio joins the Lima, on the left bank, four hundred and fifty-six paces from the base of the bridge where the sun shines only one hour on the 5th of April and two hours on the 5th of May, at noon, descend twenty-four steps, behind which a man can defend himself against four hundred. There are two large rocks, one on each side. On one of them you will find an old E engraved. Go down to the right hand side and you will find what you are looking for. But first find the old man who lives in the house at the Crossroads. “What will all this mean?” observed Reginald, and turning to Mr. Hales, he added: “The last part refers to you.” The old man laughed intentionally, and we understood that he knew more about Blair’s affairs than he wanted to confess. “It means that some secret is hidden in that narrow and romantic valley of Serchio , and these are the instructions to discover it,” I said. “I know the winding river and the exact point where, over the centuries, the water has managed to make its way over a deep rocky bed full of gigantic rocks, torrential waterfalls and deep lagoons. Many strange stories are told about this bridge about the devil, assuring that it was he himself who built it, with the condition of taking for himself the first living being that passed over it, and that it was a dog. In fact, I added, the place is one of the wildest and most romantic in the entire Tuscan countryside. It is strange, too, that just three miles from the indicated place Friar Antonio lives in the Capuchin monastery. “Who is Brother Antonio?” asked Hales, who was still contemplating the letters with great attention. I explained, and the old man smiled, but I learned that in the monk’s description he had recognized one of Blair’s friends from years past. –Who wrote this record?–I questioned him.–Blair wasn’t it, that’s evident. –No–was his answer.–Now that it legally belongs to you, thanks to a donation from our friend, and that you have managed to decipher it, I can also tell you something more about it. “Yes, do it,” we both shouted anxiously. –Well then; I’m going to tell you how it was,” explained the wiry old man, taking the tobacco in his long pipe. “Several years ago I was first pilot of the ship “Annie Curtis”, registered Liverpool, engaged in the Mediterranean fruit trade and which regularly made its trips between Naples, Izmir, Barcelona, Algeria and Liverpool. Our crew was mixed, consisting of English, Spanish and Italian, and among the latter there was an old man named Bruno. He was a mysterious individual, originally from Calabria, and among the other crew it was whispered that he had been the leader of a famous bandit party, which had spread terror in the southernmost part of Italy, which had recently been exterminated by the carabinieri The other Italians knew him by the nickname Baffitone, which, I believe, means Mustachioed. He was a very hard worker, he hardly drank, and, apparently, he was quite polite, because he spoke and wrote English well, and, in addition, he was always tormenting others to ask him riddles and figures, which he dedicated himself to solving in his free time. One day, which was the commemoration of a religious festival, which was a reason for the Italians to excuse themselves, as they took advantage of it as a holiday, I found him in the forecastle writing something on a small packet of letters. He tried to hide what he was doing from me; but, my curiosity being aroused, I immediately noticed how he had arranged them, and that very fact showed me what a remarkably ingenious figure he had discovered. The old man was silent for a moment, as if he hesitated to tell us the whole truth of the matter. Finally, after lighting his pipe with a piece of wood, he resumed their relationship, saying: “I left the sea, returned here to my wife, and six years passed without me knowing anything Italian, until one day, looking like a man of means and dressed in a new suit and hard hat, also new, he showed up to see me. He was still on the Annie Curtis, but since the boat was in dry dock, he, he told me, had wanted to go ashore to party. He stayed here for two days, and with his small camera, a very recent acquisition, evidently, he took all kinds of views, including that of this house. Before leaving, he made me the depositary of his secrets and declared to me that what had been suspected on board the boat was true, since it was none other than the famous Poldo Pensi, the bandit whose daring and ferocity had been narrated years before in verse and prose in Italy. However, since his party had been completely destroyed, he had reformed, and instead of taking advantage of certain information he had acquired during his life as a bandit, he worked to earn his subsistence aboard an English ship. The data, as he told me, had been obtained from a certain Cardinal Sannini, from the Vatican, whom he had kidnapped to obtain a good ransom, and were of such a nature that he could become a man of fortune the day he wanted to be one; but, since the Government of his country had offered a great reward for his capture, he had resolved to hide his identity and travel the seas. He also told me the night before he left, here in this room, where we were sitting smoking, that the secret was filed in the form of an encrypted record, but of such a nature that no one who discovered it could read it without possessing the key to the cipher. “Then it was here, in these letters, where he left the secret stamped on him!” I shouted, interrupting him. –Fairly. The secret of Cardinal Sannini, obtained by the famous bandit Poldo Pensi, whose terrible band of bandits devastated half of Italy twenty-five years ago, and who forced Pope Pius IX himself to pay tribute to him, is written here, as you have just deciphered it. “And Pensi has died?” I asked. –Oh! Yeah. He died and was buried at sea, near the port of Lisbon, before Burton Blair took possession of the letters. The secret, according to my certain information, was forcibly extracted from Cardinal Sannini, who, while crossing the deserted and inhospitable region between Reggio and Gerace, was captured by Pensi and his sheaf, taken to their stronghold, a small mountain village, about three miles from Micastro, and there held prisoner, to demand a large ransom from the Holy See. For certain unknown reasons, it seems that the astute and elderly Cardinal did not want the Vatican to know of his capture; Therefore , he imposed as a condition of his freedom that he would reveal a very notable secret, the secret written in these letters, which he did, and Pensi then released him, fulfilling the commitment. “But Sannini was one of the most highly placed cardinals in Rome,” I exclaimed. “On the death of Pius IX it was believed that he would be named his successor in the Pontificate. “It is true,” observed the old man, who seemed well versed in the entire modern history of Saint Peter’s in Rome. “The secret divulged by the Cardinal is, undoubtedly, of immense value, and if he proceeded in this way, it was to save his reputation, as I believe, from what the Italian bandit told me, since they had discovered that he was at the southern end of the peninsula, contrary to the orders of the Pope, who had sent him in the opposite direction, and their object was been to promote a religious agitation, ill-intentioned, against Pius IX. Hence Sannini, in whom His Holiness trusted so much, was forced at all costs to hide the news of his capture, which had to remain absolutely ignored. Pensi told me how, before releasing the Cardinal, he moved, with the greatest secrecy, to a certain part of the Tuscan province and made sure that the secret that the great ecclesiastic had revealed was a reality. After that he was released , and, with an escort to guarantee him, he marched to Cosenza, where he took the train to Rome. “But how did the secret come into Burton Blair’s possession?” he asked anxiously. –Ah!–observed the old man, showing the palms of his brown and hardened hands,–that’s the question. Regarding those same letters that you have, I know that Poldo Pensi, the former Calabrian bandit, inscribed the Cardinal’s instructions in English. In fact, you will notice that the wording reveals that its author was a foreigner. Those capital letters, almost erased, were drawn by him aboard the “Annie Curtis”, and he kept their secret safe until his death. What he told me confidentially, I never told anyone until… come on, until Burton Blair forced me to do it that night when he recognized this house from the photograph taken by Poldo, and found me again. –He forced him!–exclaimed Reginaldo.–How? Chapter 21. WORSE THAN DEATH. The tall, wiry old man looked at me with his brown eyes and shook his head. “Burton Blair knew too much,” he answered evasively. “Apparently, after I retired he became first pilot, and Poldo, the man who had had in his hands, to obtain good ransoms, dukes, cardinals and other great men, worked under him patiently. Some time later, Poldo fell ill with a serious attack of fever and died, but, strangely enough, he left him, so Blair claimed, the packet of letters with the secret. Dick Dawson, however, who was also on the ship as a boatswain, and who has spent half his life on Italian brigs in the Adriatic, declares that this story is false, and that Blair stole the bag containing the letters from under Poldo’s pillow, half an hour before he died. Whether this is true or a lie, however, the facts remain, and they are: that Poldo must have let part of his secret escape in the midst of the delirium of fever , and that Blair became the owner of the small letters. Three weeks after the Italian’s death, Blair, upon disembarking in Liverpool, taking with him the letters and the snapshot, undertook that very long and tiring journey through all the roads of England, in order to find me and learn through me the key to the famous bandit’s secret, which I possessed. –And when you managed to find it, what happened? –He solemnly stated that Bruno had given them to him as a dying gift, and that the reason he had for looking for me was because the old bandit, before dying, asked to see the photograph that was in his chest on board, and looking at it for a long time, he said to him in Italian, reflectively: “In this house lives the only man who knows my secret.” That was the reason Blair evidently had for taking possession of the photograph, after the Italian’s death. When he arrived here, he showed me the packet of letters, and promised me a thousand pounds sterling if I would reveal the Italian’s confidences to him. As He had died, I found no reason to refuse, and in exchange for the promise of payment of said sum, I told him what he wanted to know, and among other things, I explained to him the arrangement of the letters, so that he could decipher them. I had discovered the key to the cipher that day of celebration when I found Poldo in the forecastle writing a message on the letters, evidently dedicated to the Cardinal residing in Rome, because later I learned that the bandit and the ecclesiastic, before the death of the latter, maintained frequent but secret communication. “But this Dawson guy must have benefited enormously from Blair’s revelation,” I observed. “They seem to have been very close friends.” “He certainly has benefited,” answered Hales. Blair, in possession of this remarkable secret, was in mortal terror of Dick, who could declare, as he had already done, that it had been stolen from the dying man. He knew very well that Dawson was an unscrupulous sailor, the worst kind there could be; Therefore, he considered it very prudent, I suppose, to enter into partnership with him and have him help him exploit the secret. But poor Blair must always have been in Dawson’s hands , even though his profits were clearly enormous. Dick ‘s have not been less, even though he has lived, apparently, in the most absolute retirement and darkness. –Dawson was afraid to come to England–Reginaldo observed. –Yes–answered the old man.–Some years ago there was an ugly incident in Liverpool, and that is the reason for it. “But there is no negative evidence that the reformed bandit did not give the pack of cards to Blair?” I asked forcefully. –None. For my part, I think that Poldo should have given it to Blair and recommended that he return to land and look for me, because he had been good and had shown him many small kindnesses during repeated illnesses. Poldo, after abandoning his evil deeds, had become very religious and often attended missions for seamen when he was ashore, just as Blair was, as you know, a very God-fearing man for a sailor. When I remember all the circumstances, I think that it was very natural for Poldo to hand over the secret of the dead Cardinal into the hands of his best friend. “The indicated place is near Lucca, in Tuscany,” I observed. “You say that this Poldo Pensi has been there and has made inquiries.” What did you find? –What the Cardinal had told him he would find. But he never explained to me what it was. All he ever told me was that the secret would make its owner a very rich man, which has certainly happened in Blair’s case. “The connection that seems to exist between the late Cardinal Sannini and Brother Antonio, the Capuchin of Lucca, is strange,” I observed. “Could the monk be in possession of the secret?” I ponder. There is no doubt that he has something to do with this matter, as evidenced by his constant consultations with Dawson. “There is no doubt,” said Reginald, turning over the cards aimlessly. “Now we must discover the exact position of these two men, and, at the same time, prevent this Dawson from gaining too much possession of Mabel Blair’s fortune.” “Leave that to me,” I exclaimed reservedly. “For now our line of conduct is very clear.” We must investigate the place on the banks of the Serchio and discover what is hidden there.–Then, turning to Hales, he added:–In the record I have noticed that it clearly orders: “Seek first the old man who lives in the house of the Crossroads.” What does this mean? Why is that address indicated? “Because I believe that when the record was stamped on these letters,” he answered, “I was the only person who knew anything about the Cardinal’s secret; the only one, outside of the interested party, who possessed the key to the cipher. “But at first you pretended not to know her,” I observed, still looking at the old man with some suspicion. “Because I wasn’t sure if you were acting in good faith,” he said. laughing quite frankly.–They took me by surprise, and I had no intention of expanding prematurely. “But have you told us everything you really know?” exclaimed Reginaldo. “Yes, I don’t know anything else,” he replied. “As for what is in the point indicated in the record, I am completely ignorant.” Remember that Blair paid me what was fair, and even more than what was stipulated; but, as you well know, he was an extremely secretive man in everything concerning his affairs, and he left me in the dark. –And you can’t give us more information about this one-eyed man who seems to have been Blair’s partner in the extraordinary mysterious company? –I have nothing more to say, except that it is a very unappetizing relationship. It was Poldo who gave him the nickname “el Ceco.” –And the monk called Brother Antonio? –I have never heard of that person; I know nothing about him. On the tip of my tongue I had the question of whether he had a son and if his name was Herbert, remembering that tragic night scene in the park of Mayvill’s mansion. However, fortunately, I knew how to contain myself and remain silent, preferring to hide what I knew and wait for the development of the events and that extraordinary situation. However, my heart was overflowing with indignation and a fierce and crazy jealousy gnawed at it. Mabel, the sweet and kind girl that I loved so much, and whose future had been placed in my hands, had made the serious and sad mistake, like so many other girls, of falling in love with a vulgar, clumsy man who was very inferior to her. Love in a cabin, which we hear so much about, is very good in theory, as is the deception that you can have a happy heart even when your pocket is empty; But in these modern times, the woman accustomed to comfort and luxury can never be happy in the modest four-room house, any more than the man who courageously marries for love and renounces his inheritance. No. Every time I remembered the threats and contempt of that young ruffian, his arrogance and his final outburst of criminal passion, which had been so close to ending the life of my beloved, my blood boiled with anger and my anger flared. The scoundrel had escaped, but inside me I swore that he would not go unpunished. And yet, when I looked back on the whole scene, it seemed that Mabel was completely and irresistibly under the power of that man, even though she had tried to defy him. We remained with Hales and his wife for another hour, although we gained little new information, except for a few words which the old woman let slip. I made sure that they did indeed have a son and that his name was Herbert, but that he was not very well behaved. “He was busy at the Belvoir stables,” his mother explained when I questioned her about him. “But he left there about two years ago, and we haven’t seen him since. Sometimes he writes to us from different points and seems to prosper. This individual was, therefore, as I had assumed from his appearance, a horse-keeper, a groom, or something of the sort. It was almost half past seven when we arrived back at Kings Cross, and after a light meal in a small Italian restaurant opposite the station, we took a car and headed to Grosvenor Square, with the aim of informing Mabel of our success in solving the riddle. Carter, who ushered us in, knew us so well that he did nothing but lead us directly upstairs and usher us into the drawing-room, so artistically lighted with its electric lights shaded with the greatest delicacy and skillfully placed in every corner imaginable. On the table was a large antique punch-bowl, filled with splendid Gloise de Dijon roses, which the head gardener sent every day, together with the fruit, from Mayvill’s possession. Its arrangement was due, as I well knew, to the delicate hands of the woman that for years I had learned to admire and secretly love. On a side table there was a beautiful photograph of poor Burton Blair placed in a heavy silver frame, and in one corner his daughter had pinned a crepe bow as a tribute to the memory of the dead man. The great house was full of those delicate feminine features which revealed the sweet friendliness of her character and the placid tranquility of her life. Suddenly the door opened, and we both stood up; but instead of the pretty, sparkling young woman with a noble heart, with a musical voice and a cheerful and frank countenance, entered the bearded man, with spectacles and gold bows, who had once been boatswain of the ship _Annie Curtis_, of Liverpool, and later the secret partner of Burton Blair. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he exclaimed, greeting with that apparent and forced veneer of courtesy that he sometimes adopted. “I have great pleasure in entertaining you at the house of my late friend.” As you will notice, I have established my residence here in accordance with the terms of poor Blair’s will, and I gladly take advantage of this new opportunity presented to me to meet you again. The fine impudence of this man took us by surprise. He seemed extremely confident and certain that his position was unassailable and invincible. “We came to see Miss Blair,” I explained. “We didn’t know you were going to take up residence here so soon.” –Oh! “It’s better,” he said. –Blair’s great interests require immediate attention, since there are many matters closely linked to them that cannot be abandoned–and as he spoke, the door opened again and a young woman of about twenty-six years of age entered, with dark hair and regular height, dressed in a low-cut black suit, somewhat ostentatious, but whose face was rather vulgar, even if somewhat imposing. “My daughter Dolly,” explained the one-eyed Dawson. “Let me introduce them,” and we both gave her a cold greeting, because the manner of the two of them greatly shocked us, since it seemed that they had settled there and taken the management of the house into their hands. “I suppose Mrs. Percival is still here, is she not ?” I asked after a moment, having regained my composure and calmed myself from the impression that had been made on me by finding the adventurer and his daughter in complete possession of that splendid mansion that half of London admired and the other half envied; the mansion that had appeared so many times described and photographed in the ladies’ _magazines_ and newspapers. –Yes, Mrs. Percival is in her private cabinet. He left it there five minutes ago . Mabel, it seems, left this morning at eleven and has not yet returned. “He hasn’t come back!” I exclaimed, embarrassed. “Why?” –Mrs. Percival seems upset. I think she harbors fears that something has happened to her. Without saying or hearing another word, I ran down the wide staircase with its glass balustrade, knocked on the door of the room that had been reserved for Mrs. Percival, made myself known, and was immediately received. As soon as the respectable and polished widow saw me, she stood up and exclaimed in terrible anguish: “Oh, Mr. Greenwood, Mr. Greenwood!” What can we do? How are we going to treat these hateful people? Poor Mabel left this morning and took the _brougham_ to Euston station. There he handed this letter to Peters, addressed to you, and then dispatched the carriage. What will all this mean? I took the letter he handed me, and tremblingly opened it, finding, hastily written in pencil on a sheet of obituary paper, these few lines: “Dear Mr. Greenwood: It will undoubtedly cause you immense surprise to learn that I have abandoned my home forever. I know well that you have as high regard and esteem for me as I have for you; But, since my secret is finally going to be known, I cannot remain present and be forced to face you, who is of all the men I least dare to face. »Those people will persecute me to the death; Therefore, I prefer to live hidden away from the reach of their mockery and revenge, rather than stay to be the target of their scorn and thus have the opportunity to point their mocking and disdainful finger at me. »My father’s secret can never be his, because his enemies are too ingenious and cunning. They have taken all kinds of precautions to have it well insured against their efforts and endeavors. Therefore , I advise you, as a true friend, that it is useless to try to fight the storm. It’s all in vain! »Exposing myself to the situation is worse for me than death! Believe me, only desperation could have dragged me to take this step, because the cowardly enemies of my father and me have triumphed. »I ask you at the same time to completely forget that there has ever existed in the world a person by the name of the desperate, afflicted and unfortunate–_Mabel Blair_». I stood there, with the open letter in my hand, stained with tears, absolutely speechless and heartbroken. Chapter 22. THE MYSTERY OF A NIGHT ADVENTURE. “Exposing myself to the situation is worse for me than death,” he said in his letter. “What could that mean?” Mrs. Percival guessed from the expression of my countenance the seriousness of that letter, and, quickly rising to her feet, she approached me, placed her hand affectionately on my shoulder, and asked me: “What is the matter, Mr. Greenwood, I cannot know?” In response I gave him the letter. He read it quickly, and then let out a cry of horror, realizing that Burton Blair’s daughter had run away from home. She was evidently afraid of Dawson, having allowed herself to be overcome by the terrifying belief that her secret, whatever it was, would now be made public, and had fled, it seems, lest she should come face to face with me again. But why? Of what nature could her secret be that it shamed her so much and forced her to hide? Mrs. Percival sent for Crump, the coachman, who had driven his young mistress in the _brougham_ to Euston station, and questioned him. “Miss Mabel ordered the coupe, ma’am, a few moments before eleven,” the man answered, saluting. “She brought her crocodile suitcase, but last night she sent Carter Patterson a large trunk full of used clothes, so the young lady told her maid. I took her to Euston, she got off there and went into the ticket office. She made me wait about five minutes, then appeared with a porter who took her suitcase, and then she gave me the letter addressed to Mr. Greenwood to give to you, ordering me to leave. So I came home, ma’am. “There is no doubt, he has left for the North,” I observed as Crump withdrew and the door closed behind him. “It almost seems as if his escape had been premeditated.” Last night he sent his luggage. She was thinking at that moment about the arrogant and daring groom, about that impudent young Hales, and she wondered if his renewed threats had not gotten her to agree to have another interview with him. If that was so, then the danger was terribly extraordinary. “We must find her,” said Mrs. Percival with complete resolution. “Ah!” she sighed, “I really don’t know what will happen, because the house is now in the power of this hateful man and his daughter, and he is a most rude and ill-mannered fellow.” He addresses the servants with complete familiarity, exactly as if they were his equals; and just now he complimented one of the maids for her good looks! “This is terrible, Mr. Greenwood, terrible,” exclaimed the widow, immensely shocked. “It is the most shameful display of your bad education!” I certainly can’t stay here any longer, now that Mabel has seen fit to leave the house without even consulting me. Lady Rainham came this afternoon, but I had to pretend she wasn’t there. What can I say to people in these distressing circumstances? I understood how scandalized Mabel’s estimable companion was, because she was an extremely strict widow, whose very existence depended on the rigorous etiquette and traditions of her honorable family. Cordial and affable with her equals, she was, however, very cold and inflexible with her inferiors, having the habit of looking at them through her square glasses with golden arches, and examining them as if they had been strange beings of different flesh and blood. It was this last idiosyncrasy that always bothered Mabel, who professed that very feminine belief that one should be kind to inferiors and only cold and hard with enemies. However, under the protective wing and haughty tutorship of Mrs. Percival, Mabel had penetrated into the best and most elegant social circle, whose doors are always open to the millionaire’s daughter, and had established her reputation as one of the most charming debutantes of her _season_. How society has changed in the last ten years! Today , the golden key is the sesame opener to the doors of the bluest blood in England. The old exclusivist circles no longer exist, or, if there are some, they have been obscured and are of no importance. Ladies attend concert halls and boast about going to nightclubs. Meals in restaurants, which were previously considered a reason for discounting, are today a great attraction. A generation ago a lady of high birth reasonably objected, saying that she did not know whom she could sit next to; but, today, as was the case in the theater before Garrick’s time, the dishonorable fame of some of the audience constitutes an incentive. The more flagrant the scandal regarding some well-gilded “impropriety”, the greater the incentive to eat in his company, and, if possible, at his side. Such is the trend and mode of London society today! For the space of a quarter of an hour, while Reginald was busy with the Dawsons, _père et fille_, I remained in consultation with the widow, trying to see if I could get any clue as to Mabel’s whereabouts. Mrs. Percival thought that, sooner than we thought, she would let us know where she was hidden; but I, knowing so well the firmness of his character, did not share his opinion. Her letter was that of a woman who had made a resolution and was willing to stick to it, whatever the cost. He was afraid to confront me, and for that reason, there is no doubt, he would hide his resistance. At Cottus’ house she had a separate account in her name, so due to lack of funds she would not be forced to reveal her current whereabouts. Ford, the dead man’s secretary, a young man, about thirty years old, tall, athletic, completely shaved, stuck his head out, but as he found us talking, he left immediately. Mrs. Percival had already questioned him, but she did not know where Mabel had gone. This Dawson had usurped Ford’s position in the house, and the latter, full of resentment, was constantly watching his actions and movements and dominated by the greatest misgivings, as we all were. Reginaldo finally came to join me, and entered exclaiming: “This man is as original a guy as can be, to say the least .” So he invited me to have whiskey and soda… at Blair’s house! He considers Mabel’s escape as a joke, he talks about her in a joking tone, assuring that she will soon be back, since she cannot be absent for long, and that he will make her return whenever he wants or needs her presence here. In a word, this guy talks as if Mabel were wax in his hands, and he could do whatever he pleases with her. “It could ruin her financially, that’s true,” I observed, sighing. “But read this, old man,” and I gave him Mabel’s strange letter. –Good God!–he stammered when he had read it–he has a mortal terror of these people, there can be no doubt about it. To escape them and you, he has fled… to Liverpool, and then embarked for America, perhaps. He remembers that in his childhood he has traveled a lot, and, therefore, he knows the routes. “We must find her, Reginaldo,” I declared decisively. “But the worst thing is that he has decided to take this step to escape from you,” he answered. “It seems that he has some powerful reason to proceed like this.” –Reason that only she knows–I observed melancholy.–It is, certainly, a setback that Mabel has disappeared, of her own will, in this way, precisely when we had managed to know exactly the Cardinal’s secret, the origin of Blair’s fortune. Remember everything we have at stake and risk. We don’t know who our friends or our enemies are . We both have to go to Italy and discover the point indicated in that encrypted record, because if we don’t, others will anticipate it, and we may arrive too late. He agreed with me that, since the secret belonged to me because it had been bequeathed to me, I should immediately take the necessary steps to assert my rights. We could not help but understand that Dawson, as Blair’s partner and sharer in his enormous wealth, must have known the secret very well and had already taken the appropriate steps to hide the truth from me, its rightful owner. He had to be taken into account, because he was a sinister man, possessed of the most insidious cunning and the most diabolical ingenuity in the art of subterfuge. The reports collected everywhere about him showed that this was his character. He had that calm and cold manner of a man who has lived by sharpening his wit, and in this matter it seemed that his ingenuity, sharpened still more by his adventurous life, was going to have to confront and fight with mine. Mabel’s unexpected resolution and sudden disappearance were maddening, and the mystery of her letter inscrutable. If, in fact, he feared that some shameful and unpleasant fact might be revealed, he should have had enough confidence in me and made me his confidant. I loved her, even though I had never declared my passion to her; Therefore, ignoring reality, she had treated me as a sincere friend, as had been my wish. However, why hadn’t he sought my help? Women are such strange beings, after all!–I reflected.–Maybe I loved that rustic man! An anxious, feverish week passed, and Mabel showed no signs of life. One night I left Reginald in the Devonshire, about half-past eleven, and made my way through the damp, misty streets of London until I came to where the bustle of traffic ceased, the cars crept slowly and passed only now and then, and the wet, muddy roads and sidewalks were at the disposal of the policeman and the poor, trembling homeless wanderer. In the midst of the dense fog I was immersed in deep meditation, and increasingly worried about that remarkable chain of circumstances that seemed to become more entangled hour by hour. I had walked always ahead, without stopping or caring in which direction my feet took me, passing along Knightsbridge, bordering the Park and Kensington Gardens, and was just crossing the corner of Earls Court Road, when a happy circumstance awakened me from my deep sleep, and for the first time I became aware that I was being followed. Yes, I distinctly felt footsteps behind me, which quickened when I hurried, and slowed down when I slowed down. I crossed the road, and in front of the long high wall of Holland Park, I stopped and turned. My pursuer advanced a few steps, but stopped suddenly, and I could only make out, in the light of the weak lantern that penetrated through the London fog, a tall figure distorted by the blinding fog. However, it was not dense enough to prevent me from finding my way, for I knew that part of London very well. It certainly wasn’t very pleasant to be followed with such persistence at such an hour. I suspected that some tramp or thief who had passed by me had noticed my distraction and forgetfulness of my surroundings, and had turned to follow me with bad intentions. I continued forward again, without turning back, but as soon as I did so, I felt the light and soft footsteps, like an echo of my own, that furtively echoed behind me. I had heard curious stories about madmen who prowl the streets of London at night and aimlessly follow passers-by, this being one of the different kinds of insanity well known to alienists. I again crossed the road, passed through Edwarde Square, thus retracing my steps, and turned in the direction of High Street, but the mysterious individual followed me with equal persistence. I confess that I experienced some anxiety, seeing myself in the middle of that thick fog, which in that part had become so dense to the point of completely obscuring the lanterns. Suddenly, as I turned the corner into Lexham Gardens, at a point where the mist had covered everything with its black blanket, I felt someone suddenly assault me, and, at the same time, a sharp penetrating sensation behind my right shoulder. The attack was so strong that I screamed, turning immediately to face my assailant, but he had been so agile that before I could do so, he dodged my body and fled. I heard his footsteps running back down the road to Earls Court, and then I shouted for the police. But no one answered me. The pain in my shoulder became more uncomfortable and mortifying by the minute. The stranger had wounded me with a knife, and the blood flowed, because I felt it, wet and sticky, fall on my hand. I shouted again: Police, police! until, finally, I heard a voice that answered me in the middle of the fog and I headed in its direction. After some more shouts I discovered the watchman and told him about my strange adventure. He put his dull flashlight behind my back and exclaimed: – It is undoubtedly, sir; They stabbed him! What kind of man was he? “I never got a good look at him,” was my clumsy reply. “He always kept a good distance away, and only approached at a point too dark to be able to distinguish his features. –I have not seen anyone, except a clergyman whom I met a moment ago on the road to Earls Court; At least, if he was not a clergyman, I saw that he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat similar to those they wear. But I couldn’t see his face. “A clergyman!” I exclaimed, stammering. –Do you think it could have been a Catholic priest?–because my thoughts had been concentrated at that moment on Brother Antonio, who was, evidently, the keeper of the Cardinal’s secret. –Ah! I can’t affirm it. I couldn’t see his features. I only noticed his hat. “I feel very weak,” I told him, as a strong faintness and languor took over me . “I wish you would bring me a car.” I think the best thing I can do is go straight to my house, which is in Great Russell Street. –It’s a very long trip. Wouldn’t it be more convenient if you went to the West London Hospital first? -indicated the guard. –No–I replied decidedly.–I want to go home and call my doctor. Then I sat on the threshold of a gate at the end of Lexham Gardens and waited for the vehicle to arrive, for the watchman had gone to the Old Brompton Road in search of a _hanson_. –Had I been attacked by some homicidal maniac who had followed me all the way, or had I barely escaped being the victim of an infamous murder? Such were my musings as I sat there waiting. The last assumption was, for me, decidedly the most feasible. There was a powerful reason why my death was desired. Blair had bequeathed me the great secret and I had just managed to decipher the enigma contained in the letters. This fact must probably have come to the knowledge of our enemies; hence this cowardly attack on my life. However, such a contingency was terrifying, because, if it really It was known that he had deciphered the record, then our enemies would certainly take all necessary steps in Italy to prevent us from discovering the secret that lay at that point on the banks of the tortuous, wild and deserted Serchio River. At last the _hanson_ arrived, and, slipping a good tip into the policeman’s hand, I entered it and we set off, slowly, through the fog, almost at a pace, such was the difficulty of being able to march. I had placed my silk scarf on the right side of my back to stanch the blood that was flowing from my wound. As soon as I almost entered the _hanson_ I felt strong dizziness and a strange sensation of numbness that rose up my legs. At the same time a curious repugnance took possession of me, and, although I was happily able to stop the bleeding, which tended to show that the wound was not, after all, so serious, my hands began to shrink in a strange manner, while my cheeks were attacked with a peculiar pain, very similar to that suffered when an attack of neuralgia begins. I felt terribly sick and without strength. The coachman, who had been informed of my injury by the watchman, opened the little door on the deck to ask me how I was, but I could barely articulate a few words. If the wound was only superficial, certainly the effect it had on me was strange. Of the many hazy lights I saw on the corner of Hyde Park, I have one clear memory; but after that my senses seemed to be dulled by the fog and by the pain I suffered, and I remember nothing more of what happened, until I painfully opened my eyes again and found myself in my bed, the beautiful light of day shining through the window , and I saw Reginaldo and our old friend Thomas Walker, surgeon of Queen Anne Street, standing by my side, looking at me with profound gravity, which seemed humorous to me at the time. However, I must confess that there was very little fun in the situation. Chapter 23. WHICH IS IN MANY CONCEPTS AMAZING. Walker was confused, truly confused. While I had been unconscious, he had dressed my wound, after examining it, I suppose, and injecting various antiseptics. I had also sent for Sir Charles Hoare, the very distinguished surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital, to consult, and both had been greatly confused by my symptoms. When, an hour later, I felt strong enough to speak, Walker grabbed my wrist and asked me what had happened to me. After I had explained to him, as best as I could, he said to me: -The only thing I can tell you, my dear friend, is that you have been as close to death as any other person I have ever assisted. Yours has been one of the most exposed cases that can occur. When Seton called me the first time and I saw him, I thought it was over. His wound is very small, rather superficial, and yet his state of decay and prostration has been one of the most extraordinary; Furthermore, there are certain symptoms so mysterious that they have filled Sir Charles and me with confusion. –What weapon did that man use? It was certainly no ordinary dagger. It was, no doubt, a dagger with a long, thin blade, a stiletto, most likely. I found on the outside of the wound, on the fabric of his overcoat, something like fat, or, rather, animal fat. I’m going to have it analyzed a little, and do you know what I expect to find in it? –No; that? –Poison–was his reply.–Sir Charles agrees with my assumption that you have been wounded with one of those small and ancient daggers with perforated blades, which were so widely used in Italy during the 15th century. “In Italy!” I shouted, the mere name of that country awakening in me the suspicion that the attack must have been committed by Dawson or by his close friend, the monk from Lucca. –Yeah; Sir Charles, who, as you probably know, has a great collection of ancient weapons, he told me that in medieval Florence they used to impregnate the animal fat with some very powerful poison and then rub the pierced blade with that mixture. When wounding the victim and then removing the weapon from the wound, a part of the poisoned fatty matter remained in the victim’s breast, which produced a fatal result. “But you certainly do not anticipate that I am poisoned,” I exclaimed, stammering. –It is poisoned, there is no doubt. His wound does not correspond to his prolonged insensitivity nor to those strange and livid spots that he has on his body. Look at the back of your hands! I did as I was told and was horrified to find small, dark, copper-colored spots on both of them , which also extended to the wrists and arms. “Don’t be too alarmed, Greenwood,” laughed the kind and good doctor; “I’ve already managed to turn the dangerous curve, and it’s not yet time for you to die.” The escape was almost a miracle, because the weapon was the most deadly thing imaginable; but, fortunately, you were wearing a thick overcoat, in addition to other heavy pieces of clothing, all of which sucked out most of the poisonous substance before it could penetrate the flesh. And I assure you that it has been fortunate for you, because, if this attack had taken place in summer, when clothing is light, there would not have been the slightest hope of salvation. “But who was the author of this attack?” I exclaimed, maddened, with my eyes fixed on those ugly spots that covered my skin, evident proof that a terrible poison had been introduced into my nature. “Someone who will have an implacable hatred for you, I imagine,” laughed the surgeon, who had been my friend for several years and who was in the habit of sometimes attending the hunting parties with the Fitzwilliams. “But come on, old companion, be happy; He will have to spend one or two days with milk and broth, let the wound heal and remain very calm. You will see how soon you will regain your health. “That’s all very good,” I responded impatiently, “but I had a world of things to do, and some private matters to attend to.” –You’ll have to let them rest for a day or two, certainly. –Yes–insisted Reginaldo;–you must be calm, Gilberto. I’m so glad it wasn’t as bad as we first thought. When the coachman brought you home and Glave ran to find Walker, I figured you’d die before he got there. You couldn’t feel your heart beating, and you were completely frozen. “I can’t guess who the infamous person who hurt me could be!” I shouted. “For Jacob! If I catch him, I think I’ll wring his beautiful neck right there. “For what purpose are you bothering yourself, when you will soon get better?” Reginaldo asked philosophically. But I remained silent, reflecting on Sir Charles Hoare’s opinion that the dagger used for the attempted crime had been an old Florentine weapon, poisoned. This same fact made me suspect that the cowardly attack carried out against me had been the work of my enemies. We, by the way, did not say anything to Walker about our curious investigation, because we considered at the time that the matter was strictly confidential. He spoke of my injury in a joking manner, declaring that I would soon recover my health, if I had a little patience. After he retired, shortly before noon, Reginaldo sat next to my bed, and we began to gravely discuss the situation. The two most pressing issues at that moment were, first, to discover the whereabouts of my beloved, and, second, to go to Italy to investigate the Cardinal’s secret. The days went by heavy, long and tiring, gloomy days of early spring, during which I tossed and turned in bed, impatient, desperate and helpless. I longed to be able to get up and be active, but Walker forbade me. Instead he brought me books and daily, and ordered tranquility and absolute rest. Although Reginaldo and I always had our little hunting lodge in Helpstone, after Blair’s death we had not been there even once . Furthermore, that season had been one of extraordinary movement in the lace trade, and Reginaldo seemed more a slave than ever to his business house. Consequently, I was alone most of the day, having Glave to care for and provide for my needs. From time to time some friends came to see me, talking and smoking with me for a while. Thus the month of March passed, my convalescence being much slower than Walker had initially thought. In the analysis a very harmful irritating poison had been discovered mixed with the fat, and it seems that my nature had absorbed more than was initially believed, hence my late recovery. Mrs. Percival, who, on our insistent advice, still resided at the mansion in Grosvenor Square, visited me sometimes, bringing me fruit and flowers from the greenhouses at Mayvill, but she knew nothing about Mabel. The latter had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed it. She eagerly wanted to leave Blair’s house, now that it was occupied by the usurpers, but we had showered her with flattery, so that she would remain and be able to somewhat moderate the actions of Dawson and his daughter. Ford had been so exasperated by the man’s manner that, on the fifth day of the new _regime_, he had protested, which resulted in Dawson calmly placing one year ‘s salary into an envelope, and immediately releasing him from his services from now on, which he had intended to do from the beginning, there is no doubt. However, the former private secretary was helping us, and at that moment he was determined to make all kinds of inquiries to ascertain where his young mistress was. “The house is completely upside down, everything in it is upset,” Mrs. Percival declared one day, while she was visiting me. “The servants are rebelling, and poor Noble, the housekeeper, is going through, I assure you, terrible moments.” Carter and eight other servants have notified him yesterday that they are leaving the house. This Dawson is the ultimate type of bad education and bad manners; However, I overheard him telling his daughter, two days ago, that he was seriously thinking about demonstrating in favor of the reform and entering Parliament. Ah! What would poor Mabel say if she knew such a thing? The daughter, Dolly, as he calls her, that vulgar girl, has settled in Mabel’s _boudoir_, and he is about to have her renew the decoration, because she wants it to be yellow, to suit her complexion, I believe. Given what Mr. Leighton says, it seems that poor Mr. Blair’s fortune must pass entirely into the management of this individual. “It is a shame, an abominable shame!” I shouted angrily. “We know that this man is an adventurer, and yet we are completely powerless to proceed,” I added bitterly. “Poor Mabel!” sighed the widow, who was really very attached to her. “You know, Mr. Greenwood,” she said, with an unexpected tone of confidence, “that more than once, after the death of her father, I have thought that she is in possession of the truth; who knows the reason for this strange bond of friendship that united Mr. Blair with this man without a conscience, to whom so much power over her and her fortune has been granted. He has made many secret confessions to me, and I believe that, if he wanted to reveal reality to us now, we could be free from this demon. Why don’t you do it… to save yourself? “Because she is currently afraid of him,” he answered in a hard, desperate voice. “She has a certain secret that makes her live in constant terror.” That is the reason, I believe, for his sudden disappearance and abandonment of his own home. He has left that man in complete and incontestable possession of everything. He had not forgotten the arrogance and self-confidence that he had displayed that night when he first came to see us. “But, Mr. Greenwood, will you now be so kind as to excuse me for what I am about to tell you?” asked Mrs. Percival, after a brief pause and looking me intently in the face. –Maybe I don’t have the right to get involved in your most intimate affairs in this way, but I trust that you will forgive me when you reflect that if I dare to do it, it is for her, for that poor girl. “Well!” I exclaimed, somewhat surprised by his unexpected change. Generally she was extremely haughty and cold, a terrible critic who had the names of cousins, aunts and nephews from all over the world at her fingertips . “The truth is this,” he continued. “You could induce her to reveal reality to us, such is my belief, because you are the only person who has any influence over her now that her father is no more, and, let me tell you, I have reason to know that she has a very high regard for you.” –Yes–I observed, not being able to contain a sigh–we are friends… good friends. “More than that,” declared Mrs. Percival. “Mabel loves you.” “He loves me!” I shouted, jumping up and holding myself up on one elbow. “No, I think you must be wrong.” She considers me more like a brother than a lover, and has learned, I believe, from the first day we met in such romantic conditions, to look at me as a kind of protector. “No,” I added, shaking my head, “there are certain obstacles that must prevent her from being able to love me, the difference in our ages, our positions, and everything else.” –Ah! “You are completely mistaken,” exclaimed the widow, with complete frankness. “Your father left you his secret, as I had occasion to learn, so that you could make the most of it, as he had done, and because he guessed the direction that Mabel’s path was taking .” “How do you know this, Mrs. Percival?” I asked her, half inclined to doubt her. –Because Mr. Blair, before making his will, confided in me and asked me frankly if his daughter had ever spoken to me about you in any significant way that would have made me suspect something. I confessed to him the truth of what I knew about it, exactly as I have just told you. Mabel loves him… She loves him tenderly. “Then I owe it in large part to you that poor Blair bequeathed me his secret,” I observed, adding a few words of gratitude and then immersing myself in deep meditation on what he had just revealed to me. “I did no more than do my duty to both of you,” was his reply. “She loves him, as I have already told you, and, therefore, I am convinced that with a little persuasion you could get her to tell us the truth about Dawson.” She has fled, it is true, but more out of fear of what you may think of her when her secret is revealed, than out of horror of this man. Remember,” he added, “that Mabel loves you passionately, as she has confessed to me many times, but for some extraordinary reason, which remains a mystery, she strives to repress her affection. She fears, I believe, that there is only friendship on your part , that you are a determined bachelor, too recalcitrant, for him to entertain any thoughts of affection for her. “Oh, Mrs. Percival!” I exclaimed, overcome by a sudden burst of passion, “I assure you… I confess that I have always loved Mabel… that now I love her tenderly, passionately, with all that vehement ardor that a man only feels once in his life.” She has misjudged me. I have been the guilty one, because I have been blind, I have acted foolishly and I have never read the secret of his heart. “Then it is necessary for her to know this immediately,” the respectable lady answered, full of sympathy. –We must, whatever the cost, find her, and tell her everything. Yes, we must have a meeting, and she, for her part, must confess her feelings to you. I know very well how “You deeply love him,” he added, “I know how much you admire you and how, in the solitude of your room, you have often cried bitterly and long, because you believed that you were indifferent and blind to the burning passion of your noble, sincere and innocent heart. –But how was it possible to do that now? The whereabouts of my beloved was a mystery to all of us, no one knew. She had disappeared completely, in order to avoid the terrible revelation that caused her so much horror and that she feared to see revealed at any moment. While I remained weak and disabled, Ford and Reginaldo in the following days busily occupied themselves with their investigations, but all in vain. I appealed to Leighton, the solicitor, and asked his opinion, but all he could think of was to insert notices; However , we both agreed that this medium was not convenient or adaptable for her. Even though it may seem strange, Dorotea Dawson, or Dolly, as her father called her, the dark-faced young woman, also manifested the most intense anxiety for Mabel. Her mother had been Italian, and she spoke English with a slight foreign accent, as if she had always lived in Italy, she said. He came to visit me once, to express his feelings for my illness. Her apparently vulgar appearance was due solely to her mixed nationality, and although she was a very shrewd young woman, possessing all the subtle insight of the Italian, Reginaldo had found her to be a lively and entertaining companion. However, all my thoughts were concentrated on a sweet lost love, and on that arrogant and vulgar individual who, with his threats and contempt, had her subjected to his irresistible and hidden power. Why had she run away from me in terror? Why had this cowardly and ingenious attempt on my life been committed? I had solved the secret of the encrypted enigma only to sink even deeper into a deep abyss of doubts, despair and mystery, because what the closed book of the future had in store for me was, as you will see, maddening and astonishing. When the light came, reality turned out to be terrible, harsh and incontestable, but, nevertheless, it was so astonishing and strange that faith in it wavered and doubt seemed to take its place. Chapter 24. TERRIBLE REVELATION. Several sad and heavy weeks passed before I felt sufficiently improved to go out, and at last, accompanied by Reginaldo, I took my first ride in the car. It was mid-April, the weather was still quite cold, and the bright world of London had not yet returned from spending the winter in Monte Carlo, Cairo or Rome. Every year society becomes a swallow, flying south on the first cold day of autumn, returning later to the city, and each London season seems longer than the last. Via Piccadilly we headed to the corner of Hyde Park, and then, circling Constitution Hill, we turned into Pall Mall. Once here, I was seized with a vehement desire to rest for a while and enjoy the air of St. James Park; Therefore we got out of the car, paid the fare to the driver, and leaning on Reginaldo’s arm, we slowly started walking along the sandy paths of the promenade until we found a suitable seat. The splendor and beauty of St. James Park, even on an April day, is always a joy to true Londoners. Many times I have been amazed to see how few people take advantage of its advantages. The wonderful trees, the delightful lake with its sheet of silver water, all the charms and beauties of the English countryside , and then that feeling that comes from realizing that you are surrounded by the great palaces, departments, and government offices of our great empire; or, in other words, that silence enjoyed within it, intermingled with the feverish and tumultuous life outside, makes St. James’s Park one of the most charming retreats in England. Reginaldo and I repeated this to ourselves several times, and then, under the delicious influence of that environment, the time came for reflections and reminiscences, until finally those great silences occurred that occur between friends, and which are the best symbols of their complete harmony of feeling and ideas. As we sat meditating, I realized that we were precisely at the point where it is safest to see the most prominent political figures of the day passing by at that time, either to their different offices, or on their way to parliament, where the session was going to open. In quick succession a cabinet minister, two Liberal peers, a Conservative and an under-secretary passed through Storey’s door . Reginaldo, who took such an interest in politics, and had often occupied a seat in the gallery of the chambers, showed me the politicians who were passing by; but my thoughts were elsewhere, they had flown to where my lost love was. Now that Mrs. Percival had revealed to me what Mabel’s true feelings were, I understood how foolish I had been in trying to feign indifference towards her, pretending the complete opposite of what really existed in my heart. He had been a great fool, and he was paying cruelly for it. During the weeks that I had been confined to my bedroom, I had managed to obtain a good number of books, and discovered certain facts and data concerning the late cardinal who, in exchange for his freedom, had had to reveal his secret. Andrea Sannini, it seems, was a native of Perugia, became archbishop of Bologna, and was later awarded the cardinal’s hat. Pius IX, of whom he was a great favorite, appointed him for several delicate missions to different powers, and as he demonstrated in his capacity as a diplomat to possess notable insight and vividness, the Pope made him general treasurer, as well as director of the museums and galleries of universal fame in the Vatican. He was one of the most distinguished and powerful figures of the College of Cardinals, it seems, and on the occasion of the entry of the Italian troops into the Eternal City in 1870, he acquired extraordinary prominence for the part he took in it. Upon the death of Pius IX, eight years later, it was believed that he would be designated as his successor, but the choice fell on his colleague, Cardinal Pecci, who became Pope Leo XIII. He was preoccupied with all this information that he had obtained after a lot of work and heavy reading, when Reginaldo suddenly exclaimed, in a low voice: –Look, here comes Dawson’s daughter accompanied by a man! I looked quickly in the indicated direction and saw, crossing the bridge that crosses the lake and approaching where we were, a figure of a well-dressed woman, with an elegant fur jacket and a beautiful cap, and at her side a tall, thin man, in a black suit. Dolly Dawson walked calmly, talking and laughing, while he leaned close to her ear from time to time and made some observations. As I raised my head and looked across the lake, I saw a clerical collar and a small piece of purple cloth peeking out over his coat. That man was evidently some canon or other dignity of the Catholic Church. He was about fifty-five years old, gray-haired, clean -shaven, and wearing a top hat in a somewhat ecclesiastical manner; He was on the whole a rather pleasant-looking man, in spite of his thin sensitive lips and his ascetically pale face. It immediately occurred to me that they must have met clandestinely and were walking around to avoid being recognized on the street. The priest seemed to treat her with studied courtesy, and I noticed his slight gestures as he spoke, which made me believe that he was a foreigner. I conveyed my thoughts to Reginaldo, and he replied: –You have to watch them, old man. They shouldn’t see us here. I wish they would go the other way. We followed them with our eyes for a moment, afraid that, having crossed the bridge, they would turn towards where we were, but fortunately they did not, as they took a right along the shore of the lake. “If that priest is Italian, then he must have come expressly from Italy to meet with her,” I observed. “Because from the moment I had spoken with Brother Antonio, there seemed to be a curious connection between the secret of the deceased cardinal and the church of Rome. “We need to find out and know what’s really there,” observed Reginaldo. “But you shouldn’t stay here any longer.” “It’s getting too cold for you,” he added, jumping to his feet . “While you go home, I’ll follow them.” –No–I told him.–I’ll walk a little with you. I’m interested in this game, and getting up too, I put my arm in his and started walking, leaning on my cane. They walked close together, engaged in an animated conversation. From the rapid gesticulations of the priest, the way in which he shook, first, his clenched fingers, and then raised his open hand and touched his left forearm, I could have affirmed that he was speaking of some secret, the possessor of which had disappeared. If one knows Italian well , one can follow the topic of the conversation to a certain extent through the gestures, since each of these has its own particular meaning. Walking as quickly as possible, we gradually managed to get closer, because they had shortened their pace and were going relatively slowly. The priest took the floor and spoke vehemently, as if trying to persuade the daughter of the boatswain of the “Annie Curtis” to proceed in the direction he indicated. She seemed thoughtful, silent and indecisive. Once he shrugged his shoulders, and withdrew from him, turning as if in defiance, but at once the cunning priest was all smiles and apologies. They spoke, no doubt, in Italian, so that passersby could not understand their conversation. I noticed that his clothes were of a markedly foreign cut and that his shoes were low, even though he had removed the shiny steel buckles. At the moment they appeared across the bridge, she had been laughing happily at some remark of her companion, but now all her joy seemed to have completely disappeared and she had realized the true object of that foreigner’s mission. The path they had followed led to Horse Guards Parade, and realizing a moment later that my weakness would not permit me to walk any further, I was forced to turn towards the steps of the York Column, leaving Reginald alone to observe as much as he could. I returned home completely exhausted and cold, for, despite having been wearing my large woolen overcoat, which I used for car rides when I was in Helpstone, I had not been able to prevent the cold, biting wind from blowing in . I remained two full hours sitting by the fire to make up for what I had lost, until finally my friend returned. “I’ve followed them everywhere,” she explained, dropping into an armchair in front of me. “It’s obvious that he has threatened her, and she ‘s afraid of him. ” When they reached Horse Guards Parade, they turned down Birdcage Walk again and then crossed Park Green. He then accompanied her by car to one of Fuller’s stores on Regent Street. It seems that the priest has a panic terror of being known, and before leaving Green Park, he raised the collar of his coat to hide that little bit of purple that was peeking out. –Have you discovered his name? –I followed him to the Savoy, which is where he stops. There he has registered his name as Monsignore Galli, of Rimini. Our information on the matter ended here. They were enough, however, to show that the priest was in London for a fixed purpose, probably to persuade Ceco’s daughter to give him certain information which he vehemently desired to know, and that he had the intention to obtain through certain important data that it possessed. Several rainy and gloomy days passed, and Bloomsbury presented its most melancholy appearance. I had not been able to discover the slightest trace of my missing love, nor obtain any other information from Monsignore, the white-haired priest. It seems that he had left the Savoy the following afternoon, returning, there is no doubt, to the Continent, but we did not know whether or not he had been successful in his mission. Dolly Dawson, with whom Reginaldo had established a kind of pleasant friendship, more for the purpose of being able to observe and interrogate her than for anything else, came to see us to inquire about my health and to find out if we had gotten any news about Mabel’s whereabouts. Her father, she told us, had been away from London for several days, and she was going to Brighton to visit an aunt. Would it be possible that Dawson, having learned of my good result in solving the encrypted enigma, had left for Italy in order to save the cardinal’s secret and take it away from us? Hour by hour I longed to recover all my strength to be able to leave for the designated place on the banks of the Serchio, but I found myself detained inside those narrow rooms due to my terrible weakness. Four long and frightful weeks of martyrdom passed, until mid-May arrived, and I was able to have enough strength to go out alone and take a few short walks in and around Oxford Street. Burton Blair’s will had already been approved, and Leighton expressed to us, on the several times he visited us, the carelessness and indifference with which this Dawson handled the assets. That the adventurer was in secret communication with Mabel was proven by the fact that certain checks signed by her had passed through her hands to go to the Bank; However, even though it may seem very strange, he pretended to be completely ignorant about it and declared that he did not know where he was. Dawson was already back at the mansion in Grosvenor Square when one day, about twelve o’clock, Glave brought Carter into my presence. I knew from his countenance the agitation that dominated him, and as soon as he entered, after greeting me respectfully, he exclaimed: “I have managed to discover Miss Mabel’s address, sir!” Since she left the house I have not lost sight of the letters sent to the post, as Mr. Ford had instructed me to do; but Mr. Dawson has never written to her until this morning, when by chance, I believe, he sent a letter to the post addressed to her, among a number of others which he handed over to the messenger. It is at Mill House, Church Enstone, near Chipping Norton. Full of joy, I jumped and stood up; I thanked him for the news, ordered Glave to give him a drink, and left London for Owfordshire by the one-thirty train. Before five o’clock I found Mill House, a gloomy and old-fashioned house, standing behind a high box hedge in the village street at Church Enstone, on the high road from Aylesburg to Stratford. In front of the house stretched a small meadow, gay and bright with its beds of tulips and fragrant daffodils. A coarsely spoken maid opened the door for me and showed me into a low, small, old-fashioned room, where I surprised my beloved sitting in a large armchair, in a sad attitude, reading. –Mr. Greenwood!–she stammered, getting up quickly, pale and breathless–you! you here! –Yes–I answered, when the maid had closed the door and we were alone.–I have finally found her, Mabel… finally!–And, moving forward, I tenderly took her two little hands in mine. Then, dominated by the ecstasy of that moment of pleasure, I looked straight into her eyes, exclaiming: “She tried to run away from me, but today I found her again .” I have come, Mabel, to confess to you frankly, to tell you… to tell you, my dearest Mabel, that… that I love you! “He loves me!” she cried, frightened, jumping back, and pushing me away from her with her two small white hands. “No!” No!–he moaned.–You He must not… he cannot love me. It’s impossible! –Why?–I asked her quickly.–I have loved her since that first night we met. Certainly you must have discovered the secret of my heart a long time ago. “Yes,” he stammered, “I have met him.” But alas! It’s too late… too late! –Too late?–I exclaimed.–Why? She remained silent. Her face was covered with a sudden deathly paleness and even her lips turned white: then I saw her trembling from head to toe. I repeated my question gravely, my eyes fixed on her. “Because,” she finally answered slowly, in a tremulous and so low voice that I could barely hear the fatal words she pronounced, “because I’m already married!” “Married!” I exclaimed, stammering and stiffening. “And her husband!” What’s it called? –Don’t you guess?–he asked me.–Don’t you suspect it? The man you have already had the opportunity to meet: Herbert Hales. His eyes were lowered as if in shame, while his thin beard rested dejectedly on his panting chest. Chapter 25. THE SACRED NAME. What could I say? What would you have said? I remained silent. I didn’t know what words to say. That young groom, that scoundrel, son of the respectable old sailor who spent the afternoons of his peaceful days sitting at the door of his house in Las Encrucijadas, was, in fact, the husband of the millionaire’s daughter! It seemed completely incredible, however, when he remembered that midnight scene in Mayvill Park; I immediately recognized how helpless and helpless she was in the hands of that vulgar and arrogant peasant, that infamous peasant, who, in a moment of crazy frenzy, had committed that desperate and furious attack on Mabel’s life. I also recognized that love, if it ever existed, had long since disappeared between them, and that the only idea that dominated the man’s thoughts was to take advantage of his union with her, to abuse and exploit her vilely, as so many rich and high-status women are at this very moment victims of equal misfortunes in England. Like a bolt of lightning the memory of his refusal to pursue and punish this infamous man for the cowardly attempt on his life came to my mind , and the reason then became clear and conclusive. It was his wife! The mere thought produced a spasm of jealousy, pain and hatred in me, because I loved her with all the sincere and honest passion of which a good man is capable. Since Mrs. Percival had revealed the truth to me, I had only lived for her, thinking of finding her again and frankly declaring my love for her. “Is this true?” I finally asked him in a voice whose harshness I could not suppress. I took her cold, limp hand in mine and looked at her beautiful drooping head. –Woe is me! Unfortunately he is–was her weak reply.–He is my husband; “Consequently, all love between us is excluded,” he added. “You have always been my friend, Mr. Greenwood, but now that you have forced me to confess the reality to you, our friendship is over.” –And your husband is here with you? “He has been,” he answered, “but he is gone.” “I suppose you secretly left London to join him, didn’t you?” I observed with bitterness and acrimony. –Because he asked me to. He wanted to see me. –To obtain money by dint of threats, as he tried to do that memorable night in Mayville? The pale and dejected girl shook her head affirmatively. “I have come to live in this house, but paying,” he explained. “Isabel Wood, a former classmate, lives here with her mother. They both believe that I have made a secret marriage, contrary to my family, for which I had to run away from home, and in these last two years they have been extraordinarily kind to me. “So you’ve been married for two years!” I exclaimed, full of surprise and confusion, truly amazed to see the way how had been deceived. –Yes, almost two years ago. We were married in Wymondham, Norfolk . “Tell me the whole story, Mabel,” I urged her, after a long pause, striving to preserve a feigned external calm, which certainly did not coincide with my most intimate and profound feelings. Her chest rose and fell panting beneath her lace and chiffons, her big wonderful eyes shining with tears. For five long minutes she remained overcome by emotion and was unable to articulate a word. At last, in a low, hoarse voice, he said: “I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. Greenwood.” I’m ashamed of myself, and the way I deceived him. My only apology can be concentrated in these two words: it was imperative. I got married forced by a terrible chain of circumstances, which you will only understand when the light comes, when you know the whole truth.–And she remained silent again. “But won’t you tell me now?” I insisted. “As her best friend, as the man who has sincerely loved her, I believe I have the right to know her.” She shook her head with bitter sadness, and looking at me through her tears, she answered briefly: “I’ve already told you.” I am married. I can only apologize for deceiving you and tell you that I was forced to do so. –Do you mean that you have been forced to marry him? forced by who? “For him,” she stammered. “Two years ago I left London alone one morning and met him at Wymondham, where I had previously been stopping for a fortnight, while my father was fishing. Herberto met me at the station, and we got married secretly, with two unknown men, chosen by chance, acting as godfathers. After the ceremony, we separated. I took off the ring and went home. That night we were having a dinner, and among the diners were you, Lord Newborough, and Lady Rainham; Then we went to the Haymarket. Don’t you remember? When we were sitting in the box, he asked me why I was so sad and thoughtful, and I apologized by telling him that I had a bad headache. Ah! If you had only known! “I remember that night perfectly,” I told her, pitying her. –Was that then the night of your wedding? But how did he force her to marry him? The reasons that prompted it are too clear, by the way. She wanted to take advantage, there is no doubt, either because you could not allow it to be known that you were the wife of a common man, a horse-keeper, or because you intended to come into possession of his money upon the death of your father. “Certainly yours is not the first marriage of this kind that has been celebrated,” I added, with a feeling of horror and confusion. At the very moment when my hopes had reached the highest pitch and seemed close to seeing their dreams realized, due to Mrs. Percival’s declaration, the terrible blow had fallen on them, and I understood at once that all love between us was impossible. Mabel, the woman whom he had loved with such passion and tenderness, was the wife of a rustic brute peasant who with his threats tormented her to the point of madness, and who, as he had already demonstrated, would not hesitate at anything in order to achieve his despicable ends. The state of my mood and feelings was indescribable. I have no words to give an adequate idea of the conflicting emotions that destroyed my heart, nor how cruelly they tortured it. Until that moment she had been under my protection, but now that I knew that she was another’s wife, I had no right to exercise control over her actions, I had no right to admire her, nor did I have the right to love her. Ah! If you have ever felt like a desperate, dejected and disillusioned man; If you have understood how useless and pointless your sad and lonely life has been, that man has been me. I tried to persuade her to tell me how that rustic peasant I had forced her to marry him, but the words stuck in my throat and the emotion drowned me. Tears must have welled up in my eyes, I suppose, because with an impulse of sudden sympathy, an explosion of feminine tenderness that vibrated so strongly within her noble being, she placed her hand affectionately on my shoulder and said, in a calm, serene and low voice: –We cannot revoke the past, so why think about it? Please proceed as I asked you to do in my letter. Forgive me and forget. Leave me with my sorrows. Now I know that he loved me, but it’s… He couldn’t finish the sentence, because he was bathed in tears. “I know what you mean,” I said confused. “Too late… yes, too late.” Our two existences have been destroyed by my foolishness… because I hid from him what as a sincere and honest man I should have told him a long time ago. “No, no, Gilberto,” he shouted, calling me by my name for the first time, “I’m not saying that.” The fault is not his, but mine… mine–and he covered his face with his hands and sobbed loudly and melancholy. “Where is your husband… or rather, that man who tried to kill her?” I asked her fiercely a few minutes later. –Somewhere in the North, I believe. –And when was he here with you? –A week ago he came and stayed a couple of hours. –But it is not possible for him to continue abusing you like this! If I can’t continue being your lover, I can, however, always be your champion, Mabel! – I shouted full of determination. – From now on you will have to deal with me. –Ah, no!–he stammered, turning towards me with suspicion and fear.– You shouldn’t do anything. Otherwise could he… –What could he do? She remained silent, gazing out of the open window, without purpose or interest, at the wide meadows that stretched before her vision, hazy and silent in the midst of the darkness of twilight. “You can,” he said in a low, clipped voice, “you can tell the world the truth!” –What truth? –The one that he knows… through which he forced me to be his wife,–and he put his hand on his chest, as if to stop the terrible beating of his tender heart. I tried to persuade her to reveal the secret to me, to trust me with her concerns, since I was her most faithful and sincere friend, but she refused. “No,” he exclaimed in a clipped voice, “don’t ask me, Gilberto, now that I can allow myself to call you that, because of all men it is you that I cannot say it to.” All that remains for me is to remain silent… and suffer. Her face was pale, very pale, and from her expression I knew that her resolution was irrevocable. Despite the trust and esteem she had in me, I understood that there would be no power in the world that would induce her to reveal that terrible truth to me. “But you know the reason your father had for appointing his friend Dawson as administrator of his fortune,” I told him. “I was confident that with one word from him he would be able to make him retire from the position he holds today.” It is not possible for you to appear to be unaware of your father’s mysterious motive for doing so. –I’ve already told you. My poor father also acted under pressure. Mr. Leighton knows it too. –And do you know the reason? He shook his head affirmatively. –So you can counter that man’s plans? “Yes, I could,” he answered slowly, “if I dared to do it.” –What are you afraid of? “I fear what my father feared,” he answered. –And what was that? –To fulfill a certain threat that he had made many times to my father, and later to me. The day I left my home he threatened me too… daring me to utter a single word. Yes, that one-eyed man had absolute power over her, as he had boasted to Mrs. Percival. That man also knew the cardinal’s secret, while I did not know it. We sat in that small, old-fashioned room until twilight turned to deep night, and she got up painfully. and lit the lamp. In the light I noticed, startled, how her sweet face had changed. His cheeks were pale and withered, his eyes swollen and red, and his entire countenance denoted a deep, terrible, burning anxiety, a panicked terror of the unknown that the future held for him. Certainly, her position was strange, almost inconceivable: a pretty young woman, with a fortune of more than two million pounds deposited in the power of her bankers, and yet persecuted, surrounded by her cruel enemies who sought her ruin, degradation and death. The revelation of his marriage had dealt me a terrible blow, as if to make me stagger. He could no longer be more than a simple friend to her like any other man; all thoughts of love were excluded, all hope of happiness abandoned. I had never sought her for her fortune, I can honestly confess that. He had loved her only for what she was worth in herself, because she was sweet and pure, because he knew that her heart was loyal and sincere; that in character, willpower , grace and beauty, was incomparable. For a long time I held his hand in mine, feeling a certain satisfaction, I suppose, in repeating in this way what I had done so many times in the past, now that I had to say goodbye forever to all my hopes and aspirations. She sat silently, letting out deep sighs of pain while I spoke, telling her about that strange nocturnal adventure on the streets of Kensington, and how close she had come to death. “So, knowing that you have managed to read the secret written in those letters, they have tried to seal your lips forever,” she finally exclaimed , in a hard and mechanical voice, almost as if she had been talking to herself. “Ah!” Didn’t I warn you in my letter? Have I not told you that the secret is so well and ingeniously kept that you will never be able to know it or profit from it? “But I intend to persevere in the solution of the mystery of his father’s fortune,” I declared, always with his hand in mine, giving him my sad and bitter goodbye. “He left me his secret, and I have decided to leave tomorrow for Italy, to look for the indicated point and learn the truth.” “Then you’d better save yourself that trouble, sir,” exclaimed a vulgar and uneducated man’s voice, which startled me upon hearing it , and as I turned quickly, I saw that the door had opened without a sound, and on the lintel, contemplating us with apparent satisfaction, stood the man who stood between me and my beloved: the rustic and brutal peasant who claimed her with the right to give her the sacred name of wife! Chapter 26. FACE TO FACE. “I would like to know what you have to do here?” asked that vulgar individual, with rude features, whose flat gray hat and short breeches gave him a markedly stable-boy appearance. And he stood in the doorway, crossing his arms defiantly and looking into my face. “The matter that has brought me here concerns only me,” I answered, facing him with disgust. “If it concerns my wife, I have the right to know,” he insisted. “Your wife!” I shouted, advancing towards him and controlling with difficulty the powerful impulse I felt to hit and throw that young ruffian to the ground. “Don’t call her your wife, man!” Call her by her real name: your victim! “Are you calling me that as an insult?” he said quickly, his face turning white with sudden anger. Mabel, seeing his threatening attitude, jumped between us and begged me to remain calm. “There are some men for whom words cannot be insulting, no matter how harsh they are,” I answered violently, “and you are one of them.” “What do you mean?” he shouted. “Do you want to fight?” and he advanced with his fists clenched. –I do not wish to fight–was my quick response.–The only thing I order you is to leave this lady alone. I may legally be his wife, but I I will assume the role of your protector. –Oh!–he exclaimed, curling his lip mockingly.–Would you like to know by what right you intervene between us? “With the right that every man has to protect a helpless and persecuted woman,” I answered firmly. “I know him, and I am well aware of his ignominious past.” Since you dare to challenge me, will I have to remind you of an incident that you seem to have very comfortably forgotten? Don’t you remember a certain night, not too long ago, in Mayvill Park, when you tried to commit an infamous and brutal crime, don’t you remember? He jumped startled, then looked at me angrily, the fire of criminal hatred shining in his eyes. –She told him! Damn! “He has sold me!” he exclaimed, giving his trembling and terrified wife a look of deep disdain. –No, she hasn’t told me–I responded.–By chance I happened to witness her cowardly attack. I was the one who pulled her alive from the frozen river, where you criminally threw her. For that act he committed then, he is going to answer me now. “What do you mean?” he asked, and from the lines of his face I knew that my attitude and words had caused him immense concern. –I mean that it is not your turn to dare to challenge, taking into account the fact that, if it had not been for the happy circumstance of having found me present that night in the park, today you would be a convicted murderer. Hearing the last words, he contracted in terror. Like all his kind, he was arrogant and tyrannical towards the weak, but as easy to dominate firmly as a dog that submits to the voice of its master. –And now, I continued, I can also add that that same night when he almost killed this poor girl who is his victim, I heard his demands. You are a vile exploiter, the most despicable and base type of criminal, and you seem to have forgotten that for crimes like yours there are severe laws that punish. You demand money using threats, and if they refuse, you commit a desperate attempt on your wife’s life. The evidence that I could present against you in the court of Assisi would have you sentenced to hard labor for a term of years, do you understand me? I am going, therefore, to make an agreement with you: if you promise me not to bother your wife anymore, I will remain silent. –And you do me the favor of telling me who the hell you are to talk to me this way… come on, like a prison chaplain on his weekly visit to the cells! “You better know how to hold your tongue, man, and think carefully about my words,” I told him. “I’m not a person to get into arguments.” I proceed. –Well, proceed as you please. I’ll do what I think is best, do you hear me? –And will he defy danger? Will he expose himself to everything? “Very well,” I replied. “You know the worst: the prison. –And you didn’t–he laughed.–If it weren’t like that, I wouldn’t talk like a real idiot. Mabel is my wife, and you have nothing to do in the matter, so this is enough,” he added insolently. “Instead of trying to threaten me, I am the one who has the right to ask you why I find you here… with her. “I’m going to tell her!” I shouted angrily, my hands burning with the desire to give that reckless scoundrel a good and well-deserved lesson. “I’m here to protect her, because I fear for her life.” And I will stay here until you leave. “But I am her husband, and therefore I will stay,” exclaimed the individual, completely unaltered. “Then she will go with me,” I exclaimed decisively. –I will not allow that. “You will proceed as I see fit,” I told him. Then, turning to Mabel, who had remained silent, trembling and pale, for fear that we would come to blows, I added: “Put on your coat and hat at once, because you must return to London, with me.” “She won’t do it!” he shouted, without giving in. “If my curses and oaths manage to irritate her, she will have them thick and abundant.” “Mabel,” I said, without paying attention to the ruffian’s words, but stepping back to allow him to pass, “put on your jacket, do me a favor.” A steering wheel is waiting for me outside. The rascal tried to make a move to prevent him from leaving the room, but immediately my hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and he read my determination on my face. –You will regret this!–he hissed menacingly, uttering a curse between his teeth.–I know what you are looking for… but–and he laughed,–but you will never get the secret that gave the millions to Blair. You think you have in your hand the thread that will reveal the mystery, but you will soon realize your mistake. –And what is my mistake? –Not associating with me, instead of insulting me. “I have no need of the help of a man who attempts against the life of a poor helpless woman,” I replied. “Keep in mind that from now on you must stay away from her, or by Job!” I assure you that without further ado, I will ask for the cooperation of the police, and your past history will demonstrate the perversity of your character. –Do what you like–he laughed again defiantly.–By handing me over to the police you will do her the worst harm. If you doubt what I say, ask him. Be careful how you proceed before you make a fool of yourself and make her a victim. And with this vain and harsh insolence he dropped into the armchair and placed his feet on the grate of the fireplace, assuming an indolent attitude and calmly lighting an ordinary and unpleasant-smelling cigar . “Don’t be afraid, it will be only one who will lose,” I replied significantly. “And that will be you.” “Okay,” he exclaimed, “we’ll see.” I left the room and met Mabel, who was waiting for me dressed in the hall. After saying a quick goodbye to Isabel Wood, her former classmate, I took her out of there, put her on the wheel and with her I drove back to Chipping Norton. Even though, reflecting with a calmer spirit, I could not understand the exact position occupied by this young ruffian called Herbert Hales, or the true meaning of his final ominous words of open defiance, I had managed, for the time being, to snatch my beloved from the clutches of that impudent, heartless and arrogant brute and exploiter, but I did not dare to foresee how long it would be. My
position was insecure and uncertain, like I couldn’t face the situation openly. He loved Mabel, but he had no right to do so. It was, unfortunately, the wife, alas! the victim, rather, of a man of vulgar type and criminal instincts. Our journey to Paddington station was uneventful, and almost completely silent. Our hearts, which beat sadly, were overflowing with sorrow and pain, without breath to be able to pronounce the simplest words. An insurmountable barrier had stood between us; We were both dejected and sick with grief. The past, full of hope, was over; We had a dark, melancholic and desperate future ahead of us. When we arrived in London, she expressed a desire to see Mrs. Percival, and as she refused to return to live under the same roof with Dawson, I took her to the York Hotel, in Albemarle Street; Then, in the same carriage, I headed to Grosvenor Square, informing Mrs. Percival where my beloved was. The widow did not waste a minute in going to her side, and at midnight, accompanied by Reginaldo, I went to the hotel again, because I wanted to give her certain instructions about her husband, recommending that she refuse to see him if he ever found her, and also to say goodbye to her, since at nine the next morning we were leaving Charing Cross, heading for Italy. I had resolved, with Reginaldo, that we should not waste another moment of time, now that I felt sufficiently improved and strong to travel, and that it was necessary to go to Tuscany, in order to find out the reality of that mysterious encrypted record. He bid them both a fond farewell, and insisted that we not We grieved more for her, yet we could not help noticing how great was her anxiety regarding the result of my defiance of her infamous husband. He wished us good luck, speed in the dangerous undertaking we were going to undertake, complete success and a quick and happy return to our homeland. Chapter 27. THE INSTRUCTIONS OF HIS EMINENCE. The green and winding valley of Serchio presented its most joyful and beautiful appearance in the month of May, the season of flowers in old Italy. Away, well away, from the great routes along which numerous English, American and German tourists cross in winter, solitary and unexplored, visited only by the simple _contadini_ of the mountains, the murmuring river meanders, forming tortuous curves and capricious bends, around pointed angles, and under immense trees with their sloping crowns, around large boulders and enormous stones, worn and softened by the action of the water through the centuries. In these solitary places of the river, when it rushes impetuously from the gigantic Apennines towards the sea, the brilliant kingfisher and the majestic heron live, calm and content, without human beings disturbing their placid existence, feeling like absolute owners of it. As we set out, having left the car that had taken us from Lucca to the strange medieval bridge called the Devil’s Bridge, the picturesque, serene and solitary country beauty of the landscape impressed us. The silence was profound, not the slightest noise could be heard, except for the hum of the thousands of insects that swarmed in the sun, and the soft musical murmur of the water, which in that place slides calmly over its rocky bed. My first impulse when we arrived at the Universe, in Lucca, was to go up to the Monastery and visit Brother Antonio. However, his relationship with Blair’s partner, former Petty Officer Dawson, seemed so intimate to me that we decided to first explore the point raised and make some observations. Therefore, at eight o’clock that morning we got into one of those old and dusty Tuscan road cars, whose horses are adorned with loud bells, and around noon we found ourselves on the left bank of the river, counting the four hundred and fifty-six steps, as indicated in the secret register inscribed on the letters. We ordered our driver to wait for us again at the small inn, or tavern, that was next to the road and in front of which we had just passed; and to prevent him from observing us from a distance, because we knew he would try to sneakily spy on our movements, we were forced, in view of the lack of a path, to go around the center of a small forest, emerging again on the bank of the river a little higher up. When we were by the water, standing in the middle of the tall bushes that grew on the banks, we could only look back at the bridge and estimate that we were about a hundred paces from it. Then, marching forward in file, we trudged our way through the tall weeds, grasslands, giant ferns, and tangled vines, advancing slowly toward the marked bridge. In certain places the trees intertwined their crowns, and the bright sun penetrated through the foliage, reflecting its rays on the murmuring and agitated waters, producing a beautiful effect. According to the record, the place must have been in open countryside, since the sun shone on it for one hour at noon on April 5th and two hours on May 5th. At that time it was May 19th , and, therefore, the duration of the sun would be, roughly calculating, about a quarter of an hour longer. In certain places the river was clear and free to receive the sun, while in others the light must never have been able to penetrate there, since its banks were so high and boxed in that they prevented it. From the cracks in the rocks emerged mountain pines and other trees that had taken root and grown enormously, bending over the river until they almost touched the river. the water with its branches; Consequently, our progress was increasingly slow and difficult, due to the ruggedness of the riverbank, the tangled wild vegetation, and the grasslands. One fact was proven: it had been a long time since anyone had approached the indicated point, because we did not find the slightest trace that would indicate that the plants of some intruders had trampled a leaf or destroyed a single wand. At last, after we had climbed along a steep rock which descended abruptly to the water, and had calculated that we were four hundred and twenty paces from the old bridge, we suddenly rounded a bend in the river, and came out into a space where it widened, although it always ran a hundred feet or more deep, so that it ran clear for a width of at least forty yards, looking towards the firmament. –This must be it!–I shouted with anxious anticipation, stopping and quickly inspecting the place.–In the instructions it says that you have to go down twenty-four steps. I suppose it must mean steps made in the rock; we need to find them. And we both began to look for them with all interest, but we could not discover any footprints in the middle of that tangled vegetation. “The record says that you must descend to the point behind which a man can defend himself against four hundred,” exclaimed Reginaldo, reading a copy of the original that he took out of his pocket. “This seems to indicate that the entrance is in some narrow crevice between two rocks.” Don’t you see something similar? I looked around anxiously, but was forced to confess that I could see nothing that matched the description. So abrupt was the dark limestone crag leading down to the water, that I approached its edge with great caution, and then, lying on my face, crawled over and looked over its dangerous shore. As he did so, a huge piece of rock came loose and fell into the river with a loud crash. I observed everything very carefully, but I could not see anything, absolutely nothing, that was in accordance with what the former bandit Poldo Pensi had left on record. For half an hour we scrutinized in vain, until we realized, alarmed, that, since we had not exactly measured the steps marked from the Devil’s Bridge, we were not at the precise point. We retraced the path we had taken, slowly and laboriously, once again having to go through the almost impenetrable weeds, tearing our clothes and injuring ourselves, and once we reached the bridge, which was the starting point, we began our march again. Our calculation had been so wrong that three hundred and eighty -seven steps into the second exploration we passed through the place that we had scrutinized so thoroughly moments before, and continuing on our way, always ahead, we stopped when we reached four hundred and fifty-six steps, on the top of a high field very similar to the other, even though it was more rugged and even more inaccessible. “There doesn’t seem to be anything here,” observed Reginaldo, whose face was all bruised by the thorny weeds and was dripping with blood. I looked around and had, with disgust, to confirm his words. The trees were large and shady where we stood, some of them leaning over the deep ravine through which the river wound. Cautiously we crawled face down to the edge of the rock, using this precaution, for we did not know whether the edge was rotten, and inspected the point with a penetrating gaze. –Look!–my friend shouted, pointing to a place towards the bottom of the rock, halfway along the deep river, after it made the abrupt turn,–there are some steps and a narrow path that leads further down. And what is that? Chapter 28. DESCRIPTION OF AN AMAZING DISCOVERY. I looked and saw, on a kind of natural platform made in the rock, a small stone hut, whose dark tile roof we could contemplate from above. –Yes–I exclaimed–there are the twenty-four steps that the record speaks of, there is no doubt. Does anyone live inside that hut? “Let’s go down and investigate,” Reginaldo indicated anxiously, and a few minutes later we discovered a narrow trail that led from the chestnut forest directly to the rough steps, which went down to a narrow opening between two rocks. On the one on the right we saw, deeply engraved in the stone, an old-fashioned capital letter E, about a foot long, and passing by it, we found a dangerous bucket full of ruggedness, which, making ziszases, led to the small hut. The closed door and the small iron window of that lonely cabin aroused our curiosity. A moment later, however, the mystery was revealed. The front of the hut was pointed, and above the keystone was a small stone cross. It was a hermit’s cell, like so many other ancient places of retreat and contemplation that there are in old Italy, and immediately, as I passed in front of the rocks and cautiously descended along the path, the door opened, and a monk came out of the hermitage, in whom I recognized, to my great surprise, the portly and bearded Capuchin, Brother Antonio. “Gentlemen , ” he exclaimed in Italian, greeting us, “this is an unexpected encounter , indeed. ” As we sat down accepting his invitation, he picked up his faded crimson robe and sat down next to us. I told him how surprised I was to find him there, but he smiled and said: “Are you disappointed that you haven’t discovered something else?” “We hope to learn Cardinal Sannini’s secret,” was my frank response, knowing well that he was in possession of the truth, and suspecting that, along with the one-eyed Englishman, he had also been Blair’s associate. The monk’s rough, sunburned features assumed an enigmatic and confused expression, for he understood that we had learned something, but nevertheless hesitated to question us for fear of revealing himself. The Capuchins, like the Jesuits, are admirable diplomats. Undoubtedly the personal fascination exerted by the monk was due in part to his splendid presence. His face was beautiful, clear, with well-defined and energetic features, softened by eyes in which the light of perpetual youth seemed to shine, with a candid, modest expression. “Then you have recovered the record,” he finally observed, looking me straight in the face. –Yes, and since I have read it, I answered, I have come here to investigate it and claim the secret that has been bequeathed to me. He breathed heavily, looked at us both for a moment, and his heavy black eyebrows contracted. It was hot where we sat, for the bright Italian sun fell flat upon us; Therefore, without answering me, he stood up and invited us to enter his cool little cell, a square, bare room, with a board floor, whose furniture consisted of a low, old-fashioned wooden bed, with a piece of an old dark bedspread for a coverlet, a _priedieu_ Renaissance, of ancient carved oak, blackened by use and time, a chair, a hanging lamp, and on the wall a large crucifix. “And Mr. Dawson?” he finally asked, when Reginaldo had sat on the edge of the bed and I was in the chair. “What is he saying?” “I have no need to ask your opinion,” I replied quickly. “By law the cardinal’s secret is mine, and no one can dispute it.” –Except its current owner–was his calm observation. –Its current owner has no right over it. Burton Blair gave it to me, and therefore it is mine,” I declared. –I do not dispute that–answered the monk.–But as guardian of the secret of the cardinal, I have the right to know how the record inscribed in the letters came into your hands , and how you obtained the key to the cipher. I told him exactly everything he wanted to know, and when he had made sure, he exclaimed: “You have certainly managed to succeed in what I predicted you would fail, and your presence here fills me with surprise.” Apparently he has overcome all the obstacles that have been presented to him, and today he comes to claim from me what is rightfully his, without a doubt. He seemed to speak sincerely, but I must confess that I did not trust him and that I still harbored misgivings. “Before we go any further, however,” he continued, standing with his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his habit, “I am going to ask you if you intend to observe the same methods put into practice by Mr. Blair, who allocated one-eighth of the money derived from secrecy to our order of Capuchins.” –Certainly yes–I replied, somewhat surprised.–My wish is to respect in all respects the obligations of my late friend. “That’s a promise you make,” he said with some anxiety. “You have to make it solemnly… come on, swear.” Do you want to repeat it? Raise your hand–And pointed to the large crucifix on the white wall. I raised my hand and exclaimed: –I swear to proceed as Burton Blair has proceeded. “Very well,” replied the monk, apparently satisfied that he was a man of honor. “I suppose then that the time has come to reveal the secret to him, although I do not doubt that it will cause him unspeakable surprise.” Consider, sir, that you are still a relatively poor man, but that within half an hour you will be richer than you ever dreamed of … that you will have millions, as happened to Burton Blair. I listened to him astonished, barely believing what my ears were hearing. However, what was the point of possessing fabulous wealth, now that I had lost my love? From a small cupboard he took out a rusty old flashlight, and carefully lit it, while the two of us looked at it, full of interest and short of breath. Then he locked the door and secured it with an iron bar, closed the window shutters, and we were left in darkness. Would we perhaps go to see some supernatural illusion? We stood waiting , eager and ecstatic, without realizing or guessing what was going to happen. A moment later he moved his heavy bed, removing it from the corner where it was, and we saw on the floor, cleverly hidden, a kind of door, which when opened revealed a deep and dark well. “Be careful,” he warned us, “because the steps are somewhat rough and difficult in certain parts,” and holding the lantern high, he soon disappeared from sight, leaving us behind to follow him along those rough steps made of living stone and then of solid rock, wet and sticky steps where the water seeped and fell in loud drops. –Drop down!–ordered our guide, and we saw the faint bulk of its light illuminating our path along a narrow and winding path, which extended to the very heart of the enormous rock. At certain points we crossed between mudholes and sticky mold, while the air trapped there gave off an unpleasant, dirty and unhealthy smell. Suddenly we came out into a large open space whose dimensions we could not calculate in the weak light of that poor flashlight. “These caverns stretch for miles,” the monk explained. “The galleries run in all directions and end directly under the city of Lucca and towards the Arno. They have never been explored. Listen! In the midst of the strange darkness we heard the distant roar of distant waters falling noisily. “That is the underground river, the river that separates the secret of all men, except for you,” he said. “Then he continued forward, always along one side of the gigantic cavern that we were crossing, and We followed him, getting closer and closer to those noisy waters, until at last he ordered us to pass, and began to examine the rough and rugged walls on which large brilliant stalactites shone. Finally he found a large white sign, just like the letter E that had been engraved in the rock on one side of the entrance to the enormous rock, and he placed his flashlight on the ground. “Do not advance another step,” he exclaimed. “Then he made a long, rough bridge emerge from a hole, where it seemed to be well hidden, consisting of a single plank, with weak railings on both sides.” He pushed it forward while I held up the light, until it reached the edge of the deep chasm, and crossed it, so that we could pass. When we were in the middle of it, he raised the lantern higher, and we shuddered to see, down there, about a hundred feet from us, a kind of ravine, through which impetuous masses of black water ran, roaring furiously as they were lost in the bowels of the earth, and forming a terrible trap for those who ventured to explore that strange, curious and humid place. After we crossed the bridge, we went back along a new rocky wall that was on the right, then we went through a long, narrow tunnel , and finally we came out into another open space, the dimensions of which we were also unable to calculate. The monk then placed his lantern in a niche, within which were several candles placed on rough boards and secured between three nails. When he turned them on and our eyes became accustomed to the light, we saw that we were in a kind of room, not very large, but long, narrow and drier than the other parts of the cavern. “Look!” exclaimed the cappuccino, making a movement with his hand. “Everything is here, Mr. Greenwood, and everything is yours.” Then I realized, embarrassed and astonished, that around the walls of that room there were, forming high piles, one on top of the other, an immensity of leather bags filled to the point of almost bursting. I touched a pile that was within reach of my hand, and saw that what was enclosed inside was hard and angular and did not yield to pressure. There were also several small, old-fashioned chests, which, from their sure appearance, with their rusty iron bands and studded with nails, must contain, I thought, the mysterious riches which had made Burton Blair a millionaire, when a few days before he had been a poor homeless wanderer. –What!–I shouted in amazement;–this is an immense hidden treasure! –Yes–answered Brother Antonio in his low, deep voice.–The hidden treasure of the Vatican. See,” he added, “everything is here, except for the part that Mr. Blair took out,” and opening one of the massive chests, he held up the lantern and displayed before my eyes such a varied collection of chalices, patens, and monstrances of gold, vestments covered with jewels and stones, and magnificent jewelry, such as I had never seen before . Reginaldo and I had been completely confused and speechless in the presence of that. At first I thought I was living in an enchanted world of legends and romances, but when a moment later the harsh cappuccino reminded me of the past, my astonishment was limitless. Burton Blair’s secret was out… and it was mine! –Ah!–exclaimed the monk, laughing;–this revelation has left him dazed, there is no doubt. But didn’t I promise you that within half an hour you would be a millionaire several times over? “Yes, but tell me the history of all this great wealth,” I said urgently , because I had cut one or two of the leather bags and discovered that each one of them was overflowing with gold and precious stones, mostly embedded in crucifixes and ecclesiastical ornaments. Chapter 29. IN WHICH A STRANGE STORY IS REFERRED TO. “I think it’s fair that you now know the truth, even though every effort has been made to hide it from you,” observed the monk, as if speaking to himself. “Well, here it is.” You, as a Protestant, perhaps know that the treasures locked up in the Vatican, in Rome, are the greatest of the world, and also that each Pope, on the occasion of his jubilee or some other notable anniversary, receives an enormous number of gifts, while the church of Saint Peter, for its part, constantly receives numerous ornaments and jewels as votive offerings. All this is kept in the Vatican treasury, and constitutes a collection of riches unequaled by all the millions of modern millionaires. At the beginning of the year 1870, Pope Pius IX received, through the wonderful diplomatic channels that our Holy Church has, secret reports announcing that the Italian troops had the intention of bombing and entering Rome, as well as looting the Vatican Palace. His Holiness confided his fears to the great Cardinal Sannini, his favorite, who was then the general treasurer. He knew that there was a safe hiding place here, since he had lived in this district as a young peasant; Therefore he managed, in the months of June, July and August 1870, to secretly transfer a large amount of the Vatican treasure and keep it in this place, in order to save it from the hands of the enemy. In accordance with His Holiness’s fears, on September 20 the Italian troops, after five days of bombardment, entered Rome, but, fortunately, they did not carry out a strong attack on the Vatican. Since then the treasure torn from his bosom remains here. Cardinal Sannini was, it seems, a traitor to the Church, because even when he induced Pius IX to allow the treasure to be secretly removed, he never told him the exact point where it was hidden; and it is strange that the two Swiss guards who helped the cardinal in his work, and who, apart from him, were the only possessors of the secret, should disappear so completely. It is very likely, I think, that they have been precipitated to the bottom of that underground river that we have just crossed. The small entrance to these galleries was previously hidden by only weeds and brambles, but after the treasure was stored here, His Eminence discovered that the place was very adaptable for building a hermitage, and he had this small hut that you have seen built over the small opening in the rock, on the side of the enormous rock, in order to hide it. So that the bricklayers would not discover the entrance, he first closed the hole with his own hands . For several months, during the struggle between the Italian Government and the Holy See, he abandoned his purple garment and led the life of a hermit in this cell, but he had no other object in doing this than to guard the enormous treasure so skillfully secured. As you know, he was once captured by the terrible Poldo Pensi, so feared in Calabria, and forced, in order to save his life and reputation, to discover the existence of his treasure. Pensi, in view of this, came here secretly, saw the treasure, but since he was extremely superstitious, as are all those of his condition, he did not dare to touch a single object. He looked for a man who had once been part of his party and who later entered, repentant, into our Monastery, a certain Brother Horacio, and gave him the hermitage to take care of, but without telling him anything about the secret tunnel and its underground caverns. Sannini and the Pope died, while Brother Horace, completely ignorant of the fact that he resided on a veritable mine of fabulous wealth, continued to live here for sixteen years, until he died, and I succeeded him in the occupation of the cell, where he spends almost six months every year in meditation and prayer. Meanwhile, His Eminence’s secret, inscribed in the secret cipher used by the Vatican in the 17th century, passed, it seems, from the hands of Poldo Pensi to those of Burton Blair, his sea companion and close friend. It’s been about five years or so since I first learned this. My tranquility was disturbed one day by the visit of two Englishmen, Blair and Dawson, who told me a strange story about the secret that had been given to them, but at first I did not want to believe that there was any truth in this tale of the hidden treasure. However, we investigated, and after a very long, difficult and dangerous exploration, we managed to discover the reality. “So Dawson participated in the secret, as well as the benefits?” I observed, stunned by the astonishing truth. –Yes, we three were the only ones who knew the secret, and so we agreed that Blair would have the greater part, since the ex-bandit had given it to him, while Dawson, to whom Pensi, it seems, made known some information concerning the treasure, before dying, would share in a quarter of the annual produce, and I, appointed guardian of the treasure house, in an eighth, or, rather, my community, for whose benefit it was. It would not be paid directly to me, because that would have aroused suspicion, but to the vicar general of the Capuchin Order, resident in Rome, with Blair’s bankers in London being in charge of this mission. This agreement has been fulfilled for five years. Once every six months we would all enter this place together and choose a certain quantity of jewelry and other valuable items, which were sent, by different means, to the convenient points: the jewelry to Amsterdam, to be sold, and the other items to the great auction houses in Paris, Brussels and London, while other objects ended up in the hands of famous dealers and collectors of antiques. As you can see, this jewelry collection is endless. Three rubies alone produced, last year, in Paris, the sum of sixty- five thousand pounds sterling, while some of the emeralds have sold for enormous sums. However, Messrs. Dawson and Blair so ingeniously arranged the different means by which they placed the jewels on the universal market, that no one ever entertained the slightest suspicion. “But all this, honestly speaking, belongs to the Church of Rome,” observed Reginald. –No–answered the great monk, speaking in English;–according to Cardinal Sannini, His Holiness, after the peace with Italy, gave it to him as a token of consideration, and also taking into account that, with the occupation of Rome by Italian troops, it would be difficult, without arousing great suspicion, to bring the great collection of jewels back to the Vatican treasury . “Then all this is mine!” I exclaimed, still not being able to fully believe the truth. “Everything,” answered the Capuchin, “except my share, or, rather, of my Order, to distribute among the poor, as payment for their protective mission here, and that of Mr. Dawson, too, together… with some grant of reward,” and he turned to Reginald, “your friend, here present.” At least, that’s what I assume. I once put him on guard against him, he added, but it was because of what Dawson told me, which were nothing but lies. –I have already sworn to proceed with your Order as Burton Blair did. As for Dawson, that’s another matter; but my friend Seton will not be, rest assured, forgotten, nor will you personally, as the faithful possessor of the secret. –Any reward or gift that can be given to me is for my Order–was the calm response of the manly monk.–It is forbidden for us to possess money, since our small personal needs are supplied by the Father Superior, and we desire nothing from the riches of this world , except what is necessary to help the poor and relieve the afflicted. “Don’t be afraid,” I said, laughing, “you will have a sum for that object.” Then, as the air, exhausted by the lights, seemed to become more and more impure, we decided to return to the cell so cleverly constructed at the entrance to the narrow outer gallery. We had reached the edge of that terrible abyss, where in the depths the water roared in an impetuous current, and I had already crossed the narrow bridge and stepped onto the opposite shore, when, unexpectedly, a pair of iron arms oppressed me in the darkness, and almost before I could utter a cry, I was violently pushed towards the edge. of the frightful precipice. The hands that had imprisoned me pressed with steel fingers on my throat and arm, and the attack was so sudden that at first I thought it was a joke on Reginaldo’s part, since he was very fond of jokes when he was in a good mood. –My God!–I heard him scream a second later, as the flickering light of the flashlight illuminated my assailant’s face.–It’s Dawson! The awareness of the terrible reality and the feeling of being held by my worst enemy, who, there is no doubt, had followed us, since he knew the place well, awakened in me a superhuman strength, and I engaged in a terrible fight to the death with my adversary. Before my two companions could come to my aid, we were both struggling, hand to hand, in the midst of deep darkness, on the very edge of the abyss, into whose bosom it was their intention to throw me so that I would perish like the two Swiss guards, who had to be driven to the bottom of the precipice by the astute cardinal. I understood his criminal design, but not so soon that he did not have time to murmur breathlessly, uttering a terrible oath: –This time he will not escape! The blow I gave him in the middle of the fog did not produce the desired effect; but here, once he’s fallen down, he won’t be able to get involved in my affairs again. Down with you! I felt my strength diminish as he made me retreat a few more steps, giving us the hug of death. In the darkness I felt grabbed by one of my companions and saved, but at that very moment I had resorted to an old school trick, and suddenly turning so that my adversary was in my place, I pushed him back, at the same time freeing myself from his clutches. It was all the work of a second. In the flickering light of the lamp I saw him falter, crazedly trying to grab hold of the void, and with a terrifying cry of anger and despair, fall to the bottom of that black abyss, where the impetuous waters would drag him towards underground regions, unknown and unexplored. Without a doubt, my escape from death has been the most difficult and terrible of any known man, and after that violent effort I remained standing there, breathless, panting and stunned, until Reginaldo took me by the arm and took me out of that dark cavern, in the midst of a silence more impressive than all words. Chapter 30. MOBILE AND MORALITY. The next night we took leave of the vigorous Capuchin monk on the platform of the Lucca station, and boarded the train, in which we were to travel the first part of our journey back to England. He had to return at once to his hermit’s cell, situated above the tortuous Serchio, and continue to be, as he had been before, the silent guardian of the great secret which, had it been revealed, would have astonished the world. Anxiety consumed us, because we did not know what would have happened to Mabel. However, with the awareness that the evil and poisonous influence of the adventurer Dawson had disappeared, we returned to our homeland somewhat calmer. It was as rich as I had never dreamed of, because in the midst of my wildest fantasies I had not imagined such a prodigy; However, the hope that Mabel would become my wife, an illusion that had been my ideal, the true desire of my existence, had been destroyed, and during those long hours of travel, melancholic and silent, while the sleeping car of the express moved towards the North, crossing the plains of Lombardy and then Switzerland and France, my desperate thoughts were concentrated on her and her future. A coach took us directly from Charing Cross to Great Russell Street, where I found an obituary of Mabel dated at the mansion in Grosvenor Square, asking me to be there the instant we returned from our journey. As soon as I had washed and tidied up a little, I did so, and Carter led me, without ceremony and immediately, to the great white and gold hall that was so familiar to me. A moment later she entered, charming and beautiful in her mourning dress, with a sweet smile on her lips and her hand extended towards me, full of pleasure and pleasure at seeing me again. His face seemed to me to express lively anxiety, and the pallor of his cheeks showed how cruelly his heart had been torn apart by terror and sorrow. “Yes, Mabel, we’re back again,” I said, shaking her hand in mine and looking into her eyes. “I’ve discovered your father ‘s secret !” –What?–he shouted with anxious surprise,–have you discovered it? “Tell me what it is… tell me,” he insisted breathlessly. First I obtained from her a promise to maintain the most absolute silence about what I revealed to her, and then I told her about our visit to the hermit’s cell, the reception that Brother Antonio had given us, and our discoveries. She listened, with the greatest amazement, to the whole story of the hidden treasure of the Vatican, until the time came to describe Dawson’s attempt on my life and its tragic end; Then he exclaimed vehemently: –If that man is dead… really dead… then I am free! –As? “Explain yourself!” I told him. “Now that circumstances have combined to free me in this way, I am going to confess everything,” he answered after a brief pause. His face had turned crimson, and, looking towards the door, he first made sure that it was closed. Then, in a deep and intense voice, fixing his wonderful eyes on me, he began: –I have been the victim of an infamous and vile plot, and you will be able to judge, when you know the whole truth, how much I have suffered, and whether I have not acted guided by a high feeling of duty and righteousness. As you will see, the conspiracy hatched against me is unparalleled in its ingenuity and truly cunning. I have just managed to discover the truth and know the deeply hidden motive behind all of this. My first meeting with Herbert Hales was apparently chance and took place in Widemarsh Street, Hereford. I was then a school girl finishing my studies, and as full of romantic ideas about men as all girls of that age are. I saw him often, and even though I knew he led a precarious life caring for racehorses, I let him celebrate me. At first, I confess, I fell in love with him, which did not go unnoticed by Herbert Hales, and during that summer in Mayville, as night fell, I had many secret interviews with him in the park. We had known each other for about three months, when one night he told me that we should get married; but, as I had discovered, in the meantime, that his love for me was only feigned, I refused. Night after night we continued to see each other, but I firmly refused to marry him, until, on one of them, he revealed himself in his true colors, telling me, to my great horror, that he was well aware of the story of my father’s life , and then alluding to the existence of a dishonorable act in which, according to him, he had taken part. He told me that my father, in order to gain possession of the secret that fortune later gave him, had murdered the Italian sailor Pensi, aboard the “Annie Curtis”, when they left the coast of Spain. I refused to listen to such a terrible accusation, but my surprise was great when I saw that he made me have an interview with my father’s friend, this Dawson, in which he declared that he had witnessed the event. When we were alone that same night and we were walking along a lost path in the park, he clearly expressed his intentions to me, and imposed on me the obligation to accept him as my husband, forcing me to get married secretly, without my father knowing. He threatened to inform the police of the alleged crime if I did not accept his conditions. –Rascal! Infamous!–I shouted indignantly. “He pointed out to me markedly,” he continued, “how Dawson, my father’s closest friend, had witnessed the crime, and I found myself so completely lost in his unscrupulous hands, as I also saw compromised the reputation of the author of my days, that, after a week of useless resistance, I was forced to accept the conditions imposed and consent to that odious marriage. From that moment, even when I returned home at the ceremony that concluded the wedding ceremony, I remained completely under his power, and with each new demand I had to give him money, money that I extracted through threats. After he managed to secure me as his victim, his true instincts were revealed almost instantly , which were those of a man who lives by dint of his infamies and for whom a woman’s heart has no value, and from then until now, although the world believed that I was single, and I attended as a girl all the parties and meetings of the most brilliant circle in London, I have nevertheless lived in constant terror and panic of the man who by law was my husband. He fell silent so he could breathe and catch his breath, and I noticed that even his lips were white and he was trembling from head to toe. “Happily,” he continued at last, “you were able to save me; Otherwise, the plot would have been successful in all respects. Until yesterday I was completely unaware of the true motive that had existed to force me into this marriage, but now that I have discovered it, I see how skillful and cunning the mind that devised it has been. Herbert sought me out at the first, it seems, because he had heard old Mr. Hales make a casual remark about my father’s mysterious and great fortune . As he was an adventurer, he calculated that he could marry me, taking into account that I was the only heir to those great riches. We had known each other for a month, when, unexpectedly, Dawson arrived from Italy, stopping with us at Mayvill, for a few days, and one afternoon when he was hunting wild pigeons, he saw us walking together along the edge of the forest that surrounds the park. The moment he saw us, he formed his diabolical plan, and the next day he devoted himself to making inquiries about Hales, and when he had ascertained the character and conditions of the individual, he met with him and made a curious pact , with the result that, if Dawson arranged matters in such a way that a secret marriage would take place between Hales and me, he would receive, in the event of my father’s death, the sum of two thousand pounds a year, instead of appearing to claim rights in the property left in favor of his wife. He pointed out to Hales that by secretly marrying me, he would have a source of constant resources, as I would not refuse to satisfy his demands for money, because, if I revealed the secret of our union to put an end to his demands once and for all, he, then, could immediately take his true place as the legal husband of the millionaire’s daughter. After this plan was combined, he told Hales many true facts about my father’s life at sea, in order to confuse and deceive me the better, but he added that false accusation which I, seeing it corroborated by him, had the misfortune to believe, namely, that my father had committed a murder to obtain that little packet of letters with the encrypted secret. Dawson, who quickly learned what kind of man Hales was, secretly helped him get me under his power, something I was certainly unaware of. The motive he had for making this marriage, in such terrible circumstances for me, was far- reaching and foresight. He understood that, if I joined the man I loved, my husband, upon the death of my father, he would take care to secure my rights as heir and take care of my interests, while, being Hales’s wife, I would be terrified at the mere idea that my matrimonial _mésalliance_ might be known, and, as I in turn had him completely dominated by this agreement, he would obtain, at last, the object he sought: the possession of my father’s entire fortune. I knew very well, by the way, that being one of those who knew the secret, which we know today is the treasure of the Vatican, it was essential that my father left the administration of it in his hands. my property, and, therefore, took every precaution to ensure, upon his death, complete possession of it. The ingenious way in which he secretly informed Hales of certain facts which he believed only my father and I knew, the perceptive and subtle way in which he corroborated his own invention by affirming that my father was guilty of a crime, and the secrecy and secrecy with which he helped Hales to marry me by putting pressure on my mind, have been true marvels, as I now see, of a clever and infamous conspiracy. I feared, no, I was convinced that my father’s terrible secret that Hales knew was a horrible truth, and only the day before yesterday I managed, with the help of old Mr. Hales, to discover, in a street in lower Grimsby, a man named Palmer, a former sailor on the ship “Annie Curtis”, who was present when the Italian died. He has told me that the accusation against my father is absolutely false; that, on the contrary, he was the kindest and best friend of that man, and that, in recognition of this, the Italian gave him the small chamois bag with the coded letters. My misgivings and fears that the secret had been obtained by nefarious means have, at last, been entirely dispelled; and the stain that weighed on my poor father’s memory has disappeared. “And the mystery of his death?” I said, amazed at this remarkable revelation of stratagems and deceptions. –Ah!–he sighed–I’ve changed my mind. He died of natural causes, but precisely at the moment when a secret attack on his life was going to be carried out. Herbert Hales, whom my father did not know, and Dawson, embarked on the same train on which he left for Manchester, and I have not the slightest doubt that they intended, if the opportunity presented themselves, to wound him with the same fatal knife with which the attack on you was later carried out. Death, however, took its victim from them. –But what becomes of that scoundrel that cruel luck gave you as a husband? –Divine Judgment has judged him–was his almost mechanical response. –What!–I stammered full of anxiety.–Has he died? –The night you left London you had a dispute with Dawson, and once again the one-eyed man demonstrated his remarkable cunning, because, in order to get rid of Hales and make the dishonorable acts that he knew about disappear, it seems that he confidentially informed the police of a robbery committed after the races in Kempton Park, about a year ago and that resulted in the death of the victim, since in order to steal a large sum of money that he had with him, he was seriously injured. Two detectives went to Hales’s rooms on Lomer Seymour Street at about two in the morning, but he, realizing that Dawson had carried out his threat, locked himself in and secured the doors. When they finally managed to take one down, they found him lying on the ground, completely dead, with a revolver at his side. “Then you are free, Mabel, free to marry me!” I shouted, almost beside myself with joy. She lowered her head and answered, in a barely perceptible voice: –No, Gilberto, I don’t deserve it; I am unworthy of that. I have deceived him. “The past has passed, and everything is forgotten,” I exclaimed, taking her hand and bending down until my hot and passionate lips touched hers. “You are mine… only mine, Mabel!” I cried. “This is, by the way, if you dare to place your future in my hands.” –If I dare!–he repeated, smiling through the tears that filled his eyes.–Haven’t I trusted you in these five years? Have you not been my best friend from the night we first met until this moment? “But do you feel enough respect for me, dearest Mabel ?” I asked her, deeply moved by her words. “I mean, do you love me?” “Yes, Gilberto, I love him,” she stammered, lowering her eyes modestly. “He is the only man I have loved in my entire life.” Then I hugged her to my chest, and in those moments of ecstasy I I repeated to my beloved the old love story told so many times, and that every man in the world repeats to the chosen one of his heart, to the woman before whom he prostrates himself in adoration. –And what else do I need to say? A delicious sensation of pleasure made my heart flutter. She was mine, mine forever! I was convinced that during all the terrible suffering she had gone through, she had always been sincere and loyal to me. She, poor thing! She had been, like her father, the innocent victim of the ingenious adventurer Dawson and the scoundrel and unscrupulous young man who had been his instrument, who had persuaded her, by means of deception and threats, to consent to that fatal marriage, in order to later possess all of Blair’s enormous fortune. Luck, however, was against them, and instead of triumphing, their own avarice and ingenuity resulted in their defeat, and, at the same time, placed me in the position which they had intended to occupy. CONCLUSION Mabel and I are now married, and there is certainly no couple in all London as truly happy as we are. After the storms and attacks of life, we have been granted a placid and blissful tranquility. The faithful Ford has returned to us , as my secretary, and we frequently make fun of Reginald, who has sold his lace business, for his deep admiration for Dolly Dawson, who, despite being the daughter of an adventurer, is a very charming and modest girl, I am forced to confess, and I am sure that she will be an excellent companion for my former schoolmate and old friend. The other day he asked, with the utmost reserve, Mrs. Percival, who resides with us at Mayvill, if she thought Mabel would take it ill if he proposed to Dolly. It is seen, therefore, that his thoughts are evidently directed towards matrimonial paths. Old Hales always lives at Owston Crossroads, and recently came to London, accompanied by his wife, to pay us a long visit. As for the cardinal’s secret, until today nothing has been revealed, the public does not know it, because it is too well kept by us. In front of the entrance to the great repository of fabulous riches still lives the grave monk with a black beard, a faded and worn habit, Brother Antonio, the friend of the poor of Lucca, dividing his solitary life between meditation and attending to the needs of those destitute of the fortune of that populous city that rises in the green Tuscan valley. The church of Rome has a good memory. For years he has taken all kinds of steps, it seems, to see to the discovery and recovery of the great treasure that Pius IX gave to Sannini, his favorite. The presence of Monsignor Galli, from Rimini, his clandestine interview with Dolly, was, as we later learned from her own confession, to ascertain some data concerning the last acts and movements of her father, since it had been known that a few months before he had sold in Paris, to a merchant in the field, the historic crucifix of precious stones used by Clement VIII, which was deposited in the Vatican treasury after his death, in the year 1665. Many men in the City are aware of the great fortune that has come into my hands, and it is probable that many who read this story are also familiar with the white front of one of the great mansions in Grosvenor Square; but, certainly, no one knows the strange facts that I have printed in print for the first time. For about a month I have been sitting in the silent, small cell that so cleverly conceals the vast wealth of which I am today the sole owner and which has placed me among the millionaires of England, relating to Brother Antonio the details of the tragic story of Mabel and how cruelly she had been the victim of so much infamy, and in doing so, I gave free rein to my thoughts, expressing myself frankly about the cowardly action of the man who had sunk into the depths of the underground river; but the kind monk, with a weathered and wrinkled face, raised his hand, and, pointing to the large crucifix that he had hung on the wall, said to me in his calm voice: –No, no, Mr. Greenwood. Hatred and malice should not be harbored in the heart of the honest man. Let us rather remember those divine words: “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” How we forgive! Therefore, let us forgive the one-eyed Englishman, the man who did so much evil, but who no longer exists. The mystery of the treasure has been solved, but the shadow of its secrets lingers in the air. The characters have faced unexpected challenges, and now we must ask ourselves: can we really escape the consequences of revealing long-kept secrets ? Thank you for joining us in this intriguing story. See you in the next story.
¡Bienvenidos a Ahora de Cuentos! 📚 En este video, te presentamos *El tesoro misterioso* de William Le Queux, una historia llena de suspenso, secretos y giros inesperados. Acompaña a los personajes en una búsqueda que los llevará a descubrir un tesoro escondido, mientras enfrentan peligros y desvelan enigmas del pasado. 🎩🔍
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