El tesoro misterioso 💎✨ | Un misterio intrigante por William Le Queux
In a remote corner of Europe, a mysterious treasure awaits discovery. The story of ‘The Mysterious Treasure’ by William Le Queux takes us through a series of enigmas and secrets, where the characters will find themselves involved in a game of intrigue and suspense. Who will manage to find it first? Join us on this journey full of mystery and adventure. Chapter 1. THE STRANGER FROM MANCHESTER. “Dead! And he’s taken his secret to the grave! ” “Never! ” “But he has. Look! His jaw has dropped. Don’t you see the change, man? ” “So he’s made good on his threat, after all! ” “He has! We’ve been fools, Reginald… truly fools!” I murmured. “It seems so. I confess that I confidently hoped he would tell us the truth when he understood that his end had come. ” “Ah!” You didn’t know him as I did,’ I observed bitterly. ‘He had an iron will and a nerve. ‘ Combined with the constitution of a horse, otherwise he would have been dead long ago. But we have been deceived— completely deceived by a dying man. He has defied us, and to the last moment he has mocked us. ‘ Blair was no fool. He knew what the knowledge of that truth meant to us: a vast fortune. What he has done, quite simply, is keep his secret. ‘ And leave us penniless. Though we have lost thousands, Gilbert, I cannot but admire his dogged determination. I remember him having had some very dark times, and he has been a good friend, a very good one, to us; therefore, I think we ought not to abuse him, even though we feel very sorry that he has not told us his secret. ‘ ‘Ah, if those white lips could speak!’ “One word, and we should both be rich men,” I exclaimed with sorrow, looking at the dead man’s pale face, with its closed eyes and shaven beard, as it lay on the pillow. “From the very beginning, his intention was to conceal his secret,” observed my friend Reginald Seton, who was standing on the other side of the bed, folding his arms. “It is not for every man that a discovery like his is made. It took him years to solve the problem, whatever it was; but we cannot doubt for a moment that he achieved his object. ” “And the profit he derived from it was over a million pounds sterling,” I added. “Rather, two, at a rough estimate. Remember, when we first met him, he was in the greatest straits of money—and now? Last week alone, he gave 20,000 pounds to the Hospital Fund. And all this he owes to his solving the riddle which we have long endeavored to unravel.” “No, Gilbert, he hasn’t acted kindly toward 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 he discovered, and which 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 he was in dire straits, we paid for Mabel’s education when he couldn’t afford to pay it back, and—” “And he paid us back every penny—with interest,” I interrupted. “Come, let’s stop arguing about his conduct here. The secret is lost forever: that’s enough.” And I covered the poor dead man’s face with the sheet; the face of Burton Blair, the man who, for the last five years, had been one of the mysteries of London. A strange and adventurous life, a career perhaps more remarkable than many of those forged by novelists, had been suddenly cut short, while the secret of the origin of his enormous fortune, a secret which we had both longed to share for the past five years, for in a certain degree we are entitled to share in its advantages, had disappeared with him, never to return. The room we were in was a small, well-furnished bedroom in the Queens Hotel, Manchester. The window looked out upon the dark front of the Hospital, and the noise and bustle of the Piccadilly traffic They ascended to the dead man’s room. His story was certainly one of the strangest ever told by man. Its mystery, as we shall see, was truly astonishing. The light of that dreary February afternoon was rapidly disappearing, and as we slowly turned to go downstairs to inform the manager of the establishment of the unfortunate end that had befallen a passenger, I noticed the dead man’s suitcase lying in a corner, the keys already in their locks. “We had better take possession of them,” I observed, closing the suitcase and putting the small bunch of keys into my pocket. “His executors will have need of them. ” Then we locked the door and, proceeding to the office, delivered the unpleasant news of the death that had occurred at the hotel. The manager was prepared, however, for half an hour previously, the doctor had told him that the unknown man was beyond help. From the first, his illness had been a hopeless case. Here, in a few words, is what had happened: Burton Blair had bidden farewell to his daughter Mabel, and had left his mansion in Grosvenor Square the previous morning to take the half-past ten express from Euston to Manchester, where, as he had said, he had some private business to arrange. Before the train reached Crewe, he suddenly fell ill, and one of the restaurant-car servants found him unconscious in a first-class compartment. He was given brandy and some other comforting drinks, which revived him sufficiently to carry him to Manchester, where he was helped off the train at the London Road, and two porters afterwards took him into a cab and escorted him to his hotel. There, upon being laid to bed, he again fell into a state of complete faintness. A doctor was summoned, but could pronounce no diagnosis on his condition, contenting himself with saying that the patient’s heart was seriously affected, and that, in view of this, the outcome would be rapid and fatal. At two o’clock in the morning of the next day, Blair, who had neither given his name nor stated his identity to the hotel, requested that telegraphs be sent to Seton and me. This resulted in our being both anxious and surprised to set out for Manchester, where we arrived an hour before the final outcome, finding our friend in a desperate condition. On entering the room, we found the doctor, a Dr. Glenn, a young and rather pleasant man, in attendance. Blair was at this time quite conscious, and listened to the medical opinion without disturbance. Indeed, he seemed to welcome death rather than dread it, for when he heard that he was in such a critical situation, a faint smile appeared on his pale, wrinkled face, and he remarked: “We all have to die; “Well, then, it makes no difference whether it be today or tomorrow.” Then, turning to me, he added: “It was very kind of you, Gilbert, to come expressly to say goodbye.” And he stretched out his thin, cold hand, sought mine, and clasped it firmly, while his eyes fixed upon me with that strange fixed stare which only comes into a man’s eyes when he is upon the brink of the grave. “It is the duty of a friend, Burton ,” I answered with profound solemnity. “But you may still hope; doctors are often mistaken . Have you not, perhaps, a splendid constitution? ” “Since I was very young, I cannot remember having been ill for almost a single day ,” replied the millionaire, in a low, feeble voice; “but this attack has completely overcome me. We tried to ascertain exactly how he had fallen ill, but neither Reginald nor the doctor could make anything out.” “I suddenly lost consciousness, and I remember nothing more,” was all that the dying man said. “But,” he added, turning to me again, “do not send any news to Mabel until it is all over. Poor creature! My only regret in leaving this world is that I have to leave her. You two were extremely good to her in years past; is it not true that you do not know her now?” “Will they abandon her?” she implored, speaking slowly and with the greatest difficulty, while her eyes shone with tears. “Certainly not, old friend,” I answered. “Seeing herself alone, she will want someone to advise her and look after her interests. ” “The crooked lawyers will see to that,” he cried with a strange harshness in his voice, as if he had had no regard for his lawyers. “No, I want you to look after her, to see that no man makes her his wife for her money, do you understand? Dozens of individuals are after her at this moment, I know, but I would rather see her dead than married to one of them. She must marry for love—yes, for love, do you hear? Promise me, Gilbert, that you will protect her, that you will see to her fate, will you?” Still holding her hand in mine, I promised to do what she asked. These were the last words she spoke. His pale lips contracted again, but no sound came from them. His glassy eyes were fixed upon me with a terrible, hard stare, as if he had been striving to tell me something. Perhaps he was revealing to me the great secret, the secret of how he had solved the mystery of making his fortune and possessing more than a million pounds sterling, or perhaps he was speaking to me of Mabel. But we could not learn what it was. His tongue refused to utter another word ; the silence of death had seized him. Thus he disappeared from this world, and thus it was that I found myself bound by a promise which he 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 condition, he did so to make known to us that mysterious means which would make us richer than we had ever dreamed. But in this case the disappointment had been most cruel. For five years, I confess, we had confidently hoped that he would someday share with us a portion of his fortune in return for the services we had rendered him in the past. However, it now appeared that he had coldly disregarded the debt of gratitude he owed us, and at the same time had imposed upon me an obligation not very easy to discharge—the guardianship of Mabel, his only child. Chapter 2. WHEREIN CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS FACTS APPEAR. I must declare that, considering all the mysterious and curious circumstances of the past, the situation, in my opinion, was far from satisfactory. As we walked together along Market Street that cold evening, discussing the matter, for we had preferred to go out and remain in the hotel lounge, the thought occurred to Reginald that perhaps among the articles belonging to the dead man might be the secret written and sealed. But in this case, unless it were addressed to us, it would be opened by the persons the dying man had designated as “the scoundrels of the solicitors,” and, in all probability, they would know how to extract the best possible benefit from it. His solicitors were, as we knew, Messrs. Leighton and Brown Leighton, a firm of eminently honorable character in Bedford Row; we therefore addressed a telegram from the head office, informing them of their client’s sudden death, and requesting that one of their number should come to Manchester at once to be present at the inquests which were to be held, as Dr. Glenn had declared would be necessary. As the deceased had expressed the wish that Mabel should remain ignorant of the facts for the time being, we did not inform her of the tragic and painful occurrence. Curiosity led us to return to the hotel soon after and go up to the dead man’s room to examine the contents of his suitcase and small bag, but apart from his clothes, a checkbook, and about ten pounds in gold, we found nothing. However, I do not believe I am mistaken in stating that we had both hoped to find the key to the remarkable secret that, in an unknown way, had obtained, 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 for one, dirty and badly written in incorrect Italian, which contained a few sentences that aroused my curiosity. Truly, so strange was the tone in which this letter was written that, with Reginald’s approval, I resolved to save it and make some inquiries. Many things and secret facts had surrounded the life of Burton Blair, which for years had intrigued us, and consequently, we were determined, if possible, to clear up 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 did not know the key necessary to unlock this source of inexhaustible riches. To everyone, the means by which he had acquired such an enormous fortune remained an indecipherable mystery , and even his daughter, Mabel, was unaware of it. Some in the City and in society believed he had large sums invested in mines and was a successful stock speculator, while others declared that he owned at least the land, or rather, the entire urban area of two large cities in the United States. Some, more confidently, asserted that the source of his fortune lay in concessions he had obtained from the Ottoman government. All, however, were mistaken in their suppositions. Burton Blair did not own an acre of land, did not have a single shilling invested in any company, and was not interested in, nor involved in, any government or industrial concessions. No. The origin of the great fortune which, in the space of five years, had enabled him to purchase, decorate, and furnish in a regal manner one of the most splendid mansions in Grosvenor Square, to maintain three of the most expensive Panhards—motor cars were his favorite passion—and to possess that magnificent old Jacobean-type dwelling known as Mayvill Court in Herefordshire, was completely unknown to everyone, and came from where no one even suspected. His millions were certainly very mysterious. “I should be astonished if anything should come of the inquiries that are about to be made,” exclaimed Reginald some hours later . “Undoubtedly his lawyers know nothing either. ” “It may be that he has left some papers which will reveal the truth,” I replied. “Men who are silent and reserved in life are often in the habit of confiding their secrets to paper. ” “I don’t think Burton did it.” “Remember, he may have done it for Mabel’s benefit. ” “Ah!” “By Job!” murmured my friend, “I hadn’t thought of that. If he wished it to be hers, he must have left his secret in the hands of some person he trusted implicitly. Yet he trusted us—up to a point. We are the only ones who have any real knowledge of the state of his affairs.” And my friend Reginald, blond, long-legged, and six feet high, the perfect type of the muscular, supple Englishman, even when engaged in a trade in frivolities and feminine cuteness, fell silent with a low grunt of disgust, and carefully lit a new cigar. We spent a dreary night wandering about the principal streets of Manchester, feeling that with the death of Burton Blair we had lost a sincere friend; but when, on the following 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 was considerably increased. “You both knew my late client very well,” observed the lawyer, after some preliminaries. “Do you know if there is anyone who might benefit from his sudden death? ” “That’s a strange question,” I said. “Why?” “I have reason to believe,” explained the dark, sharp-featured man with some hesitation, “that he has been the victim of an infamy. ” “Infamy!” I exclaimed, astonished. “You surely don’t believe he was murdered, do you? That can’t be, my dear friend. He was taken ill on the train, and died here in our presence.” The lawyer, whose expression had assumed a still graver aspect, shrugged his shoulders simply and said: “We must, of course, await the result of the inquest, but I believe, from certain reports in my possession, that Burton Blair did not die a natural death. ” That same evening, the police coroner held his inquest in a private room of the hotel, and, in agreement with the opinion of the two doctors who had verified the death and performed the autopsy that morning, declared the death to be due solely to natural causes. It was found that Burton Blair had suffered from a natural weakness of the heart, and that the fatal outcome had been hastened by the motion of the train. There was absolutely nothing to lead to the suspicion that foul play had been committed; the jury therefore returned a verdict, in accordance with the expert evidence, that death was due to natural causes, and granted permission for the body to be removed to London, where it was to be buried. An hour after the inquest was concluded, I called Mr. Leighton aside and said to him: “As you know, I have been for several years one of Blair’s intimate friends, and I am naturally very interested to know what reason you have had for suspecting that foul play has been committed. ” “My suspicions were well founded,” was his somewhat enigmatic reply . “On what grounds were they?” “That my client was threatened, and that, although he had communicated it to no one but me, and laughed at the precautions I suggested, he lived in constant fear of being assassinated. ” “Strange!” I exclaimed. “Very strange! I told him nothing about that remarkable letter I had found in the dead man’s luggage . If what he said was really true, then in the death of Burton Blair lay a most extraordinary secret, a faithful reflection of that of his strange, romantic, and mysterious life; a secret that was inscrutable, but absolutely without equal. I think it will be necessary to explain the curious circumstances that brought us into contact with Burton Blair, and to describe the mysterious events that occurred after we made this statement. So remarkable is this story from beginning to end that many who read it will be inclined to doubt my veracity.” To these, before I begin, I may direct that they may make inquiries in London, in that little world of adventurers, speculators, moneylenders, and money-losers, known as the City, where, I am sure, they will have no difficulty in obtaining still more interesting particulars concerning the man of the mysterious millions to which this narrative partly relates. And, certainly, the faithful facts concerning him will be found 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 related. In order to state the truth plainly and simply, I must, in the first place, state that I, Gilbert Greenwood, was a man of small means, who had been left an annuity by an aunt, an ascetic and a Baptist, but possessed of a small fortune; while my friend Reginald Seton, whom I had known since childhood when we had been together at Charterhouse, was the son of George Seton, owner of a lace business in Cannon Street and an Alderman of the London Municipal Council, who died leaving Reginald, aged twenty-five, with a heavy load of debt and an old-fashioned and noble business, but which was rapidly declining. However, as Reginald had been trained in a factory in Nottingham, and knew the trade of lace, he boldly followed in his father’s footsteps, and, by his devotion to the business, managed to get along well enough to avoid being bankrupted in court, and was able to secure an annual income of some hundred pounds. We were both single, and shared the comfortable rooms we had taken in the recently built block of tenements in Great Russell Street; and being fond of fox-hunting, the only sport we could afford to indulge in, we also rented together an old-fashioned and cheap cottage in a country hamlet known as Helpstone, eighty miles from London, situated in the Fitzwilliams’ estate. Thither we used to go every winter, generally spending two days out of the week. As neither of us had much means, we had, as may be imagined, to make considerable economizing arrangements, for fox-hunting is an expensive diversion for a poor man. However, we were fortunately endowed with a pair of good horses each , and by exerting ourselves a little at one thing and a little at another, we were able to indulge in those exciting races across the country, which set the blood in motion and stir with excitement, while rejuvenating all who took part in them. Reginald was sometimes obliged to remain in town on account of the exigencies of his business; so that I frequently resided alone in the old ivy-clad house, with Glave, my servant, at my side to attend me. It was a bitterly cold January evening; Reginald was away in London, and I, having spent the whole day hunting, was riding back quite exhausted. The meeting of the party that morning had been at Kats Cabin, Huntingdonshire, and after two good races I found myself beyond Stilton, eighteen miles from home. However, the trail had been excellent, and we had enjoyed very good sport. When the chase was over, I took a deep draught from my flask and set off across the country in the gathering darkness. Fortunately, I was able to ford the river near Water Newton Mill, which saved me the long walk back through Wansford, and when I was within a mile of home, I let my horse walk at his usual pace, so that he could settle himself before reaching his stable. The evening shadows were now sinking into deep darkness, and the strong wind cut like a knife through me as I passed the crossroads about half a mile from the village of Helpstone, when suddenly, from the side of the high holly hedge, there appeared the figure of a stout man, and a deep voice cried, “Pardon me, sir, but I am a stranger in these parts, and my daughter is faint.” Is there a house nearby? Then, as I drew near, I saw, leaning against a pile of stones at the side of the road, the thin, weak figure of a girl about sixteen years old, wrapped in a thick, dark cloak. In the last glimmering light of day, I saw that the individual speaking to me was a man of rough appearance, with a black beard, fairly well-spoken speech, and about forty-five years of age, more or less, dressed in a worn suit of blue serge and a peaked cap, which gave him a certain air of a sailor. His face was weather-beaten and scarred, while his broad, strong jaw showed strength of character and stubborn determination. “Is your daughter taken ill?” I asked when I had examined her thoroughly. ” We have walked a long way today, and I believe she is quite exhausted. About half an hour ago she felt faint, and when she sat down she lost consciousness and became insensible.” “You mustn’t stay here,” I observed when I realized that the father and daughter were vagabonds. “It’s so cold, you’ll freeze to death. My house is just farther on. I’ll go at once and will return with someone to help carry you.” 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 spot where my two travelers had been left. A quarter of an hour later, we placed the poor, fainting child on a couch in my comfortable and warm study; we forced a little brandy into her mouth, and at last she would open her eyes, full of wonder, gazing with childish fear at her surroundings, which were completely unknown to her. Her gaze met mine, and I saw then that her face was extraordinarily beautiful, of that dark, half-tragic type, and that her eyes were rendered all the more brilliant by the deathly pallor of her face. Her features were well modeled, beautiful, and refined in every way, and when she turned to her father to ask him what had happened, I noticed that she was no mere child of the roads, but, on the contrary, a most intelligent, well-behaved, and well -bred child. Her father, in a few words, explained our unexpected meeting and my hospitality; Then she smiled sweetly at me and spoke a few words of thanks. “It must have been the intense cold, I think,” she added. “I felt suddenly numb, my head began to spin, and I could not stand. But it really is very kind of you. I am so sorry we should have troubled you in this way.” I assured her that my only wish was to see her quite recovered, and, as I spoke, I could not but acknowledge that she was quite beautiful. Though very young, for her figure was not yet fully developed, her face was nevertheless one of the most perfect I had ever seen. From the first moment my eyes beheld it, I found it indescribably charming. It was evident that she was quite weak , as was evident from the painful and restless way in which she moved on the couch. Her poor black skirt and heavy boots were muddy and worn with walking, and I perceived, by the way she cleared her brow and brushed down the disordered mass of her hair, that her head ached. Glave, who was not in a very good humor at the presence of these two strange vagabonds, came in and announced to me that dinner was ready; but she firmly, though sweetly and graciously, declined my invitation to eat, saying that, if I would allow it, she would rather remain there before the fire half an hour longer. Upon this notice, I sent her a bowl of hot soup by old Mrs. Axford, our cook, while her father, after washing his hands and tidying himself up a little, showed me into the dining-room. He seemed half starved, and at first was gloomy and reserved; But then, when he had sufficiently appraised my character, he told me his name was Burton Blair, that he had lost his wife ten years previously during his absence abroad, and that little Mabel was his only child. As his appearance showed, he had spent most of his life at sea, and he had his petty-ship’s certificate, but had been residing on shore lately. “I have been here three years now,” he continued, “and I can assure you they have been very trying. Poor Mabel! She is a real treasure, as was her poor, dear mother. She has been suffering hunger and sorrow for three years, and yet she has never once complained. You know my character; you know that when Burton Blair resolves to do a thing—for Job!—he does it.” And he set his strong jaws firmly, while in his eyes there came a look of determination and dogged persistence, the most terrible I ever saw in a man. “But why, Mr. Blair, have you left the sea to perish of want on land?” I asked him, for curiosity was aroused in me. “Because… because I have a reason… a very strong reason,” was his halting reply. “You see me tonight homeless and hungry,” Burton Blair laughed bitterly, “but perhaps tomorrow I shall be a millionaire.” And his face assumed a mysterious expression, as inscrutable as a sphinx’s, which left me painfully confused. Many times since then have I recalled those strange prophetic words he spoke as he sat at my table, when he was but a poor vagabond of the highway, freezing, hungry, dirty, ill- clad, and exhausted, yet cherishing the firm belief, absurd as it may seem, that ere long he would possess millions. I well remember how I smiled at his vague assertion. Every man who descends much in the social scale clings to the faint belief that his fortunes will change, and that, owing to some twist of fortune, he will rise smilingly to his former level again. Hope never dies in the breast of a ruined man. By means of certain prudent questions, I tried to obtain further information concerning his hope of attaining fortune, but he would tell me nothing, absolutely nothing. After he had eaten well, he accepted a cigar, drank his coffee and brandy, and smoked with the tranquility of a contented man, who has not a single thought to trouble him or a care in the world, or rather , like a man who knows exactly what fate has in store for him. Thus, from the first, Burton Blair was a mystery. When we returned to Mabel, we found her sleeping peacefully, prostrated with fatigue. I then persuaded her father to stay with me that night so that the poor child could rest, and when he consented, we returned to the dining room, where we sat smoking and remained conversing for several hours. He related to me the story of his cruel years at sea, the strange adventures that had befallen him in savage countries, how he had escaped certain death at the hands of a tribe of natives at Camarones, and how, for three years, he had been captain of a river steamer in the Congo, acting in those regions the part of a pioneer of civilization. His stirring adventures were related quietly and naturally, without bravado or show of boasting, and his simple, truthful manner showed me that he was one of those men who love a life of adventure for its vicissitudes and dangers. “And now I am chasing the windlasses of England,” he added, laughing. “You must think all this very strange; but, to speak honestly to you, Mr. Greenwood, I am actively engaged in a very curious investigation, the successful outcome of which will one day make me possessed of a fortune which I never dreamed of .” “Look!” he suddenly exclaimed, with a look of strange fierceness in his large, dark eyes, as he quickly unbuttoned his blue coat and drew from under it a square, flat piece of much-worn and stained chamois leather, inside which seemed to be enclosed some precious document or other article of value. “Look here! My secret is here. Some day I shall discover the key; it may be tomorrow, the day after, or perhaps next year, but it will happen at last. When? That is absolutely indifferent and valueless. The result will be the same. My years of continual travel and research will be rewarded, I shall be rich, and the world will be amazed.” And, laughing contentedly, almost triumphantly, he carefully replaced his precious treasure within his bosom; then he rose to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, in the attitude of a man who trusts entirely to what is written in the book of destiny. That midnight scene, with all its romantic and strange details, that episode of the past, when the weary wayfarer and his daughter had first been my guests, and all its recollections came flooding back to me on the bright, cold evening when I stepped out of a carriage, the day after the inquest held in Manchester, outside the great white mansion in Grosvenor Place, and learned from Carter, the solemn servant, that Miss Mabel was at home. That splendid dwelling, with its exquisite decorations, furniture truly in the Louis XIV style, its valuable paintings and magnificent specimens of seventeenth-century sculpture, the dwelling of a person To whom all this luxury and expense meant nothing, it was surely sufficient testimony that the poor, ill-fated vagabond who had uttered those mysterious words in my little dining-room five years before had not been a charlatan or a boastful fool . The secret locked within that filthy chamois leather pouch, whatever it might have been, had yielded him upwards of a million pounds sterling, and was still yielding vast sums, until death suddenly came to put an end to its exploitation. The mystery of it all had no solution; the enigma was complete and undecipherable. These and other reflections passed through my mind as I followed the footman up the broad marble staircase and was ushered into the great gold and white drawing-room, the walls of which were hung with pale rose silk, while its four large windows commanded a view over the square. All those priceless paintings, those beautiful pieces of furniture, cabinets, and incomparable bric-a-brac had been purchased with the proceeds of the mysterious secret; of that secret which, in the short space of five years, had transformed the exhausted, homeless vagabond into a millionaire. I stood idly gazing at the melancholy square with its leafless trees, not knowing how best to communicate the sad news I was the bearer, when I heard behind me a soft “frou frou” from a silk skirt, and, turning quickly, found myself standing before the dead man’s daughter, whose appearance , at the age of twenty-three, was now much sweeter, prettier, more graceful, and more feminine than when we had first met, long ago, in a strange way and in the middle of a road. Her black dress, her trembling figure, and her pale cheeks, moistened with tears, indicated to me that this young woman, for whom I had to watch over, already knew the sad and painful truth. She stood before me, her beautiful and tragic presence still more prominent, her small white hand resting nervously on the back of one of the gilt chairs in the drawing-room, as if seeking support in the midst of her grief. “I know!” she cried, in a broken voice, something unknown to her, her eyes fixed upon me. “I know why you have come to see me, Mr. Greenwood. I learned it an hour ago from Mr. Leighton, who was here. Ah, my poor dear father!” she sighed, the words catching in her throat as the tears ran down her face. “Why should I go to Manchester? His enemies have triumphed, as I have long feared. Yet he thought ill of no one, nor believed in the wickedness of any man, for he had a very generous heart. He always refused to listen to my warnings, and laughed at all my apprehensions. But alas! the dreadful truth is now a fact.” “My poor father!” she stammered, her beautiful face white to the lips. “He is dead—and his secret is gone! ” Chapter 4. In which one travels over dangerous ground. “Do you suspect, Mabel, that your papa has been the victim of some foul deed?” I asked the pale, nervous young woman who stood before me. “Yes, I do,” was her clear and unhesitating reply. “You know his story, Mr. Greenwood; you know that he carried a thing everywhere he went, kept in a little chamois leather pouch, which was his most precious treasure. Mr. Leighton tells me it is lost. ” “Unfortunately, it is so,” I replied. “We three have looked for it among his 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 brought him to the hotel, and, in short, everyone who might know something, but we have not been able to find the slightest trace of the object sought. ” “Because it was deliberately stolen,” he observed. “Then you entertain the belief that he was murdered to conceal the theft.” He nodded, his face always pale and rigid. “But remember, Mabel, there is no proof whatsoever that it was committed a crime. Both doctors, two of the best in Manchester, have pronounced death to have resulted from entirely natural causes. “I care nothing what they say. The little bag which my poor father sewed with his own hands, which he kept so carefully all these past years , and which for some strange reason he would not deposit in any bank or in a safe iron box, is gone. His enemies have got possession of it, as I was sure they would. ” “Remember, he showed me that little chamois bag the first night we met,” I said. “He declared to me then that what was in it would make him lucky— and it certainly has,” I added, looking around the magnificent drawing-room. “It gave him riches, but not happiness, Mr. Greenwood,” he replied quietly. “That little bag, the contents of which I never saw, nor knew its contents, he carried about with him, either in his pocket or around his neck, ever since it came into his possession many years ago. He had a special pocket in all his suits for it, and at night he fastened it to a belt, also specially made for the purpose, which he wore tightly around his waist. I believe he regarded it as a sort of charm, or talisman, which, besides being the source of his great fortune, preserved him from all misfortunes and evils. The reason for this I cannot say, for I do not know it. ” “You never ascertained the nature of the object he considered so precious? ” “I often tried to do so, but he would never reveal it to me. ‘It was his secret,’ he would tell me, and would not add another word. Reginald and I had tried countless times to discover the contents of that mysterious little bag, but we had met with no better success than the charming young woman standing before me. Burton Blair was a strange man, both in deeds and words, very reserved in his private affairs, and yet, strange as it may seem, when prosperity smiled upon him, he became a prince of goodness and nobility. “But who were his enemies?” I inquired. “Ah! That too I am quite ignorant of,” he replied. “As you know, during the last two years he has been surrounded by adventurers and parasites of every kind, as rich men always are, whom Ford, his secretary, has managed to keep at a good distance. It may be that the existence of this precious object was known to them, and that my poor father has fallen victim to some nefarious plot. At least, that is my firm idea.” “Then if that is so, the police must be informed,” I exclaimed. “The little chamois leather bag he showed me on the night of our first meeting has been lost, and although we have all searched for it with the greatest diligence and care, it has been in vain. Yet what benefit will it bring to the person who possesses it, if he lacks the key to what is contained within it? ” “But wasn’t that key, whatever it was, also in my father’s possession?” asked Mabel Blair. “Wasn’t it the discovery of that same key that gave us all this we possess?” she repeated, with that charming feminine sweetness which was her most attractive characteristic. “Exactly. But your papa, who was so prudent and sagacious, shouldn’t have carried both the problem and the key with him! I can’t believe he would do such a foolish thing. ” “Nor I.” Even though I was his only child, and the depository of his entire life story, there was one thing he persistently concealed from me, and that was the nature of his secret. Sometimes I have entertained a suspicion that perhaps it was not very honorable; that it was probably one of those that a father dares not reveal to his daughter. And yet no one has ever accused him of, or held against him, a malicious or dishonest act. At other times, I seemed to notice in his countenance and manner a stamp of true mystery, which made me think that the origin of our boundless fortune was strange and romantic, and that, if the world knew of it, it would be regarded as something incredible. One evening as we sat here after dinner, and while smoking, he amused himself by telling me of my poor mother, who died in some room in an obscure street in Manchester, while he was away on a voyage along the west coast of Africa; but in the course of the conversation, he declared that if London ever knew the source of his wealth, it would be astonished. “But,” he added, “it is a secret which I fully intend to take to my grave.” Strange indeed, he had spoken these very words to me two years before, as I sat before the fire in our room 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 every evidence of his secret, locked up in the worn chamois leather pouch, or it had been cleverly stolen from him. The curious and ill-written letter I had found in my friend’s luggage , while it had thrown me into confusion, had also aroused in me certain suspicions I had not hitherto entertained. I said nothing of this to Mabel, not wishing to cause her further distress or anxiety. From our first acquaintance, and during all the intervening years, we had always been firm friends. Although Reginald was fifteen years her senior, and I thirteen, I believe she regarded us both as much as her elder brothers. Our friendship had begun from the day we found Burton Blair starving and wandering about the highways, and we united to provide for her education out of our modest means, and placed her in a school at Bournemouth for further development. We resolved that it was quite impossible to allow so young and delicate a child to wander aimlessly about England in search of some vague secret report which seemed to be the end of her errant father; Thus, after that night on which we first met at Helpstone, Burton Blair and his daughter remained a week as our guests, and after many consultations and small economies, we succeeded in placing Mabel in school, a service for which she afterwards thanked us with the noblest sincerity. Poor creature, when fate brought her across to us, she was completely weakened and exhausted. Poverty had already left its indelible mark on her sweet face, and her beauty was beginning to fade under the weight of suffering, disappointments, and wanderings, when we so happily discovered her and were able to tear her away from that life of privation, painful walking, and toil over endless roads. Contrary to our expectations, it was some time before we were able to obtain Blair’s consent to his daughter’s return to school, for, in truth, both father and daughter loved each other dearly and were very attached. However, we triumphed in the end, and when the rough, bearded wayfarer arrived to see his wishes fulfilled, he did not forget to thank us in the most positive way for what we had done for them. Truly, we owed our present comfortable position to him, for not only had he presented Reginald with a generous check which enabled him to pay all the debts weighing on his lace business in Cannon Street, but he had sent me , three years ago, on the occasion of my birthday, in a modest silver box, a bill against his bankers for a good sum, which provided me, from that time on, with a very comfortable little annual income. Burton Blair never forgot his friends… nor did he forgive a wrong done to him. Mabel was his idol, the one true repository of his secrets, and it seemed even stranger that she knew absolutely nothing about the mysterious source from which his colossal hairline arose. We sat for over an hour in that grand hall, whose very splendor breathed mystery. Mrs. Percival, Mabel’s pleasant patron and companion, the elderly widow of a surgeon, naval, entered where we were, but soon withdrew, completely distraught, upon hearing the tragic occurrence. When I told Mabel the promise I had made to her father, her pale cheeks became faintly crimson. “It is certainly very kind of you, Mr. Greenwood, to trouble yourself about my affairs,” she said, looking at me and then modestly lowering her eyes. “I suppose I shall have to consider you as my guardian from now on ,” and she laughed slightly, turning her ring around her finger. “Not as her legal guardian,” I replied. “Your father’s solicitors will, no doubt, fill that position, but rather as her protector and friend. ” “Ah!” she answered miserably, “I think I shall have need of both, now that my poor father is no more.” “I have been your friend now, Mabel, more than five years, and therefore I trust that you will allow me to fulfill the promise I made to your papa, ” I cried, rising before her, and speaking with deep solemnity. “However, we must, from the first , understand each other in a plain and serious manner. Therefore, allow me, Mabel, to speak to you at this moment as candidly as a man should to a woman who is his true friend. You are young, Mabel, and—well, you know, very—very beautiful—” “No, Mr. Greenwood, I assure you, you are very wrong to say that,” she interrupted, blushing at my compliance. “I am convinced that—” “Listen to me, I pray you,” I continued with affected severity. “You are young, very beautiful, and rich; She possesses, therefore, the three necessary attributes that make a woman preferred in our present modern age, since love and sentiment are now so little esteemed. Well then; people who observe our intimate friendship will, no doubt, declare with malicious intent that I am seeking to marry you for your money. I am sure the world will say this, but I want you to promise me that you will at once refute such a statement. 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 out of the question, considering that I am a man of limited means. Understand well, Mabel, that I do not wish to make merits by the past, now that your father is gone and you are alone. Understand, too, from the outset, that in extending my hand to you , I do so as a sincere friend, just as I would Reginald, my old schoolmate and best friend, and that, henceforth, I will defend your interests as if they were my own.” And then I extended my hand to him. For a moment he hesitated, for my words had apparently made the deepest impression upon him. “Very well,” he stammered, and looked into my face for a second. “It is a covenant, if you will have it. ” “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 long, therefore, as a token of my gratitude, to take your place and protect your daughter—protect you, Mabel.” “But are we not both, my father and I, who are, in the first place, in your debt?” he exclaimed. “If it had not been for the benevolence of Mr. Seton and yourself, I should have wandered on, perhaps until I died on some road. ” “And what was it that your father was after?” I asked him. “He must have told you, surely. ” “No, he never told me. I don’t know what reason he had for wandering all over England for three years. He had a specific object, no doubt, which he eventually realized, but he never revealed to me what it was. ” “I suppose it must have been something connected with the object he carried about with him?” “I think it was,” was his reply. Then he added, returning to his former remarks, “Why do you speak of your debt to him, Mr. Seton, when I know very well that you, in order to be able to pay the boarding house at my college at Bournemouth, sold his best horse, and consequently could not enjoy his hunts that season? You deprived yourself of the only pleasure you had, so that I might be in the best possible condition. “I forbid you to mention that again,” I said quickly. “Remember now that we are friends, and that between friends there can be no question of debt. ” “Then you must not allude to the small services my father rendered you,” he replied, laughing. “Come on, I shall be ungovernable if you do not know how to fulfill your part of the agreement!” And so it was that we were obliged, from that moment, to give up everything, and to resume our friendship again on a firm and perfectly well-defined basis . Yet how strange it was! The beauty of Mabel Blair, as I beheld her standing before me in that magnificent mansion, now hers alone, was, no doubt, capable of turning the head of any man but a stern judge or a Catholic cardinal; very different, indeed, from the poor, fainting, and powerless child I first beheld lying by the roadside in the dreary winter twilight. Chapter 5. In Which the Mystery Increases Considerably. The disappearance or loss of the precious article, document, or whatever it was, enclosed within the little chamois bag, which the dead man had so carefully preserved for so many years, was now, in itself, a very suspicious circumstance; while Mabel’s vague but firm apprehensions , which I would not or could not define, had awakened in me new misgivings about the death of Burton Blair—misgivings which made me think he had been the victim of some infamy. The moment I took leave of her, I set out for Bedford Row, where I had another consultation with Leighton, to whom I explained my serious apprehensions. “As I have already told you, Mr. Greenwood,” exclaimed the lawyer when I had finished, leaning back in his chair and looking at me gravely through his spectacles, “I believe my client did not die a natural death. There has been some mystery
in his life, some strange romantic circumstance , which, unfortunately, he never thought proper to confide to me. He possessed a secret, he told me, and it was through the knowledge of that secret that he acquired his large fortune. I made a rough estimate half an hour ago of the present value of his estate, and, at a guess, I believe the sum to be over two and a half millions of pounds. But I may tell you, in confidence, that the whole of this fortune passes directly to your daughter, excepting several legacies, among which are included ten thousand pounds to Mr. Seton, and another ten thousand to yourself; two thousand to Mrs. Percival, and some small sums for the servants.” “But,” he added, “there is a clause in the will that is very enigmatic, and one that affects you intimately. As we both suspect that some foul deed has been committed, I think I may show it to you at once, 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, bearing the inscription: “Burton Blair, Esquire,” took the dead man’s will, and opening it, showed me the following clause: “I give and bequeath to Gilbert Greenwood, of The Cedars, Helpstone, the chamois leather pouch that will be found on my person at the time of my death, to the end that he may profit by the contents thereof , and in return for certain valuable services rendered me.” But I 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 let him keep the secret well hidden from all men, just as I have done. That was all. A strange clause, indeed! Burton Blair, after all, had bequeathed me his secret; the secret that had given him his colossal fortune! Yet it was gone—stolen, probably, by his enemies. “It’s a curious couplet,” smiled the lawyer. “But poor Blair had, “I think he had little literary culture. He possessed more knowledge of the sea than of poetry. However, after all, the situation is very annoying and intriguing to you. The secret of the origin of my client’s enormous fortune has been bequeathed to you, and now you find it has been stolen from you in this strange manner. ” “I think it would be best to consult the police and explain our suspicions,” I said with bitter regret, seeing that the chamois bag had fallen into other hands. “I quite agree with you, Mr. Greenwood. We will go together to Scotland Yard and request that they initiate the necessary investigations. If, in fact, Mr. Blair has been murdered, then the crime has been committed in the most secret and conspicuous manner, to say the least. But there is another clause in the will which is somewhat disturbing, and which relates to your daughter, Mabel.” The testator has appointed as his secretary and administrator of his estate 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 cried, 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, indeed, I never heard my client mention. When he made the will, he only dictated it to me to write. ” “But that is absurd!” I exclaimed. “It is certainly not possible for you to allow an unknown foreigner, who may well be an adventurer for all we know, to have complete control of your estate. ” “I fear it cannot be helped,” replied Leighton gravely. “It is written here, and we shall be obliged to notify this man, whoever he may be, of his appointment, with a salary of five thousand pounds a year.” “And will she, in fact, have complete power over his affairs? ” “Absolutely. To tell the truth, she inherits the whole fortune on condition that she accepts this individual as her confidential secretary and advisor. ” “Blair must be mad!” I exclaimed. “Does Mabel know this mysterious Italian? ” “She has never heard of him. ” “In that case, I think that before we inform him of poor Blair’s death and the good fortune that awaits him, we ought at least to find out who he is. In any case, we can watch him carefully, once he is in his position, and see that he does not squander Mabel’s money. ” The lawyer sighed, slowly polished his glasses, and remarked: “He will have the management 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 took possession of him, to have dictated such a clause? Did you not point out to him the folly of his behavior?” “Yes, I pointed that out to him.” “And what did he say?” He reflected for a moment, considered my words, sighed, and then replied: “It’s imperative, Leighton. I have no alternative.” That’s why I suspected he acted under duress. ” “Do you think this stranger was in a position to demand it of you?” The lawyer shook his head. It was evident that he believed there was a secret reason for bringing this stranger into Mabel’s house , a reason known only to Burton Blair and this individual. I thought it strange that Mabel had not told me, but perhaps she would have hesitated to tell her the promise I had made to her father, and in view of that, she would not have dared to hurt my feelings. The situation grew, with every passing hour, more mysterious and complicated. I was, however, determined to accomplish two things: first, to recover the millionaire’s most precious object, which he had bequeathed to me, along with the express order to remember that extraordinary couplet, which had been impressed upon my mind; and secondly, to make secret inquiries about this unknown foreigner, who had so suddenly appeared taking part in the affair. That same evening, at about six o’clock, having met with Reginald, as we had agreed, in the study of Mr. Leighton, the three of us got into a cab 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, indeed, going to order inquiries to be made in Manchester and elsewhere,” he replied at last, “but as the medical evidence has so conclusively proved that this gentleman died of natural causes, I cannot possibly entertain much hope that our police detective department or that at Manchester will be able to assist you. The grounds you allege for supposing that he has been the victim of some foul act are very vague, as you yourselves must admit, and, as far as I can see, the only real basis you have for these suspicions is the theft of that document, article, or whatever it is that he had with him. However, you do not generally kill a man in broad daylight for the purpose of committing a robbery, which any skilled thief can accomplish without resorting to that means.” Furthermore, if his enemies or rivals knew what it was, or knew of his habit of carrying it with him at all times, they could easily have obtained possession of it without murder. “But he was in possession of a certain secret,” observed the lawyer. “What kind of secret was it? ” “Unfortunately, I have not the slightest idea about it. No one knows. All we know is that its possession lifted him out of poverty and made him rich, and that there was one person, at least, who was anxious to gain possession of it. ” “Naturally,” observed the elderly assistant director of the criminal investigations bureau. “But who is that person? ” “I have the misfortune not to know. My client told me a year ago, but he did not mention any name. ” “Then you harbor no suspicions about anyone, whoever it may be? ” “I can point to no one. The chamois leather pouch, in which the document or object was, has been stolen, and this fact has aroused our suspicions.” The gaunt, grave clerk shook his head very doubtfully. “That is hardly a sufficient ground for suspecting murder, especially when we have all the evidence from the inquest, the autopsy, and the unanimous verdict of the coroner’s jury. No, gentlemen,” he added, ” I see no serious ground for harboring real suspicions. After all, it may be that the document was not stolen. It seems that Mr. Blair was of a somewhat eccentric character, like many men who suddenly rise and rise in the world, and it is possible that he concealed it in some secure location. To me, this seems most probable, especially when he had expressed the fear that his enemies would try to get hold of it. ” “But if there is a suspicion of crime, it is certainly the duty of the police to investigate it !” I exclaimed, with some resentment. “Convinced. But where is the suspicion?” Neither the doctors, nor the coroner, nor the local police, nor the jury, entertain the slightest doubt that he did not die of natural causes,” he argued. “In this case, the Manchester police had neither the right nor the need to interfere in the matter. ” “But there has been a theft. ” “What proof have you of that?” he asked, raising his graying eyebrows and rapping his pen on the table. “If you can prove to me that a theft has been committed, then I will set in motion the various influences under my command. On the contrary, you only suspect that this little bag, the contents of which are unknown, has been stolen. However , it may be that it is concealed in some spot difficult to discover, but nevertheless quite secure. As you three, however, maintain that the unfortunate gentleman was murdered in order to possess himself of this mysterious little object, which he guarded with such care, I will communicate with the Manchester City Police and ask them to make all the inquiries they can.” More than that, gentlemen,” he added softly, “I fear my department cannot “Then all that remains for me to reply , ” Mr. Leighton remarked harshly, “is that public opinion is quite justified as to the futility of this branch of the police force in the discovery of crimes, and I will not fail to draw public attention to the matter through the press. It is simply disgraceful. ” “I, sir, am proceeding according to my instructions, as well as in conformity with your own statements,” he replied. ” I assure you that if I were to order inquiries into every case where murder is suspected or alleged to have been committed , I would require a force of detectives as large as that of the English army. Not a day passes but I receive dozens of secret visitors and anonymous letters, all reporting alleged murders, and generally mentioning persons toward whom they have some cause of dislike.” Eighteen years at the head of this department have taught me to distinguish cases worth investigating, and yours is not. Every argument proved useless. The police officer was convinced that Burton Blair had not been the victim of a crime, and therefore we could expect no help from him. With marked disgust, we got up and left Scotland Yard, returning to Whitehall. “This is a scandal!” Reginald declared angrily. “Poor Blair has been murdered, everything seems to indicate it, and yet the police won’t lift a finger to help us discover the truth, because a doctor has discovered that his heart was his weak link. It’s putting a premium on crime,” he added, clenching his fists fiercely. “I’m 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 Home Secretary says about this!” It will be a very unpleasant pill to swallow for him, I have no doubt. “Oh! He’ll have some official typed apology ready, never fear,” laughed Leighton. “If they won’t help us, we must make the inquiries ourselves. ” The solicitor took leave of us in Trafalgar Square, agreeing to meet us at Grosvenor Square after the funeral for the formal reading of the will in front of the dead man’s daughter and her companion, Mrs. Percival. “And then,” he added, “we shall have to take active steps to discover this mysterious individual who must in the future manage his fortune. ” “I will be the one to make the inquiries,” I said. “Fortunately, I speak Italian, and therefore, before I tell you about Blair’s death, I will go to Florence and ascertain who this man is.” In truth, I entertained a suspicion that the letter I had taken from among the dead man’s papers, which he had kept secretly for me, had been written by this individual, Paolo Melandrini. Although it bore no address or signature, and was written in a heavy and uneducated hand, it was evidently the letter of a Tuscan, for I discovered in it a certain phonetic spelling, which is purely Florentine. The strange communication ran as follows: “Your letter reached me this morning. The blind man is in Paris, on his way to London. The girl is with him, and it is evident that they know something. Therefore , be very careful. He and his ingenious friends will probably try to play a trick on you. I am still at my post, but the water has risen three meters, owing to the heavy rains that have occurred. However, the exploitation has been good, so I hope to see you at Vespers at San Frediano, on the evening of the 6th of the next month. I have something very important to tell you.” Remember that “the ceco” has bad intentions, and act accordingly. Addio.” Countless times I translated this curious letter, word for word. It seemed to me to be full of hidden meaning and double entendre. The probability was that the person known as “the Blind Man,” who was Blair’s enemy, as was guessed from the letter, had succeeded in obtaining possession of the precious little chamois purse, which, by right, now belonged to me, as well as the mysterious secret it contained. Chapter 6. IN WHICH ARE THREE CAPITAL A’S. The proceedings that took place the following evening in the library of the mansion in Grosvenor Place were, as may be supposed, very sad and trying. Mabel Blair, dressed in mourning, with her eyes brimming with tears, sat silent while the solicitor curtly read the will, clause by clause. She made not a comment, when she did not even proclaim the appointment made by the deceased, naming the unknown Italian as administrator of his daughter’s estate. “But who is this man, please say?” inquired Mrs. Percival, in her calm, polite voice. “I never heard Mr. Blair speak of such a person.” “Nor I,” declared Leighton, who had paused for a moment to adjust his spectacles, and then resumed the reading of the document to the end. We were all glad when the grave ceremony was over. Presently, Mabel intimated to me, in a low voice, that she wished to meet me alone in the morning-parlor; and when we were both there, and I had shut the door, she said: “Last night I searched the little iron box in my father’s bedroom, where he sometimes kept his private papers, confidential letters, and other things. I found a quantity of my poor mother’s letters, which she had written to him years ago, when she was at sea, but nothing more, except this.” And he took from his pocket a small, stained and crumpled playing-card, an ace of cups, on which were written certain cabalistic capitals, in three columns. In order that my readers may clearly observe the arrangement and position of the letters, I think it proper to reproduce it here. AA O image O N of a I O heart I SN T G
K ———————–
“That’s curious!” I observed, turning it over anxiously in my hand. “Have you tried to discover the meaning of these words? ” “Yes, but I believe they are ciphers. You will notice that the two upper columns begin with A, and that the lower one ends with the same letter. The card is the Ace of Cups, and in all these points I discover some hidden meaning. ” “No doubt about it,” I answered. “But did you notice that it was carefully kept? ” “Yes, it was in a linen envelope, well sealed, and marked by my father, ‘Burton Blair, Private.’ What could it mean? ” “Ah! I am pondering the same thing myself,” I exclaimed, deeply reflecting on the matter, and still gazing at the three columns of fourteen letters. I tried to unravel this enigma by the generally used and well-known methods , but could come up with nothing intelligible. Here were some hidden words, and being completely indecipherable, they caused me anxiety and gave me much to think about. The reason why Blair had preserved this letter with such profound confidentiality 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 its nature was. After we had discussed the matter at length, without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, I advised him to take a trip abroad with Mrs. Percival for a few weeks, to change his surroundings and endeavor to forget his unexpected misfortune, but he shook his head, murmuring: “No, I prefer to stay here. The loss of my dear father will be as painful to me here as abroad. ” “But he must try to forget,” I insisted with deep sympathy in the presence of his grief. “We are making the greatest efforts.” to discover the mystery surrounding your father’s actions and the causes of his death. I am leaving for Italy tonight, with the object of making secret inquiries concerning this individual who has been appointed your secretary. ” “Ah! yes,” she sighed. “What motive could my father have had for placing my affairs in the hands of a foreigner? Who could this man be? ” “Probably some old friend of your father’s,” I suggested. “No,” she replied. “I know all his friends. He had only one secret from me, that of the source of his fortune. He always refused to tell me. ” “I am leaving directly for Florence, and I will see to it that I can discover all I can before the lawyers notify this mysterious individual of your father’s death,” I said. “It may be that I may learn 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 being intimately associated with a stranger, and that this stranger is a foreigner, fills me with great fear and misgiving. “But perhaps the real Paolo of the romance is young and handsome… and you his Francesca,” I suggested, smiling. Her sweet lips parted slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she replied: “Do me the favor of not anticipating anything on that score. I trust and hope he is old and very ugly. ” “So that he cannot arouse my jealousy, is that not true?” I exclaimed, laughing. “I assure you, Mabel, that if our friendship were not based on such a well-defined foundation, I would allow myself to play the part of the lover. You know that I… ” “Come, stop this nonsense,” she interrupted, raising her little finger in mock reprobation. “Remember what you said yesterday. ” “I said what I thought, and I intend to do. ” “And I did the same.” To speak frankly, I like to consider you as if you were my elder brother,’ he declared. ‘I don’t think I shall ever love anybody,’ he added thoughtfully, looking into the glowing fire in the grate. ‘No, no; don’t say that, Mabel. Some day you will find a man of your own station, love him, marry him, and be happy,’ I remarked, with my hand on his shoulder. ‘Remember, with your fortune you can pick the flower of the marriage-mart. ‘ ‘Some impoverished young aristocrat,’ you mean? ‘No, thank you. I have had an opportunity of making the acquaintance of a good many of them, but their pretended affection has always been too weak. Most of them wanted my money, that they might remove the liens from their possessions. No, I should rather prefer a poor man— though it is certain I shall never marry—never, ever.’ I remained silent for a moment; Then I said awkwardly, “I always thought you would marry young Lord Newborough. You seemed such good friends. ” “We were—until he proposed to me.” And she looked into my face with that frank, serene look of her splendid eyes, which held a look of wonder, almost like a child’s. Her character was strangely complex. When she was a tall, curvy girl, in the early days of our friendship, I had known her to be haughty, high-minded, and strong-willed, but at the same time she had a sweet, affectionate nature that made her endearing and endearing to all who knew and came in contact with her. Her nature was so quiet and gentle that love seemed an unconscious impulse to her. I had often thought that she was too good, too sweet, too beautiful, to be thrown into the brambles of the world, to be exposed to the fall and bruises of life’s thorns. The world is as cruel and ruthless, and as full of traps for the unwary youth of high society as it is for those of the lower classes. Therefore , it was my duty, if I was to keep my promise to the man who lay silent in his grave, to protect her from the thousand and a deception of those who would endeavor 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 toil and wandering in search of the windlasses of England, had taken their toll on her. Love to Mabel was scarcely a passion or sentiment, but rather an illusory charm, a dream that a fairy spell would shatter or affirm at whim. So exquisitely delicate was her character, as was her face, that it seemed the slightest touch would defile it. Like the notes of some sweet, melancholy music that comes wafting on the wings of night and silence, and which we rather feel than hear; like the soft exhalation of the violet that fades upon the senses than bewitches it; like the snowflake that dissolves in the air before the earth has dimmed it; Like the light tide separated from the heavy wave which a gust destroys, such was her nature, full of that modesty, grace, and tenderness, without which a woman is no woman. As I saw her standing there before me, a delicate and frail figure dressed in strict mourning, with her hand in mine, thanking me for the investigation I was about to undertake in her behalf, and bidding me bon voyage, I shuddered to think what would become of her if she were thrown into the midst of an adverse and cruel lot, among all the corruptions and hungry wolves of society, perhaps without energy to resist, without will to proceed, or without strength to suffer. Alone and helpless in such a case, the end must inevitably be disastrous. I took leave of Mabel, departing with the feeling that, loving her as I confess I did, I was nevertheless unworthy of her. Certainly, I was playing a dangerous game! Ever since that winter night when we met at Helpstone, I had conceived a powerful, sincere, and growing affection for her; but now that she was the owner of great wealth, I realized that there were two barriers to our marriage: the difference in our ages, and the fact that I was a poor man. In truth, she had never displayed any of the feminine coquettishness to captivate me, nor had she ever given me the slightest motive or pretext to make me think that I had won her. She had spoken frankly and sincerely: she regarded me as much as if I had been her elder brother; that was all. That same night, as I paced the deck of the cross-Channel steamer in a stiff winter wind, gazing at the revolving light of the Bay of Calais, which grew more distinct every moment , my thoughts were entirely upon her. Love is the teacher, sorrow is the tamer, and time is the physician of the human heart. While the engines were moving, the wind was roaring, and the rough sea was violently tossed, I was pacing 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 long-gone hopes , the shadows of unfulfilled joy, the vivid colors of the dawn of existence—in short, everything my memory had treasured— paraded before me, but no longer existed within my heart. I remembered that truth of Rochefoucauld’s: “It is difficult to define love: what one can say is that, in love, this is a passion to repent, in spirits, this is sympathy; and in the body, that is, that one sent hidden and delicate to possess that which loved him, after many mysteries. Yes, I loved her with all my heart, with all my soul, but I recognized that I was not permitted 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 role of Mabel’s protector, and not to become her lover and thus profit from her fortune. Blair had bequeathed me her secret, in order, no doubt, to put me in a position not to hunt for riches, and since it had gone astray, it was my duty to spare no effort to recover it. With these feelings firmly planted in the depths 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 strolling 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 hunting parties in England to the sunlight of the LungArno and the Cascine. On that bright February morning, as I walked along the long and winding artery mentioned above, crowded with idle Florentines and rich foreigners out for a stroll, I saw several gentlemen and ladies of my acquaintance. Doney and Giacosa, the favorite rendezvous points for men, were crowded with rich loiterers sipping cocktails, or that pleasant little glass known on Via Fornabuoni as a piccolo, while the flower sellers’ baskets cast a soft and pleasant tinge on the somber, severe, and colossal Strozzi palace. The flags of different nations fluttering from the consulates, towering above all those of the ever-popular “Major,” reminded me that it was the feast of Saint Margaret. In years past, when I used to live “on the board” with two artillery officers of the Italian army and a Dutch art student, on the top floor of one of those large old palaces on Via dei Banchi, Via Fornabuoni was the place chosen for my morning stroll, because there one meets everyone: the ladies busy shopping in the shops or on their way to the libraries and bookstores; Men chatting on the sidewalks, a habit soon acquired by all Englishmen who take up residence in Italy. It was astonishing to see how many familiar faces I met that morning: English peers and their wives, members of parliament, financial magnates, City tycoons, great manufacturers, and tourists of all nationalities and conditions. His Highness the Count of Turin, returning from the exercises, rode past laughing with his aide-de-camp and greeting everyone he met. Most of the women were dressed in their finest fur robes, for a cold wind was blowing off the Arno; the scent of flowers wafted through the air, and laughter and incessant chatter echoed everywhere, for the ancient red-roofed city was full of joy. Perhaps there is no city in the world so full of charms, nor of greater contrasts, than old and strange Florence, with its marvelous Cathedral, its ancient bridge, its rows of jewelry stores, its magnificent churches, its heavy palaces, and its dark, silent, medieval streets, some of which have changed little since the time when Giotto and Dante crossed them. Time has laid its hand very lightly upon the city of flowers, but when it has done so, what existed has been altered to the point of being unknown, and the extravagant modernity of certain streets and squares today certainly displeases those who, like me, knew the old city before the Piazza Vittorio was built—always Piazza Vittorio, synonymous with vandalism—and when the old Ghetto still existed , picturesque though filthy. Two men, both Italian, stopped as I passed by to greet me and wish me a “ben tornalo.” One was a lawyer, whose wife had the reputation of being one of the prettiest women in the city, where , strange as it may seem, the most striking type of beauty is that of blond hair. The other was Chevalier Alimari, secretary to the English Consul-General, or “the Major,” as everyone called him. I had arrived in Florence two hours earlier, and after a bath at the Savoy, I set out to cash a check at French’s before beginning my investigations. The encounter with Alimari, however, made me pause for a moment. On my way, and after he had expressed his pleasure at my return, I asked him: “Do you happen to know a person named Melandrini, Paolo Melandrini? His address is Via San Cristofano, No. 8.” He looked at me strangely with his lively eyes, then passed his hand over his dark beard, and finally answered in English, with a slight foreign accent: “The address does not look very attractive, Mr. Greenwood. I have not had the pleasure of acquainting the gentleman, but the Via San Cristofano is one of the worst and poorest in Florence, just behind Santa Croce, on the Via Ghibellina. However, I would not advise you to go into that quarter at night, for there are some very bad fellows there. ” “The fact is,” I explained, “I have come expressly to ascertain some information concerning this individual.” “Then don’t do it yourself,” was my friend’s advice. “Employ someone who is Florentine. If it is a case of confidential or secret investigations, you will certainly have much more success than you can achieve. The moment you set foot in that street, it will be known in every tenement house that an Englishman is asking questions. And,” he added with a significant smile, “in the Via San Cristofano they take offense if you ask them questions. ” Chapter 7. THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. I understood that his advice was good, and in the course of conversation, while we were sipping a piccolo at Giacoso’s, he indicated to me that I ought to employ a certain Carlini, a very shrewd man, though old and ugly, who had sometimes taken charge of certain private investigations for the English Consulate. An hour later the old man appeared at the Savoy. He was a small, stooped, white-headed man , shabbily dressed, with a soft, greasy, gray hat tilted to one side; a true, typical Florentine of the people. In the markets he was known by the name of “Babbo Carlini,” as I learned later, and the cooks and maids took great pleasure in making him the butt of their pranks and jokes. Everyone thought him a bit of a fool, and he did his best to reinforce these ideas, because it gave him greater facilities for his secret investigations, for the police were in the habit of employing him in serious cases, and many criminals had been apprehended because of his cunning. In my bedroom, alone with him, I explained to him, in Italian, the mission I desired him to undertake. “Yes, signore,” was all his reply, whenever I paused. His boots were in a pitiable state, all torn, and he desperately needed a clean change of clothes; But, nevertheless, from one of the pockets protruded a small packet of Toscani cigars, those long, thin, penny cigars so beloved by the Italian palate. “Remember,” I said to the old man, “that you must find, if possible, a means of establishing contact with Paolo Melandrini, obtain from him all the information you can about him, and arrange things so that I may, as soon as possible, see him without his seeing me. This matter,” I added, “is strictly private, and I am taking you into my service for a week, at the salary of two hundred and fifty lire. Here is one hundred to pay your general expenses.” He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hands, and murmuring “Tanti grazie, signore,” put them in the inside pocket of his shabby coat. “You must not allow that individual to suspect for a moment that inquiries are being made concerning him, and remember well that he must not know that there is an Englishman in Florence inquiring for him, because if this happens, then his suspicions will immediately be aroused. Be very careful in everything you say and do, and come tonight and inform me. At what time shall we meet? ” “Late,” grumbled the old man. “It may be that he is a working man, and, in that case, I can know nothing about him until tonight. At eleven I will come to the hotel.” And he withdrew, leaving the atmosphere permeated with a strong smell of tobacco and rotting garlic. I began to wonder what the hotel staff would think of me when they saw the kind of visitors I received, for the Savoy is one of the most elegant in Florence; but my misgivings were soon dispelled, for as I was leaving, I heard the hall porter exclaim in Italian: “Hello, Babbo! Any new repairs?” The old man only made a satisfied face, and with another grunt, went out into the sun-drenched street. The day was long and anxious for me. I wandered along the Ponte Vecchio and in the opaque, mystical light of the Santissima Annunciata; in the afternoon I went to visit several friends, and in the evening I dined at Doney’s, preferring to dine there rather than in the cramped table dhôte of the Savoy, which was full of Englishmen and Americans. At eleven o’clock I waited in the hotel lobby for old Carlini, and when he arrived, I anxiously invited him up to my room. “I’ve been making inquiries all day,” he began, speaking in his slightly lisping Florentine tongue, “but I’ve discovered very little. The individual you require, Signore, seems to be a mystery. ” “I hoped so,” I replied. “What have you learned about him? ” “He’s known on Via San Cristofano. He has a small apartment on the third floor of number 8, which he only visits occasionally.” In view of this, I then tried to question the caretaker, who is an old woman of eighty. I had ascertained that Melandrini was absent, and seeing some items of clothing hanging out to dry in a window, I introduced myself as a police officer to notify them that it was an offense to hang clothes outside houses, a violation punishable by a fine of two lire. Then I took care to find out some information about her padrone. The old woman told me all she knew, which isn’t much. He has a habit of arriving unexpectedly, usually at night, and staying for a day or two, but never going out in broad daylight. She doesn’t know where he lives when he’s away. Letters frequently arrive for him with English stamps, and she keeps them. She showed me one that arrived ten days ago, and she 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 her. “It’s an English type, thick and heavy. I noticed the word signore was misspelled. Blair’s handwriting was thick because he generally wrote with a quill pen. I was anxious to see it. ” “Then the old servant hasn’t the slightest idea of his real address? ” “Absolutely none.” He has warned her that if they come looking for him, he should reply that he is not fixed on 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 neglected. The old woman is almost blind and weak. ” “Does the old woman say that her padrone is a gentleman?” “I have not been able to ask her what he looks like, but from inquiries I have made elsewhere, I have learned that he is an individual who very likely has affairs with the police, or something similar. The owner of a tavern at the corner of the street told me confidentially that about six months ago two men, undoubtedly police officers, had been making very active inquiries regarding this individual, and that for a month they kept a watch on the house, but he has not appeared since that time. He has described him to me as a man of average age, with a beard, very reticent, who wears glasses, speaks with a slight foreign accent, and seldom goes into a tavern or spends any time during the day with his neighbors.” However, it is evident that he has resources, because, on several occasions, knowing of the misery or misfortunes of some of the families living on that street, he has quietly 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 to surround his identity with mystery. “There must be a purpose for it, no doubt,” I observed. “Certainly,” was the reply of the strange old man. “All my investigations tend to show that he is a man of secrets, and that he is concealing his true identity. ” “It may be that he has those rooms only for the address of letters,” I indicated. “You know, Signore, that I am of the same opinion as he is?” he said to me. “It may be that he resides in another part of Florence, given what we know. ” “Then you must find out. It is essential that I should know everything concerning him before I leave here; consequently, I am going to help you to watch for his return. ” Babbo shook his head and began to play with his cigar, which he was eager to smoke. “No, Signore. You must not appear in the Street of San Cristofano, for your appearance would be immediately noticed. Leave the whole matter to me, Signore.” I will take someone to assist me, and I hope that the two of us shall, before too long, find this mysterious individual and track him down. Remembering the curious letter in Italian which I had taken from among the dead man’s papers, I asked the old man if he knew of any spot called San Frediano—the place appointed for the rendezvous between the man who had written the letter and my poor deceased friend. “Certainly,” he replied. “Behind the Carmine 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 fixed the time of vespers for the interview. Therefore, the place agreed upon must certainly be a church. “Do you know of no other church of San Frediano?” I asked him. “Only the one in Lucca.” It was evident, then, that the interview had to take place at that spot, on March 6, since there was no other temple of that name. If in the meantime I couldn’t get more information about Paolo Melandrini, I was determined to keep the appointment and keep an eye on whoever was there. I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, seated in a low armchair, the old man soon filled the room with the strong smoke and odor of his cheap cigar, while he related to me the most minute details of everything he had managed to learn in that miserable Florentine neighborhood. The secret connection 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 for him to have appointed him administrator of Mabel’s fortune, and yet the whole thing was a complete enigma, exactly like the mysterious source from which the millionaire had obtained his enormous wealth. Whatever we discovered, I knew it must be some strange revelation, for from the first moment I met the wayfarer 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, the possessor of the secret, was now even greater, and much more inexplicable. I could not but entertain strong suspicions that Melandrini, whose movements were so mysterious and full of suspicion, must have had some share in the theft from Blair of that curious little bag which he had left me in his will. This was a strange fancy I had formed within myself, but which, in spite of all my efforts, I could not dismiss from my mind. So erratic seemed the movements of this unknown man that it was possible he had been in England at the time of Blair’s death; if so, then the greater must be the suspicion that fell upon him. I was feverishly anxious to return to London, but I could not do so until I had completely completed my investigations. A whole week passed, and Carlini, with his son-in-law as an assistant in the matter, a young man with black hair and from the lower class, established surveillance, day and night, on the house at number 8, but it was useless. Paolo Melandrini did not He appeared to claim the letter from England, which was waiting for him. One evening, Carlini brought the letter for me to see, having persuaded the old servant to give it to him with a prudent bribe of twenty francs. In my room, we put a kettle on, and with the steam, we unstuck the envelope and took out the sheet of paper inside . It was from Blair. It was written in English, dated eighteen days earlier in London, Grosvenor Place, and read as follows: “I will see you, if you wish. I will take the papers and entrust you with the task of employing people who know how to keep quiet. Address your reply to the following address: Mr. John Marshall.–Birmingham.–B. B..” The mystery increased. Why did Blair wish to employ people who knew how to keep quiet? What was the nature of the work that required such secrecy? Blair evidently took every possible precaution to receive the Italian’s letters, instructing him to address them, under different names, to the hotels where he was staying for a night, and there he would claim them. Mabel had often told me of her father’s frequent absences, absences that sometimes lasted one, two, or even three weeks, and in which his destination was unknown, nor was his address given. Now his strange wanderings were cleared up. Consumed with the greatest anxiety, I waited day after day, spending whole hours trying to decipher the maddening enigma of the playing card in my possession, until, on the morning of March 6, seeing that Carlini was having no success in Florence, I went with him to the old city of Lucca, which we reached by way of Pistoia at two in the afternoon. At the Hotel Universo, I was given that immense bedroom with those marvelous frescoes, which Ruskin had occupied for so long, and before Ave Maria resounded across the hills and plains, I left Babbo and made my way, like a tourist, to the magnificent medieval church, whose darkness was only attenuated by the candles burning on the side altars and in front of the image of Our Lady. When I entered, it was Vespers, and the deathly silence that reigned in the immense interior was broken only 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 patiently while the others knelt. He turned quickly as soon as he heard my light footsteps echoing on the marble, and then I could see him face to face. I caught my breath, and then I stood rooted to the spot, completely astonished and pale. The mystery was vastly deeper than I had imagined. The reality that now presented itself to me was such as to stupefy and make me stagger. Chapter 8. IN WHICH THE TRUTH IS SPOKEN. The beautiful old church, with its heavy gilding, its gleaming altars, and its magnificent frescoes, was so dark that, at first, just coming in from the street, I could not see anything clearly. But as soon as my eyes grew accustomed to the somber light, I saw, a few yards from where I stood, a familiar face—a face that made me hold my breath and filled me with unease. Standing there, behind those few kneeling women, with the faint flickering light from the altar candles just illuminating his face, was that man, his head bowed reverently, yet his dark, beady eyes seemed to cast searching glances in every direction. From his features—hard, rather sinister features—and his tangled gray beard, which I knew from having seen it once in England, I understood that this was the man with whom Burton Blair must have held the secret interview; but, contrary to my expectations, I found myself dressed in the rough crimson habit and thick cord of a Capuchin monk, presenting a sad and silent figure in his standing attitude with his arms crossed, while the priest, in his splendid robes, murmured the prayers. In the midst of that silent semi-darkness, I felt a chill, sepulchral chill fall upon my shoulders. The sweet perfume of the incense seemed to increase, with this atmosphere of incredible magnificence, of melancholy enchanted solitude, of opulence strangely out of proportion to the poverty and filth that reigned in the square outside. Beyond where the silent monk stood, whose penetrating, mysterious eyes were fixed upon me in such an inquisitive manner, were seen distant dark points, pierced here and there by beams of multicolored light that penetrated through some large window, and far beyond, the dim red light of the sanctuary lamp hung from the high and vaulted ceiling . The columns, beside one of which I was standing, rose to the top, crowded like tall forest trees, bearing evidence of the patient labor of a whole generation of men; all hewn from the living stone, infinitely durable, despite the delicacy of the work, and handed down to us through distant centuries of existence. The monk, that man whose bearded face I had once seen in England , had knelt down and was murmuring his prayers and turning the beads of the enormous rosary that hung at his waist. A woman dressed in black, her head covered with the black santuzza worn by the women of Lucca, had entered noiselessly and was kneeling a few feet from me. She pressed to her breast a miserable infant of a few months, on whose wrinkled little face death had already left its mark. She prayed fervently for it, while the candles gradually burned down, the poor candles that this unfortunate woman had placed before 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 saints in golden garments, and the fragility of that small, hopeless being, was cruel and crushing. The woman remained kneeling, vainly and obstinately repeating her prayers. She looked at me, her eyes full of affliction, divining the compassion she had awakened in me; then she turned her gaze toward the Capuchin, toward that man with a hard face and a gray beard who held the key to Burton Blair’s secret. I remained standing behind the heavy column, bowing 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 toward me… yes, toward me, who was an unknown stranger. And I thought: would those magnificent divine images hear her prayers ? Ah! I didn’t know. If I were you, I would have preferred to take the poor creature to one of those niches along the roads, where the Madonna of the Contadini reigns supreme. The Madonnas and saints of Ghirlandago, Civitali, and Della Querica, who dwell in that splendid old church, seem like ceremonious beings, numbed by secular pomp. Strange as it may seem, I could not believe that they would care for that poor woman, or for her deformed and dying child. 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 child, was lost in the darkness. Wishing the Capuchin would pass by me, so that I could see him better, I remained in the church. Should I speak to him, or remain silent and have Babbo watch him? He approached me slowly, with his large hands in 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 in standing or in bed. I had stopped before the ancient tomb of Saint Tita, the patron saint of Lucca, mentioned by Dante in his Inferno. In the little chapel a single light burned in a large antique gold lamp, placed there by the proud sons of the city three centuries before, when they feared the invasion of the Black Death. Turning around, I saw that, even as she watched me intently, she seemed to be still waiting for the man who, alas! was no more. Now that in a better light I could clearly see her features, I did not hesitate to confirm my former suspicion: it was the same man whom a year before I had met at Burton Blair’s table in his mansion in Grosvenor Square. I 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 bachelor friends, to dine at his house and then to go to the Empire Theatre. The man I had found dressed as a priest, with worn sandals, had now presented himself in a very different manner, as a true man of the world, prosperous, with a beautiful diamond in his shirtfront and wearing a dinner suit of particularly elegant cut. Burton had introduced him to us as Mr. Salvi, the renowned engineer, and had sat at the table opposite me, conversing in excellent English with everyone. He impressed me as a man who had traveled extensively, especially in the Far East, and from certain remarks he made, I concluded that, like Burton Blair, he had spent several years at sea and was a friend of mine from the old days, before the great secret that had been so profitable to him. The other guests were all acquaintances and acquaintances; two of them were City financiers, whose names were well known to the regulars at the Stock Exchange; the third, heir to an earldom, which he already holds; and the fourth, Sir Charles Webb, a dashing young man of modern type, belonging to the Guards. After enjoying the exquisite dinner served to us, prepared by the famous French chef of Burton Blair, we drove off to the Empire Theatre, and after spending a couple of hours at the Grosvenor Club, concluded the evening at the Bachelors’ Club, of which Sir Charles was a member. As I stood there in the silent gloom of the stately church, gazing at that dark, mysterious figure pacing patiently up and down the nave, awaiting him who would never come again, I remembered what, on that long-ago night, had aroused in me a strange feeling of disgust towards him. I will relate the incident in a few words . After leaving the Empire, we stopped in Leicester Square to get into the carriages we had taken, when I heard the Italian say to Blair in his own language: “I don’t like that friend of yours, the one called Greenwood. He’s too curious and inquisitive.” My friend laughed at this and replied: “Ah, my dear, you don’t know him. He’s my best friend.” The Italian growled back: “He’s been asking me important questions all evening, and I had to lie to him.” Again Blair laughed, murmuring: “It’s not the first time you’ve had to commit that sin.” “No,” the other replied in a low voice, so that I shouldn’t hear, “but if you introduce me to your friends, take care that they are not as cunning or as inquisitive as this Greenwood. He may be a good fellow, but even if he is, he certainly doesn’t know our secret.” “If he were to find out, it could mean ruin for us, remember!” And then, before Blair could reply, he jumped into a hansom which had just then approached and stopped at the side of the road. Ever since then, I had nursed a manifest antipathy toward this man who had been introduced to me as Salvi, not because I view all foreigners with suspicion and caution, as do some Englishmen who so foolishly share this insular prejudice, but because I because he had endeavored to warn Blair against me. However, within a week the incident had been erased from my memory, and I had not thought of it again until this unexpected and strange encounter had renewed it. Could it be possible that this monk, with his sun-bronzed face, was the same man who had rented that little apartment in Florence, and whose appearances were so mysterious and surreptitious? Perhaps it was, for all the secrecy surrounding his residence could be attributed to the fact that a Capuchin is not allowed to own any house outside his convent. These occasional visits to Florence were probably made when he was sent out into the countryside to collect donations and alms from the contadini, which are intended for the poor of the city. Throughout the province of Tuscany, whether in the cottage of a poor man 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 are always prepared for him, and in the villas and palaces of the rich, they always find a place in the servants’ parlor. It would be impossible to calculate how many poor Italians are saved annually from perishing of hunger by the soup and bread 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 poorest class has. Undoubtedly, Babbo Carlini must be waiting for me outside, sitting on the church steps. Did I recognize in this monk, I reflected, the description I had obtained of Paolo Melandrini, the unknown who was to occupy the post of secretary and advisor to Mabel Blair? The last of the people who had been left praying in the old Blessed Sacrament Chapel had gone, their footsteps echoing on the flags 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 Theatre, watching and criticizing a dance. Should I address him and remind him of our acquaintance? His open declaration against me made me hesitate. It was evident that he had entertained doubts about me that evening at dinner in Grosvenor Square; therefore, under the present circumstances, his suspicions would be heightened, there was no doubt. Should I confront him boldly and thus demonstrate my fearlessness, as well as let him know that I was aware of his subterfuges? Or should I withdraw and watch his movements? I finally decided to do the former, for two reasons. First, because I was confident that he had recognized me as Burton’s friend; and secondly, because, having to deal with a man of that sort, it is always more advantageous and results in a better course of action to proceed in a frank manner and declare one’s knowledge of things, than to carefully conceal facts such as those I knew. If I kept a watch on him, his suspicions would be greater, while if I proceeded openly, I might succeed in disarming him. Turning on my heel, I marched directly to where he had stopped , apparently, to await Blair’s arrival. “Pardon me, signore,” I cried in Italian, “but I believe, if I am not mistaken , that we have met—in London, a year ago—is that not true? ” “Ah!” he replied, softening his face with a smile as he extended his large, calloused hand to me, “I have been pondering all this time, Mr. Greenwood, whether you would recognize me in this suit. I am very, very glad to be able to renew our acquaintance.” And he gave greater emphasis to his words, meaningful or feigned, with a strong and firm handshake. I expressed my surprise at finding the man of the world and traveler transformed into a monk living in a cloister, to which he respectfully responded in a low voice, for we were within a sacred enclosure: “I will tell you everything later. It is not as remarkable or surprising as it undoubtedly seems to you. I assure you, as a Capuchin, that my quiet and meditative life is far more preferable to that of the man of the world who, like yourself, is forced to lead the feverish existence of the modern age, where the fortunate are valued as meritorious without conscience or scruples, and the misfortunes of one’s life are considered the greatest sin when they are discovered. ” “Yes, I understand what you are saying,” I replied, surprised nevertheless by his statement and wondering whether, after all, he were not simply trying to deceive me. “The life of the cloister must be one of infinite calm and sweetness. But if I am not mistaken,” I added, “you are here awaiting our mutual friend, Burton Blair, with whom I had arranged to meet. ” He slightly raised his black eyebrows, and I could have sworn that my words startled him; but, nevertheless, he concealed 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 him. ” “Then I’m sorry to tell you that you shall never see him again ,” I said to him in a low and grave voice. “Why?” he stammered, his black eyes wide open in astonishment. “Because,” I answered, “poor Burton Blair is dead—and his secret has been stolen. ” “What!” he cried, with a look of terror, and in such a loud voice that his cry resounded beneath the high and 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 stout Capuchin, whose figure seemed almost gigantic, owing to the thickness of his inartistic habit, was as curious as it was unexpected. The announcement of Blair’s death seemed to leave him completely unnerved. It seemed as if he had been waiting there, in fulfillment of the promise he had made, completely unaware of the untimely end that had befallen the man with whom he had formed such an intimate and secret friendship. “Tell me… tell me how it was,” he stammered in Italian, his voice almost a whisper, as if he had feared that some curious person might be hiding in that gloomy solitude. In a few words I explained what had happened, and he listened to me in silence. When I had finished, he murmured something, crossed himself, and, as we were awakened by the approaching footsteps of the sexton, we went out and headed towards the wide square, which was already wrapped in semi-darkness. Old Carlini, who was sitting on a bench finishing a cigar, saw us the moment we appeared, and I noticed that his eyes widened in astonishment, but, beyond that, he did not show any suspicion or make the slightest movement. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” repeated the monk, as he walked slowly along the ancient walls of the once proud city. “To think that our poor friend Burton has died so suddenly… and without a word! ” “Not exactly a word,” I said. “Before he died, he gave several instructions and left some commissions, among which was to place his daughter Mabel in my care. ” “Ah, little Mabel,” he sighed. “It is certainly ten years since I saw her in Manchester. She was then a child of about eleven, tall, black-haired, pretty, very much like her mother… poor woman! ” “Did you know her mother?” I asked him with some surprise. He nodded, but refused to give any further information. As we were walking towards Ponto Santa Maria, the city gate, where the uniformed employees of the _dazio_ were standing idly by , ready to collect the tax on every article of consumption, however insignificant, that came in that way, he suddenly turned to me and asked: “How did you know that I had an appointment for tonight with our friend?” “By the letter you wrote him, which was found in his bag after his death,” I answered frankly. He gave a grunt of evident satisfaction. I supposed, indeed, that he must have been suspicious that Burton, before his death, had made known to me some particulars of his life. I remembered at that moment the curious riddle enclosed in the card, but I made no allusion to it. “Ah! I see!” he exclaimed at once. ” But if that little pouch, or whatever it was, which he always carried with him, hidden in his clothes or suspended around his neck, has been lost, does it not mean that there has been a tragedy involved, that is to say, a robbery and a murder? ” “There are strong suspicions,” I answered, “although, according to the doctors, he died of purely natural causes. ” “Ah! I do not think so!” exclaimed the monk, clenching his fists fiercely. One of them has finally managed to steal that little bag he always guarded so carefully, and I am convinced that the murder was committed to conceal the theft. ‘ ‘One of which ones?’ I asked anxiously. ‘One of his enemies. ‘ ‘But did you know what that bag contained? ‘ ‘He never wanted to tell me,’ was the Capuchin’s reply, looking me full in the face. ‘He only told me that his secret was locked inside it—and I have reason to believe that it was so. ‘ ‘But you knew his secret?’ I questioned him, my eyes fixed on him. I saw from the change that passed over 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 of his own accord,’ he replied. ‘And it wasn’t much, because, as you know, he was a very reticent man.’ He told me, a long time ago, of the somewhat romantic circumstances under which he first met you, what a good friend he was to you before fortune smiled upon him, and how you and your friend—I forget his name—put Mabel into school at Bournemouth, tearing her away from that life of toil and wanderings which Burton had undertaken. “But why was she wandering about the roads like this?” I asked him. “She has always been an enigma to me. ” “And to me too. I believe she was busy searching for the key to the secret she carried with her—the secret she left to you, as she told me. ” “Did she remind you of nothing else?” I inquired, remembering that this man must have been an old friend of Blair, from the remarks he had made about Mabel when she was a child. “Nothing more. Her secret always belonged to her, and she revealed it to no one, for she feared betrayal.” “But now that it is in other hands, what do you suppose?” I said, walking still at his side, for we had already left the city and were going along that broad, dirt road which leads to the Mariano Bridge and continues upwards into the mountains, for a distance of fifteen miles, to that leafy and rather cheerful summer spot, well known to all Italians and some Englishmen, which is called the Baths of Lucca. “From what I learned in London when we had occasion to meet,” replied my companion, very gravely, “I suppose 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 a good profit out of it.
” “To the detriment of his daughter Mabel? ” “Certainly. She must be the chief victim, the one who has the most to lose,” he replied, with a sort of sigh. “Ah, if he had confided his affairs to someone, he could, knowing the truth, combat this cunning conspiracy!” But it seems that we are all, as indeed happens, in the most complete darkness. Even his 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 said, “as friends of poor Blair, We must strive to do everything in our power to discover and punish his enemies. Tell me, then, do you know the source of our unfortunate friend’s vast fortune? ‘ ‘I am not Mr. Salvi here,’ was the monk’s calm reply. ‘I am known as Brother Antonio de Arezzo, or, more briefly, Brother Antonio. The name Salvi was given to me by poor Blair, who would not introduce a Capuchin monk among his worldly friends. As for the source of his fortune, I believe I know the truth. ‘ ‘Then tell me, tell me!’ I cried anxiously. ‘It may be that it will give us the thread of who these people are who have conspired so successfully against him.’ Again the monk turned upon me his penetrating, dark eyes, those eyes which 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 am not permitted to say anything.’ He is dead, let us rest his memory. ‘ ‘But why?’ I inquired. ‘In these circumstances of grave suspicion, and when the secret, which rightfully 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 tell you nothing,’ he repeated. ‘My lips are sealed, however sorry I am. ‘ ‘Why?’ ‘Because of an oath I swore years ago, before entering the Capuchin Order,’ he replied. Then, after a pause, he added, with a sigh: ‘It is all very strange—far 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 had not yet been able to tell whether he was really my enemy or my friend. At certain moments he seemed simple, frank, and sincere, as are all members of his religious order; but at others, he seemed to possess that remarkable astuteness, skillful diplomacy, and penetrating second-sightedness of the Jesuit. The very fact that Burton Blair had concealed from me his friendship—if indeed such a friendship existed—with this vigorous monk, with his tanned and wrinkled face, made me harbor a kind of vague distrust of him. And yet, when I recalled the tone of the letter I had written to Blair, how could I doubt that his friendship, however secret, was not real and sincere? Nevertheless, those words I had overheard from him in Leicester Square returned to my memory, renewing my doubts and thoughts. I walked beside this man, not caring where we were going. We were now in the middle of the countryside. The stillness of everything, the reigning silence, and the luminous glow of the last shades of that winter sunset imparted a certain melancholy to the gray Tuscan hills covered with olive trees. That tranquility, that immense calm that spread over everything, that unalterable stillness of the atmosphere, those motionless lights and those great shadows, produced in one the impression of a pause in the vertiginous movement of centuries, of an intense wait, a moment of reflection, or rather, perhaps, a melancholy glance back at the distant past, when stars, human beings, races, and religions did not exist. In front of us, as we turned a bend in the road, I saw rising high on the side of a hill, half hidden by the green and gray trees, an enormous, white, ancient monastery. It was the Capuchin Convent, their home, Brother Antonio told me. I stood for a moment and gazed at the white, almost windowless building, scorched by the heat and the sun’s rays of three hundred summers, rising like a bastion—as it once was—against the backdrop of the purple Apennines. I listened to the sound of the old bell ringing its summons with the same ancient note, with the same old voice of centuries past. It was then, at that moment, that the The charm of Lucca and its beautiful surroundings were engraved on my spirit. I felt, for the first time, an atmosphere of solitude and separation from the rest of the world emanating from all around; an atmosphere of mystery, the living essence of that place, easy to destroy, alas! but which all things still exhale because they are permeated with it: truly, it is the dying soul of once brilliant Tuscany. And there, beside me, crushing all my thoughts, like the shadow of a giant sphinx expanding and lengthening across the desert sands, stood that burly monk, bronze-complexioned, barefoot, in a faded crimson habit, his waist tied with a hempen cord , and with a countenance of mystery, while within his heart lay the great secret that had been bequeathed to me and which concealed the origin of Burton’s fortune. “Poor Blair is dead!” he repeated incessantly, as if he still doubted that his friend no longer existed and found it impossible to believe it. However, I was slow to convince myself of his sincerity, because he might well be deceiving me after all. Since he had invited me, I accompanied him up the winding and steep path until we reached the heavy gate of the monastery, on which he knocked. A loud and solemn bell rang, and a few seconds later the small barred window opened , revealing behind it the face of the white-bearded gatekeeper, who immediately admitted us. He led me along the silent cloister, in the middle of which was a wonderful medieval wrought-iron well, and then through endless stone corridors, each lit by a single kerosene lamp, which made the house seem even more somber and melancholy. From the chapel, which was at the far end of the great building, came the murmur of the monks’ low chants; but beyond, the silence of a tomb reigned. Dark, spectral figures passed noiselessly past us and seemed to disappear into the darkness. The refectory door was open, and in the dim light cast by two or three lamps, I could make out magnificent sculptures, splendid frescoes, and the two long rows of oak benches, blackened by time, on which the Capuchin brothers sit to eat . Suddenly my guide stopped before a door, which he opened with his key, and I found myself inside a tiny, bare cell, uncarpeted , furnished with a roll-away bed, a chair, a writing table, and a well-stocked bookcase. On the wall was a large wooden crucifix, before which he crossed himself as I entered. “This is my home,” he explained in English. “Not very luxurious, it’s true, but I wouldn’t trade 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 take. Here there is no jealousy, no rivalry, no slander, or disputes. We are all equal, we are all perfectly content, because we have all learned that very difficult lesson of brotherly love.” And he drew up the only chair there for me to sit on, for I was sweaty and tired after that long walk and steep climb from the city to the convent. “It is a very hard life, certainly,” I observed. “At first, yes. One has to be strong in mind and body to be able to successfully pass the probationary period,” he replied. But afterward, the life of a Capuchin is undoubtedly one of the most delightful 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 did not bring 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 profound and remarkable mystery. You have informed me of the death of Burton Blair, the man who was my friend, and that it was in his own interest to come to see me tonight at Saint Frediano. There were particular reasons, the most powerful reasons a man can have, why he kept his promise and kept the appointment. But he didn’t. His enemies prevented him , and robbed him of his secret! While he was speaking, he rummaged around in a small drawer of the small writing-table, and at last he brought out an object, adding with profound solemnity: “You knew Blair intimately, more intimately than I, perhaps, in these last years. You knew his enemies as well as his friends. Tell me, have you ever had an opportunity of seeing the original of each of these men?” And he held up two portraits before my eyes. One of them was quite unknown to me, but the other I recognized at once. “This is my old friend Reginald Seton,” I cried, “who was also a friend of Blair. ” “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, resenting the accusation he made against my most intimate friend. “Seton has been a better friend to poor Blair than I have been.” Friar Antonio smiled in a strange, mysterious way, such as only the subtle Italian can smile. He seemed to pity my ignorance, and was tempted to mock my faith in Seton’s sincerity. “I know,” he laughed; “I know almost as much as you do on the one hand, while on the other my knowledge extends somewhat beyond yours. All I can tell you is that I have observed, and therefore I have drawn my conclusions. ” “That Seton was not your friend? ” “Yes, that Seton was not your friend,” he repeated slowly and very distinctly. “But you certainly don’t make a direct accusation against him,” I exclaimed. “Surely you don’t believe he’s responsible for this tragedy, if there has indeed been a tragedy in this death? ” “I’m not making a direct accusation,” was his ambiguous reply. Time will reveal the truth, there’s no doubt about it. I longed to be able to ask him openly whether he didn’t sometimes go by the name of Paolo Melandrini; however, I was afraid to do so, for fear of arousing his undue suspicions. “Only time will reveal that Reginald Seton was one of the dead man’s closest friends,” I said thoughtfully. “Apparently so,” was the Capuchin’s dubious reply. “An enemy as deadly as the Ceco?” I questioned him, looking into his face all the while. “The Ceco!” he stammered, filled with surprise at my bold question. “Who told you about him? What do you know about this man?” The monk had evidently forgotten what he had written in his letter to Blair. “I know he’s in London,” I replied, taking his own words as a guide. “The child is with him,” I added, “even though the identity of the person I was referring to was completely unknown to me. ” “Well?” I wondered. “And if they are in London, it is certainly not with good intentions. ” “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Has Blair said anything to you—has he expressed his misgivings? ” “Now, at last, he had been seized with the fear that he might be secretly assassinated one day,” I replied. “He certainly feared the Ceco. ” “And he certainly had reason to fear him,” exclaimed Friar Antonio, his dark, glittering eyes turned towards mine in the semi-darkness. “The Ceco is not an easy individual to manipulate.” “But for what purpose have you gone to London?” I asked him. “Have you come with evil intentions? ” The stout monk shrugged his shoulders and replied: “Dick Dawson has never been a man of a very good temper. Evidently he must have discovered something, and he has vowed to take revenge. His observations had led me to understand a very important fact: that the man known in Italy by the surname of “the Blind Man” was an Englishman named Dick Dawson, most likely an adventurer.” “Then you suspect him of having been an accomplice in the theft of the secret?” I suggested. “As the little chamois bag has disappeared, I am inclined to think it must have passed into his hands. ” “And the child? ” “Dolly, his daughter, will help him in every way, that is certain. She is as shrewd as her father, and possessed of remarkable womanly ability; she is a dangerous young woman, to say the least. I warned Blair to beware of them both,” he added, “suddenly remembering, it seems, his letter.” “But I am glad that you recognized one of these two individuals whose photographs I showed you. You said his name was Seton, did you not? Well then, if he is your friend, I advise you to be always on the alert. Are you sure you have never seen this other man? That you do not know this friend of Seton?” he questioned me very earnestly. I took the portrait in my hand and approached where the dim kerosene lamp stood. I examined it very closely, taking in every detail. He was a man with a long face, a bald head, a full beard, a very high collar, a black frock coat, and an elegant bow tie. The ornament on his shirtfront was somewhat peculiar, resembling a small cross of some foreign order of chivalry, and produced a rather delicate and novel effect. His eyes were those of a shrewd, lively, and penetrating man, while his sunken cheeks gave his face a remarkable and slightly haggard appearance. It was a physiognomy that, to the best of my recollection, I had never seen before, but nevertheless, its peculiarities were such that it immediately became indelibly engraved in my memory. I told him 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 an opportunity of making the acquaintance of your friend, whose portrait I have shown you. As soon as this happens, write to me, and leave it in my charge. ” He replaced the photograph in the little drawer of his desk, but as he did so, my eye happened to discern within it a playing card, the seven of clubs, with some letters written on it in the same manner , or very similar, to those on the letter I had put in my pocket. I alluded to him, but he simply smiled and immediately shut the drawer. However, the fact that the cipher riddle was found in his possession was certainly something more than strange. “Do you often leave home?” I asked him at last, remembering how I had met him at Blair’s table, during the dinner at his house in Grosvenor Place, but not entirely satisfied by the discovery of the letter with the curious enigmatic inscriptions. “Rarely… very rarely,” he replied. “It is extremely difficult to obtain permission, and when it is obtained, it is for the sole purpose of visiting family . If there is a monastery near the place to which we are moving, we must ask to be allowed a bed there, rather than remain in a private house. The rules seem harsh to you,” he added, smiling; “but I assure you they are not harsh for us, and we suffer absolutely nothing. They are all beneficial to the happiness and well-being of man. ” Again I tried to steer the conversation back to what interested me, striving to obtain some information about the mysterious secret of the dead man, which I was convinced was known to him. But it was useless. He would not tell me anything. All he told me was that the reason for the interview, which was to have taken place that evening in Lucca, was very powerful, and that if the millionaire had not died, he would undoubtedly have attended. “He was in the habit of meeting me from time to time, either at the church of San Frediano or at other points in Lucca, as well as in Pescia or Pistoia,” added the monk. “From time to time, we changed the place of meeting. ” “And this certainly explains his mysterious absences,” I observed, remembering that his movements had often been very erratic. so that even Mabel had been unaware of his address. It was generally supposed that he had gone to Scotland or the north of England; for no one ever imagined that his sudden journeys extended so far, and that he was, when least expected, in central Italy. The monk’s reports also proved that Blair had had some very powerful motive for holding these secret interviews. Fra Antonio, his ignored friend, had undoubtedly been his closest and most trusted. “Why had he concealed this strange and mysterious friendship from us all, even from Mabel herself?” I gazed into the stern, sunburned face of the Italian monk and tried to penetrate the mystery written therein, but in vain. No man in the world can keep a secret so well as the priest confessor, or the humble friar, whose home is his poor cell. “And what is your intention, after what has happened to poor Blair?” I asked him at last. “My intention, like yours, is to discover the truth,” he replied. “It will be a difficult task, no doubt about it, but I am confident that in the end we will succeed, and that you will recover the lost secret. ” “But won’t Blair ‘s enemies be able to use it in the meantime ?” I asked. “Ah! We certainly won’t be able to prevent that,” replied 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 whether Blair was the victim of an infamy and who committed it, while I, here in Italy, will try to find out if there was 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 it. Men’s memory often declines in the last hours before death.” Night had spread its black pall before the bell with its great wooden clapper, the same one that served to awaken the monks at two in the morning, the hour when they rise to pray, resounded throughout the cloister, as if reminding me to retire from that silent dwelling, where I was a stranger. Brother Anthony rose, lit a large old bronze lantern, and led me through the solitary and quiet corridors, the small square, and the hillside to the highroad, which stood out white and straight in the darkness. Then, after he had led the way, he took my hand in his large palms, rough and calloused from his hard work in his patch of garden, and said to me: “Trust me, I will do all I can.” I knew poor Blair; yes, I knew him better than you do, Mr. Greenwood. I also knew something of his remarkable secret; I know how strange what has happened is, and how mysterious all the circumstances are. While you return to London and continue your investigations, I will work here, doing mine. I will give you one suggestion, however, and it is this: if you ever meet Dick Dawson, make friends with him and Dolly. They are an odd pair, father and daughter, but friendship with both of them can be of benefit to you. “What!” I exclaimed. “Friendship with the man you have confessed to being one of the cruelest enemies Blair ever had? ” “Why not? Isn’t it a sign of diplomacy to be well received in the enemy camp? Remember that you are the one who has the greatest risk in this affair, for it involves the secret that has been bequeathed to you—the secret of Burton Blair’s millions! ” “And I intend to recover it,” I declared 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 retorted again. Then, bidding farewell with a “Adio, e buona fortuna,” Fra Antonio, the man of secrets, turned and walked away, leaving me standing on the dark highway. I had not gone fifty yards when, from the shadow of a From some bushes to one side, a small black figure appeared, and from the voice that greeted me, I knew it was old Babbo, whom I had not expected, for I had thought he had grown weary of waiting for me. But I understood that he had followed us and, seeing us enter the monastery, had begun to await my return with all 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 was with? ” “Yes. While you were at the convent, I made some inquiries, and I learned that the most popular Capuchin in all Lucca is Fra Antonio, and that his acts of charity are well known. It is he who goes begging from door to door throughout the city, to obtain the centimes and lire that provide the poor with their clothes and bread every day. ” 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 whom he loves very much, an Englishman known by the people of the city by the nickname of the Big Eye, because he has almost lost one eye. “The Big Eye!” I cried. “What have you discovered about him? ” “The owner of a small cheese shop near the gate through which we left the city is very communicative. Like all those of her class, she seems to greatly admire our friend the Capuchin. She has told me of the frequent visits of this one-eyed Englishman, who has resided in Italy for so long that he can almost pass for an Italian. It seems that the Big Eye has the habit of stopping at the old inn at 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 that out yet,” Babbo replied. “However, it seems that Ceco’s constant visits to the Capuchin monastery have aroused public interest. People say that Friar Antonio is not as active as before in raising money for the poor, as he is too busy with his English friend. ” “And the girl? ” “She must be of remarkable beauty, for she is famous even in Lucca, which is a city of pretty girls,” the old man replied , grimacing. “She speaks Tuscan perfectly, and can easily pass for Italian, so they say. Her back is not stiff like those other Englishmen one sees on the Via Tornabuoni, if you will pardon my criticism,” he added apologetically. These reports proving that Dick Dawson, against whom the monk had warned Burton Blair, was indeed the Capuchin’s friend, made the situation more enigmatic and complicated. I recognized that during these frequent visits and conferences the secret plot against my poor friend must have been hatched, a conspiracy that had been successfully carried out, as it seemed. Young Dolly had never been to the monastery, but she had evidently been in Lucca, as an accomplice in the plot to obtain Burton Blair’s valuable secret—the secret which now belonged to me by law. In view of this, we resolved to make some inquiries at the Croce di Malta, that ancient and well-established inn situated in a narrow side street, peculiarly Italian, and which prefers to be designated still by the name of albergo, rather than the modern one of hotel. Dick Dawson, known as the Ceco, was undoubtedly in London, but he had the aid and connivance of the ingenious and cunning man of secrets, who had so skillfully endeavored to strike me up with a false friendship. –Was this man, who concealed his evil deeds under the shabby habit of a priest, in fact responsible for the death of the unfortunate Blair and the mysterious disappearance of that strange little object, which was his most precious treasure? I don’t know why, but I was convinced that this suspicion was true . Chapter 11. IN WHICH THE DANGER OF MABEL BLAIR IS EXPLAINED. Of the inquiries that old Babbo made the following morning in the Maltese Cross, it became evident that Mr. Richard Dawson, whoever he was, came to Lucca constantly, and always for the purpose of visiting and consulting with the popular Capuchin monk. Sometimes the one-eyed Englishman, who spoke Italian so well, went to the monastery and stayed there for several hours, and other times Brother Antonio came to the inn and shut himself up with the guest in the greatest secrecy. The “ceco,” so called because of his defective eye, was apparently a man of means, 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 that could be procured. They came from Florence, thought the padrone, but of this he was not certain. The letters and telegrams he usually received, asking him to reserve rooms for them, arrived dated from different cities in France or Italy, which seemed to prove that they were constantly traveling. These were all the reports we could obtain. The identity of the mysterious Paolo Melandrini still remained undiscovered. The principal object that had brought me to Italy had not been fulfilled, but I was nevertheless satisfied to have at last discovered two of poor Blair’s most intimate and at the same time most secret friends. But why this mystery? When I recalled how close our friendship had been, I was surprised, and even a little chagrined, to find that he had concealed the existence of these two men from me. However much I regretted having to think ill of a dead friend, I could not help being assailed by the suspicion that his acquaintance with these individuals formed part of his secret, and that the latter was something dishonorable. Shortly after noon, I packed my things in my valise, and impelled by a powerful desire to return so that I might defend Mabel Blair’s interests, I left Lucca 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. As I stood on the platform of the Pisa station, the ragged old man, who had been deep in thought for more than half an hour, suddenly exclaimed: “A strange idea has occurred to me, sir. You will remember that I learned on the Via San Cristófano that Mr. Malandrini wore spectacles with gold frames. Is it not likely that he uses them in Florence to conceal his defective eyesight? ” “I think so too!” I replied. “I think you have guessed! But, on the other hand, neither his servant nor his neighbors suspect that he is a foreigner. ” “He speaks Italian very well,” agreed the old man, “but they say he has a slight accent. ” “Return at once to the Via San Cristófano,” I said, excited by his latest theory, “and make further inquiries into the eyesight and spectacles of this mysterious individual.” The old woman in charge of your rooms must have seen it without glasses, no doubt, and she will be able to tell you the truth. ” “Yes, sir,” he replied. 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 Calais-to-Rome express, the limited train consisting of three sleeping cars, a restaurant car, and a baggage car, pulled into the great vaulted station, and, bidding farewell to the ridiculous old Babbo, I stepped onto the train and was shown my compartment to Calais. It is useless to describe the long and tedious return journey from the Mediterranean to the Channel, always hearing the creaking of the wheels, and with the same monotony, interrupted only by the announcement that dinner was served . All those who read this strange story of one man’s secret , who have traveled back and forth on that railway to Rome, know well how tiresome and tiresome it becomes when one becomes a constant traveler between England and Italy. Suffice it to say that thirty-six hours after boarding the express at Pisa, I crossed the platform of Charing Cross station, entered in a hansom and was leaving for Great Russell Street. Reginald had not yet returned from his business, but, lying on my table among a quantity of letters, I found a telegram from Babbo, in Italian, which read: “Melandrini has ruined his left eye. It is 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 astonished. The strange couplet which the dead man had left in his will, urging me to remember it, beat ceaselessly 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 the marriages and divorces of King Henry VIII 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 having included this strange rhyme in his will; perhaps it was the key to something, but to what? After a hasty toilette and a thorough brushing, for I was very dirty and tired from the long journey, I took a cab and drove to Grosvenor Square, where I found Mabel delicately dressed in black, sitting reading in her comfortable and pretty private room , which her father, two years before, had caused her to decorate and furnish luxuriously and tastefully as her boudoir. She rose the instant she saw me, and bowed hastily when the servant announced my presence. “You are back again, Mr. Greenwood,” she exclaimed. “Oh, I am so glad! I have missed not hearing from you. Where have you been?” “In Italy,” I replied, taking off my overcoat at her direction, and then seating myself beside her on a low chair. “I have been making some inquiries. ” “And what have you discovered? ” “Several pieces of information which tend rather to increase than to clear up the mystery surrounding your poor father.” I noticed that her face was paler than when I had left London, and that she seemed nervous and strangely anxious. I asked her why she had not gone and spent a while at Brighton, or some other point on the South Coast, as I had previously indicated; but she replied that she had preferred to remain at home, and, to speak frankly, had been eagerly awaiting my arrival. I briefly explained what I had discovered in Italy, relating my meeting with the Capuchin monk, and our curious conversation. “I never heard my father speak of him,” she said. “What sort of man is he?” I described him to her as best I could, and told her how I had met him at a dinner party given at her house, during his absence in Scotland with Mrs. Percival. “I thought that a monk, once entered into a religious order, could never again wear the garb of secular life,” she remarked. “He certainly cannot,” I replied. “That very fact increases my suspicions of him, in conjunction with the words I overheard him speak outside the Empire Theatre.” And then I related the incident to her, exactly as I have done in a previous chapter. She remained silent for a moment, with her delicate, fine beard resting on the palm of her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. Then, at last, she asked me: “And what have you heard concerning this mysterious Italian in whose hands my father has left me? Have you met him? ” “No, I have not seen him, Mabel,” I replied. “But I have discovered that he is an Englishman of average age, and not an Italian, as we had thought.” I don’t think I shall be jealous of your attentions to me, for you have a physical defect. You have only one eye. “You have only one eye!” he repeated stammering, covering his face with an instant deathly pallor as he jumped to his feet. “A “A man with only one eye— and an Englishman! You don’t mean, certainly,” she cried, “that individual called Dawson, Dick Dawson? ” “Paolo Melandrini and Dick Dawson are one and the same person,” I answered frankly, completely astonished at 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 fiend—that individual whose very name is synonymous with everything that implies brutality, cunning, and malice. It cannot be true—there must be some mistake, Mr. Greenwood—there must be! Ah! You do not know as I do the reputation of that one-eyed Englishman, for if you did, I would sooner be dead than associated with him. You must save me!” she cried in terror, 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 very touch spreads death!” She had scarcely uttered these words when she hesitated, stretched out her fine white hands in a daze, and would have fallen senseless to the ground, had I not sprung forward and taken her in my arms. “Who could this Dick Dawson be,” I pondered, “that he should inspire such terror and hatred in her; this one-eyed man who was evidently connected with her father’s mysterious past? Chapter 12. Mr. Richard Dawson. I confess that I longed to see this one-eyed Englishman, of whom Mabel Blair was terribly afraid, appear, in order to be able to judge him. What I had so far managed to learn of him was not very satisfactory. It seemed evident that, in conjunction with the monk, he possessed the secret of the dead man’s past, and perhaps Mabel feared some unpleasant revelation relating to her father’s doings and the source of his fortune. This was the thought that occurred to me as I was assisting to apply some remedies and comforts to the insensible child, for I had given the alarm on seeing her fall into a faint, and her faithful companion, Mrs. Percival, was immediately called in. While she lay unconscious, with her head propped upon a lilac silk cushion, Mrs. Percival knelt by her side, and I believe she regarded me with considerable suspicion, for, ignorant of what had happened, she believed I was the cause. She inquired somewhat sharply into me the cause of Mabel’s unexpected faintness, but I simply replied that it had been a sudden fit, and that I attributed it to the stifling heat of the room. When she came to, she desired Mrs. Percival and Bowers, her maid, to leave us alone, and when the door was closed, she asked me, pale and anxious, “When is this man coming here?” “When Mr. Leighton brings to your attention the clause in your father’s will. ” “He may come,” she said firmly, “but before he crosses this threshold, I shall have left the house. He may do as he pleases , but I shall not reside under the same roof with him, nor have any communication with him, whatever it may be. ” “I understand your feelings, Mabel,” I cried, “but do you think it prudent to pursue that course of action? Is it not better to wait and watch the individual’s movements? ” “Ah! But you don’t know him!” she cried. “You have no suspicion of what I know to be the absolute truth! ” “And what is that? ” “No,” she replied in a low, husky voice, “I cannot tell you. It will not be long before he discovers it, and then you will not be surprised that I hate the very name of the fellow. ” “But what motive could your father have for inserting such a clause in his will?” “Because he was forced to,” 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,” she replied. “I suspected everything the moment I learned that a mysterious and unknown man had been appointed secretary and administrator of all my affairs.” Your discoveries in Italy have only confirmed my misgivings. “But you will follow my advice, Mabel. At first, at least, you must arm yourself with patience and suffer it,” I persisted, wondering, meanwhile, whether her hatred was due to the fact that she perhaps knew that he was her father’s murderer. Her dislike of him was violent, but I could not discover what reason she had for it. She shook her head at my argument and said to me: “I am sorry that I am not diplomatic enough to be able to conceal my dislike in this way. We women are clever in many things, but we always inevitably make known what we dislike. ” “It will be very sensitive,” I observed, “to treat you with open hostility, because it may ruin all our future opportunities for success in discovering the truth regarding your father’s death and the theft of his secret. The best advice I can give you is to maintain absolute silence, an apparent indifference, but always be on your guard and alert.” Sooner or later, this man, if he is indeed your enemy, will reveal himself. Then there will be time enough for us to proceed firmly, and, in the end, you will triumph. For my part, I consider that the sooner Leighton informs this individual of his appointment, the better. ” “But is there no means of preventing this?” she cried, terrified. “My poor father’s death is certainly too painful without this second misfortune to increase the affliction!” She spoke to me as frankly as she would to a brother, and I understood from her vehement manner, now that her suspicions were confirmed, how great and complete was her despair. Amidst all the luxury and splendor of that royal mansion, she emerged a pale and forlorn figure, her tender youthful heart broken by grief for her father’s death and by a terror she dared not utter. An ancient proverb, often repeated, says that fortune does not bring happiness, and certainly there is often more peace of mind and pure enjoyment of life in a cottage than in a palace. The poor are inclined to look with envy at the rich; yet it must be remembered that many men and women, comfortably ensconced in their luxurious carriages and served by liveried servants, gaze longingly at these humble toilers in the streets, well convinced that those millions they designate as “the masses” are, in truth, far happier than they are. Many a woman of title, disappointed and world-weary, often young and beautiful, would gladly exchange positions with the daughters of the people, whose existence, though one of hard work, is nevertheless full of innocent pleasures and as much happiness as is possible in our world of struggle. This statement may seem strange, but I declare it to be true. The position of gold can bring luxury and fame; It can put men and women in a position to outshine their fellow men, as well as win them honor, esteem, and even popularity. But what is the use of all this? Ask the opinion of the great landowner, the rich man, and the millionaire, and, if they speak truthfully, they will tell you in confidence that they are not so happy as they appear, nor do they enjoy life as much as the modest man of independent means, who is subjected to a diminution by 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 but notice the vivid contrast between the luxury of everything around her and the heavy burden of trouble in her heart. She entertained the idea of selling the house and retiring to Mayville, there to live quietly in the country with Mrs. Percival, but I insisted that she wait, at least for the present. It was a pity to think that the splendid collections of paintings belonging to Burton Blair, all of them remarkable works of the Old Masters, the beautiful tapestries which she had purchased in Spain a few years earlier, and the incomparable collection of majolica tiles, fell under an auctioneer’s hammer. Among the various treasures in the dining room was the painting of the Holy Family by Andrea del Sarto, which had cost Blair 16,500 pounds at Christie’s and was considered one of the finest originals by that great master. In addition, the Italian Renaissance furniture, the antique Montelupo and Sayona china, and the magnificent old English silver constituted a fortune, and would remain Mabel’s property, to my great satisfaction, as if everything had been bequeathed to her. “Yes, I know,” she replied upon hearing my arguments. “Everything is mine except that little bag containing the secret, which is hers and, unfortunately, has been lost. ” “You must help me to recover it,” I insisted. “It is in our mutual interests to do so.” “I will certainly help you in any 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 two other iron boxes, and certain places where he sometimes concealed 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 in the house. But all in vain. Certainly, it is not in this house.” I thanked him for his efforts, knowing that he had proceeded with all his energy on my behalf; but, convinced that any search within the house was useless, and that if the secret were ever recovered, it would be by discovering it in the hands of one or other of Blair’s enemies. We remained together for a long time discussing the situation. The reason for his hatred of Dawson he refused to say, but this did not surprise me in the least, for I saw in his attitude a desire to conceal some secret from his father’s past. However, after much persuasion, I prevailed upon her to consent that the mysterious man should be informed of the position she was to occupy, and that she should receive it without betraying the least sign of displeasure or antipathy. This I considered a triumph of my diplomatic skill, for, up to a certain point, I had a complete influence over her, as I had been her best friend during those sad and trying days of her later years. But when it came to a matter involving her father’s honor, I was entirely powerless and accomplished nothing. She was a child of her own firm individuality, and, like all those who possess this quality, possessed the gift of quick penetration, and peculiarly liable to prejudice, owing to her high sense of honor. She flattered my pride by declaring that she would have wished I had been appointed her secretary; to which I replied, thanking her for the compliment, but affirming that such a thing could never have been possible. “Why?” she questioned me. “Because you told me that this Dawson comes here to occupy that position by his own right. His father was forced, under duress, to put that wretched clause in his will, which means he feared him. ” “Yes,” she sighed softly. “You are right, Mr. Greenwood. You are absolutely right. That man held my father’s life in his hands.” This last remark struck me as very odd. Had Burton Blair been guilty of some unknown crime, which made him afraid of this mysterious one-eyed Englishman? Perhaps he was. Perhaps Dick Dawson, who for years had resided in rural Italy, passing himself off as an Italian, was the only surviving witness to some dishonorable act Blair had committed, which, in his days of prosperity, he would have wished to efface, for the end of which he would have gladly given a million in gold. Such , indeed, was one of the many thoughts that arose in my mind, seeing the mystery surrounding that terror produced in Mabel by the mere Dawson’s name. However, when I remembered Burton Blair’s kindly and steadfast honesty, his sincerity, his lofty thoughts, and his anonymous acts of benevolence out of pure love for charity, I put all such suspicions aside and resolved to respect the memory of the dead man. The following evening, before nine o’clock, while Reginald and I were sipping coffee and talking in our comfortable little dining room in Great Russell Street, Glave, our servant knocked at the door, entered, and handed me a card. I jumped up from my seat as if I had received an electric shock. “This is funny, old fellow,” I cried, turning to my friend. “Here is Dawson himself. ” “Dawson!” stammered the man the monk had warned me against . “Let’s bring him in. But, by Job! we must be careful what we say, for, if all that is said about him is true, he must be extraordinarily perceptive.” “Leave him to me,” I said. And then, turning to Glave, I added, “Show that gentleman forward.” And we both stood 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 disguise of an Italian. A moment later, he was ushered into our presence, and, bowing to us , he exclaimed with a smile: “I suppose, gentlemen, I must introduce myself. My name is Dawson—Richard Dawson. ” “And I am Gilbert Greenwood,” I said rather coldly. “My friend here is called Reginald Seton. ” “I heard both of them spoken of by our mutual friend, Burton Blair, who is unfortunately deceased today, ” he exclaimed; and he slowly seated himself in my grandfather’s great armchair , while I stood on the mantelpiece with my back to the fire so that I might have a better view of him. He was dressed in a well-tailored evening suit and a black overcoat, but there was nothing in his appearance to suggest a man of character. Of medium height, of a fair age—about fifty, in my opinion—with round spectacles, gold-rimmed 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 a wrinkled forehead and a pair of deep-set blue eyes, one of which surveyed the world with speculative wonder, while the other was dull, hazy, and sightless. His strange eyebrows met over his somewhat fleshy nose, and his beard and mustache were already gray. From the sleeves of his overcoat emerged his hands with small, brown fingers, which twisted and tapped with nervous persistence, and in a manner that indicated the man’s high tension , the upholstered arms of the chair in which he sat opposite us. “The reason I have come to disturb you at this hour,” he said apologetically, but with a mysterious smile on his thick lips, “is that I arrived in London this very evening, 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 this had been news to me. “And who said that? ” “I have some private information,” he replied evasively . “But before proceeding, I thought it best that I should come and see you, so that we may understand each other well from the outset. I know that you two have been very good and intimate friends of Blair, while I, owing to certain curious circumstances, have been forced, until today, to remain entirely in the background, his secret friend. I am also well aware of the circumstances under which you first 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. “It has certainly been so,” I observed. “Ah!” he exclaimed quickly, in a tone of ill-concealed satisfaction. “Then he hasn’t told you anything!” I realized at once that I had inadvertently told the man just what he most wanted to know. Chapter 13. BURTON BLAIR’S SECRET REVEALED. “Whatever Burton Blair has told me, it has been in the strictest confidence,” I cried, offended at the fellow’s interference, but nevertheless inwardly glad that I had had the opportunity of making his acquaintance and of being able to ascertain his motives. “Certainly,” replied Dawson, with a smile, his single eye winking at me through his gold-rimmed spectacles. “But his friendship and gratitude never caused him to go so far as to reveal his secret.” No. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Greenwood, I think it’s useless for us to argue like this, considering that I know far more about Burton Blair and his past life than you do. ‘ ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘Blair was always very reticent. He set his mind to solving a mystery, and he achieved his goal. ‘ ‘And thereby earned him a fortune of over two million pounds sterling, which people still consider a mystery. However, there is no mystery in those piles of bonds deposited in your banks, just as there was no mystery in the money with which you bought them,’ he laughed. ‘It was in good Bank of England notes and solid gold coins of the realm. But the poor man is no more; it’s all over,’ he added with a somewhat thoughtful air. ‘But his secret still exists,’ Reginald observed. ‘He has bequeathed it to my friend.’ “What!” burst out the one-eyed man, turning upon me in real terror. “Has he left you his secret?” He seemed quite disturbed by Reginald’s words, and I noticed the wicked gleam in his eye. “He has left it to me. The secret is mine now,” I retorted, though I did not tell him that the mysterious chamois pouch had been lost. “But don’t you know, man, what that implies?” he cried, rising before me, and interlacing and twisting his slender fingers nervously and agitatedly. “No, I don’t,” I replied, laughing, for I tried to appear to take his words lightly. “He has left me as a legacy the little pouch which he always carried about with him, together with certain interesting instructions which I will endeavor to obey. ” “Very well,” he growled. “Proceed as you think best; but I prefer that you should have remained master of the secret and not I, that is all.” His disgust and terror apparently knew no bounds. He struggled to conceal his feelings, but every effort was in vain. It was evident that there existed some very powerful reason for his endeavouring to prevent the secret from falling into my hands; but his belief that the bag was already in my possession destroyed my suspicion that this mysterious man was connected with the strange death of Burton Blair. “Believe me, Mr. Dawson,” I said, with the greatest calmness, “I entertain no apprehension as to the outcome of my friend’s kindly generosity. Indeed, I see no ground for any misgivings. Blair discovered a mystery which, by dint of patience and almost superhuman exertions, he succeeded in solving, and I presume that, guided, probably, by a feeling of gratitude for the small assistance which my friend and I were able to render him, he has left his secret in my custody. ” The man remained silent for some minutes with his single eye fixed upon me, motionless and irritated. “Ah!” he exclaimed at last, impatiently. “I see that you are completely ignorant of everything.” Perhaps it’s best if I continue like this.” Then he added: “Let’s talk about something else now, the future. ” “And what does the future hold?” I asked him. “I have been appointed Mabel Blair’s secretary and administrator of her estate. ” “And I promised Burton Blair on his deathbed to defend and protect his daughter’s interests,” I said, in a calm, cold voice. “May I then, since we are on the subject, ask you whether you have matrimonial intentions regarding her? ” “No, you must not ask me anything of the sort,” I cried angrily. “Your question is an insulting impertinence, sir. ” “Come, come, Gilbert,” interrupted Reginald. “There is no need to start a dispute. ” “No, certainly,” declared Mr. Richard Dawson imperiously . “The question is simple enough, and as the future administrator of her fortune, I have a perfect right to ask it. I understand,” he added, “that she has grown into a very attractive and amiable child. ” “I decline to answer your question,” I declared vehemently. “I might as well ask you why you have been living secretly in Italy all these past years, or why your mail was addressed to a house in a by-street in Florence.” His face lost its vigor, his brows contracted slightly, and I perceived that my remark had caused him some suspicion. “Oh! And how do you know I have lived in Italy?” But in order to mislead and confuse him, I smiled mysteriously and answered: “The man who possesses the secret of Burton Blair 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 at the corners of his mouth showed how deep and intense was the impression made upon him by the mention of his surname. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Blair has betrayed me, then he has sworn falsely to me , after all. Is that what he told you?” “Very well!” And he laughed with the strange hollow laugh of a man contemplating revenge. “Very well, gentlemen. I see that in this matter I am in the position of an interloper. ” “To speak frankly, sir, I will tell you that it is precisely so,” Reginald broke in. “You were a stranger until the dead man’s will was read , and I do not think I am anticipating that Miss Blair will be somewhat uneasy at being obliged to employ 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 you will have an opportunity of knowing that the young lady will welcome my intention instead of disliking it.” “Wait and see,” he added, in a tone of extreme confidence. “I intend to go to Mr. Leighton’s office tomorrow and take up my duties as secretary to the daughter of the late millionaire Burton Blair.” He emphasized the last words and laughed again defiantly in our faces. He was no gentleman. I knew him the moment he entered the room. His outward appearance was that of a man who has had contact with respectable people, but it was only a superficial veneer, for when he lost his temper and became agitated, he showed himself to be as rough as the rough seaman who had so suddenly expired. His accent was pronouncedly London, though it was said that, having resided so many years in Italy, he had become almost an Italian. A true son of London can never conceal his nasal tones, even if he has spent his life in the farthest corner of the world. We had both quickly realized that the stranger, although rather slight of build, was extraordinarily muscular. And this was the man who held those frequent secret interviews with Fra Antonio, the grave Capuchin monk. He had shown that he was not afraid of us by the bold way 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 was laughing at our ignorance. “You speak of me, gentlemen, as of a stranger and unknown,” he exclaimed, buttoning up his greatcoat after a short pause and taking up his cane. “I suppose I shall be one tonight… but tomorrow I shall no longer be one. I hope that very soon we shall learn to know each other.” better; then you may trust me a little more than you have tonight. Remember, for many years I have been the dead man’s closest friend. It was on the tip of my tongue that poor Burton’s motive for putting that strange clause into his will was his fear of him, and that he had inserted it under duress; but happily I controlled myself and, with a certain civility, said “good night.” “I’ll be hanged, Gilbert,” cried Reginald, when the one-eyed man had retired. “The situation grows more interesting and complicated every moment . It’s evident that Leighton is going to have a tough customer to deal with. ” “Yes,” I sighed. “He has the best of us all, for Blair clearly knew everything about him, as he was completely in his confidence.” “It is my opinion, Greenwood, that Blair has treated us shabbily!” my friend burst out, selecting a new cigar and angrily biting the end of it. “Remember, he left me his secret. ” “It may be that he destroyed it after making his will,” Reginald suggested. “No; either it must be hidden away, or it has been stolen—that is what has not been cleared up. For my part, I consider 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 some infamy, he would certainly have given us something before his death. Of that I am quite convinced. ” “It is very probable,” he observed, with some doubt, however. “But what we have now to discover is whether that little bag which 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 suggested. “Anyway, it’s very likely he’ll try to get hold of her,” Reginald agreed. “We must know for sure where he was and what he did the day Blair so mysteriously lost consciousness on the train. I don’t like the fellow, apart from his alias and secret friendship with Blair. His intentions are evil, old man, very evil. I’ve seen them shining in his one eye. Remember what he said about Blair betraying him? It seems to me he’s harboring thoughts of taking revenge on poor Mabel. ” “It’s better not to offend her,” he exclaimed fiercely. “I must keep the promise I made to poor Burton, and I will keep it. Yes, I swear to God I will! To the letter. I’ll take great care that he doesn’t fall into the hands of that adventurer. ” “She fears him in advance. Why is that? ” “Unfortunately, she won’t tell me.” It is possible that this man is in possession of some dishonorable secret of the dead man’s, the knowledge of which, if made public, might result in Mabel’s discredit and her expulsion from polite society. Seton grunted, leaned back in his chair, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “By Job!” he cried, after a brief pause. “Is that so?” The next morning, while we were at lunch, a messenger boy arrived with a card from Mabel, in which she requested me to come at once to her house. Without losing a minute, therefore, I gulped down 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, her face flushed with agitation, was waiting for me. “What is the matter?” I asked, as I took her hand, fearful that the man she detested had already come to see her. “Nothing serious,” he replied, laughing. “I have some very good news for you. ” “For me? What is it?” Without answering, he placed on the table a small, plain silver cigarette case, which bore the initials BB in one corner of the lid, a monogram that could be seen engraved on all of Blair’s china, his carriages, harnesses, and other belongings. “Look 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 within. “What!” I cried, almost beside myself with joy. “It cannot be true! ” “Yes,” she laughed. “It is.” And then with trembling fingers, I drew from the interior of the box the precious article that had been bequeathed to me—the little used chamois leather pouch, the size of a man’s palm, to which was attached a thin but very strong gold chain, so that it might be worn around the neck. “I found it this morning by chance, exactly as it is, in a little secret drawer in an old bureau in my father’s dressing-room ,” she explained. “He must have placed it there as a precaution before he left for Scotland.” I held it in my hand in utter astonishment, but nevertheless with the deepest delight. Did not the fact that Blair had parted with it, leaving it locked in that box rather than risk taking it with him on that voyage North, prove that he had feared an attack for its possession? However, the curious little object, which had been left to me in such a strange condition, was now in my hand. It was a flat, carefully sewn, chamois-skin pouch, blackened by use and age, about half an inch thick, and enclosing something hard and smooth. Within it was concealed the great secret, the knowledge of which had made Burton Blair, the poor homeless sailor, a millionaire. What it was, neither Mabel nor I could for a moment imagine. We were both breathless, equally anxious to ascertain the truth. No doubt, no man ever faced a more interesting or puzzling problem in his life. Silently, he took a pair of small buttonhole scissors from the small writing table by the window and handed them to me. Then, my hand shaking with agitation, I inserted the point into the end of the bag and cut it lengthwise, but what fell upon the carpet a moment later elicited two loud gasps of surprise from both of us. Burton Blair’s most valuable possession, the great secret which he had carried about with him throughout all these years and his wanderings , having been finally discovered, proved to be truly astonishing. Chapter 14. AN EXPERT’S OPINION. On the carpet at our feet lay scattered a packet of very small, rather soiled playing cards, which had fallen out of the bag, and which we stood gazing at in surprise and disappointment. For my part, I had expected to find within that chamois treasure-bag something of more value than these well-thumbed and rather worn pieces of stiff cardboard, but our curiosity was instantly aroused when I stooped, lifted one of them, and discovered certain letters written in dark, half-erased ink, similar to those on the letter already in my possession. It proved to be a ten of gold coins, and in order that readers may have 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 closely. “It must be some cipher riddle, just like the other I found inside a sealed envelope in the iron box.” “There is no doubt,” said I, noticing, as I stooped and picked up the rest of the packet, “that all of them, front and back , had fourteen or fifteen letters written on them, in three columns, all, indeed, entirely unintelligible. I counted them. They made a packet of thirty-one cards, excepting the ace of cups, which we had found before. From having been carried about with us, the constant rubbing for so long a time had worn down the points and edges, while the polish had long since disappeared. ” ————————- O T S CP O J E L O O JN N ————————-
Aided by Mabel, I spread them all out on the table, truly stunned by those columns of letters which showed that they contained some deep secret, but which it was utterly impossible for us to decipher. On the face of the ace of clubs there were three parallel columns, of five letters each, arranged in this manner: EHN WED TOL IEH WHR Next, I turned over the king of spades, and on the back I found only these fourteen letters: QWF TSW JHU OFE YE “What can 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 on 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 writing, and the fact that some cards were written front to back seemed to indicate some hidden meaning. Whatever it was, it presented an enigmatic and intricate problem. “It is very curious, certainly,” observed Mabel, after she had been trying for some time in vain to put together a few intelligible words from the letters in columns by the easy method of calculation. “I had no idea that my father had thus concealed his secret. ” “Yes,” I said, “it is truly astonishing. There is no doubt, his secret is written here, and we should know it, if we possessed the key. But it is probable that his enemies know of its existence, or else he would not have left it locked away here when he left for Manchester. It may be that Dawson knows. ” “Very likely,” she answered. “He was the man most intimate with my father.” “His friend, he says he was. ” “Friend!” she cried, offended. “No, his enemy. ” “And therefore his father feared him, did he not? It was for this reason that he inserted that rash clause into his will.” I then related to her the visit Dawson had paid us the night before, all he had said, and the bold attitude of defiance he had assumed toward us. She sighed, but did not utter a word. I noticed that while I spoke her countenance had grown somewhat paler, but she remained silent, as if she had feared to speak, lest she should inadvertently reveal what she intended to remain a secret. My absorbing thought at the moment, however, was the elucidation of the problem concealed within those thirty -two well-thumbed letters that lay before me. The secret of Burton Blair, the knowledge of which had earned him his fortune of millions, was locked away there, and now that it belonged to me by legacy, it was in my interest to make every effort to discover the exact truth. I remembered the immense care he had taken with that little bag lying empty on the table, and the negligent confidence with which he had shown it to me that night when I was nothing more than a homeless vagabond wandering the roads looking for the turnstiles. As I held it in his hand, showing it to me, I had seen his eyes shine with a bright light of hope and anticipation. Someday I would be a rich man, he had prophesied to me, and I, in my ignorance, had then believed him to be a dreamer, a deluded one. But as I looked around the room in which I was now standing and saw 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 small packet of letters, of so insignificant appearance, was mine—if only I could decipher it! It was impossible that a situation could have been more enigmatic and mortifying for a poor man like myself. The man whom I had once been able to protect had left me, as a token of recognition, the secret of the origin of his enormous wealth, but so well hidden that neither Mabel nor I could decipher it. “What are you going to do?” he questioned me at last, after we had remained ten minutes in silence examining the letters. “Is there not some expert in London who can find the key? It is probable that those people who are dedicated to the art of cryptography can help us. ” “No doubt,” I replied, “but in that case, if they succeeded in doing so, they would discover the secret for themselves.” “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that!” “The instructions your father left in his will are very explicit and conclusive, recommending the greatest confidentiality 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, and ascertain by what means it would be possible to decipher this code of enigmas? ” “I can make inquiries in a general sense,” I replied, “but to blindly place the packet of letters in the hands of an expert would, I fear, be delivering to others your father’s most confidential possession. It may be that there is some information written here which it would not be convenient or 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 prudent and know how to guard the secrecy 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 I am therefore going to take possession of them,” I said. “I will also make some inquiries, and ascertain by what means these ciphers can be put into intelligible English.” I thought at that moment of a Mr. Bayle, a master in a preparatory school at Leicester, who was a real expert in these matters of ciphers, ciphers, and anagrams, and I resolved to lose no time in going there and getting his opinion. At noon I took the train from St. Pancras, and about half-past two I was sitting with him in his private room in the school. He was a man of fair age, completely shaven, and of quick intelligence, who had frequently won prizes in the various competitions offered by different newspapers; a man who seemed to have learned Bartlett’s _Dictionary of Familiar Quotations_ by heart , and whose wit and skill in unraveling riddles were unmatched. While we were smoking, I explained to him the point on which I desired his opinion. “May I see the cards?” he inquired, taking his pipe from his mouth, and looking at me with some surprise, as it seemed to me. My first impulse was to refuse to show them to him, but then I remembered that he was one of the greatest experts there was in these matters, and consequently took the little packet out of the envelope in which I had put it. “Ah!” he exclaimed the moment he had them in his hand, and turned them rapidly over. “This is the most complicated and difficult of cipher riddles, Mr. Greenwood. It was in vogue during the seventeenth century in Spain and Italy, and afterwards in England, but within the last hundred years or more, it seems to have fallen into disuse, probably from its great difficulty.” With the greatest care he laid out all the cards in rows on the table, and engaged in long and complicated calculations between the heavy puffs of smoke from his pipe. “No!” he exclaimed at last. “It is not what I expected. By means of deductions you will never arrive at the solution. You may try to decipher it for a hundred years, but it will be in vain if he does not discover the key. There is, indeed, so much ingenuity in this kind of cipher, that a writer of the last century calculated that in a packet of ciphered cards like these, there exist at least fifty-two million possible arrangements and combinations. ” “But how is the cipher written?” I asked, very interested, though dismayed to see that he could not help me. “It is as follows,” he replied. “The author of the secret decides what he wishes to record, and then arranges the thirty-two cards in the order he pleases. Then he writes the first thirty-two letters of his record, souvenir, or whatever it is, on the front or back of the thirty-two cards, one letter in each one consecutively, beginning with the first column, and then continuing through the second and third columns , in their order, until he has written the last letter of the cipher. Certain letters are
also usually placed in the places of the spaces, and sometimes the riddle is rendered still more difficult of decipherment by the chance finder of the cards when they are shuffled in a specially arranged manner after the writing is halfway through . “Very ingenious!” I observed, completely puzzled by the extraordinary complication of Burton Blair’s secret. “And yet the letters are written so plainly! ” “Quite so,” laughed the professor. “At first glance, it appears to be the simplest of all ciphers, and yet it is quite unintelligible unless you know the exact formula in which it is written. When that is accomplished, the solution is easy. You arrange the cards in the order in which they were written, and taking a letter from each successive card, you spell out the riddle by reading down column after column and passing over the letters placed in the places of the spaces. “Ah!” I exclaimed anxiously. “How I long to know the key! ” “Then it is a very important secret?” Bayle asked. “Exceedingly important,” I replied. “It is a confidential matter which has been placed in my hands, and which I am obliged to solve. ” “I fear I shall never be able to do so, unless the key exists, as I have already told you. It is too difficult for me to attempt. Complications, which appear so simply constructed, effectively protect the secret from every possible solution and guarantee it from every danger. Therefore, every effort made to decipher it without knowing the order in which the cards were placed will necessarily be useless.” He replaced them in the envelope and handed them to me, feeling that he could help me in no way. “You may try to decipher it every day for years and years,” he declared, “and you will not succeed in approaching the true solution.” It is too well guarded to be solved by chance, and is, in truth, the most ingenious and certain cipher that ever the wit of man devised. I stayed a little longer and had a cup of tea with him; but at half-past four I was getting on the express and leaving for London, disappointed with my utterly fruitless journey. In view of what he had explained to me, the secret became more impenetrable and inscrutable than ever. Chapter 15. Certain Things We Discovered at Mayville. “Miss Blair, sir,” Glave announced to me the next day, a little before twelve. I was alone in my private room, smoking, and thoroughly confused in the task of solving the dead man’s letters. I sprang to my feet to receive Mabel, who looked charming and very elegant in her rich, warm furs. “I suppose if Mrs. Percival knew I had come here alone, she would give me a severe lecture on the impropriety of calling on a man in his rooms,” she said, laughing, after I had bowed to her and closed the door. “You may almost say that this is the first time you have honored me with a visit, is it not? And I fancy you need not be very anxious about what I have done.” Let Mrs. Percival think. “Oh! She’s getting stiffer every day,” Mabel grumbled. “I mustn’t go here, nor there; she’s afraid of me talking to this man, or that man, and so on. I really am getting tired of it, I tell you,” she declared, seating herself in the chair I had just vacated, undoing the collar of her heavy fur cloak, and holding her pretty foot close to the fire. “But she’s been a very good friend to you,” I argued. “As far as I can see, she’s been the most comfortable of ladies-in-waiting.” “The truly model is she who disappears completely five minutes after entering the room,” Mabel declared. “And it is only right that I should give Mrs. Percival her due, for she has never taken a fancy to me at balls and parties, she has always left me at liberty, and if she has found me sitting in some secluded and obscure spot, she has had a ready pretext for directing me elsewhere . Yes,” she sighed, “I suppose I ought not to complain when I think of those old nags who have other children in their power. For instance, Lady Anetta Gordon and Violet Drummond, two pretty little girls who have made their debut this last season, are truly tortured by these old hags who accompany them everywhere. They both tell me that they cannot raise their eyes to look at a man without having to endure a severe lecture on polite manners and childlike modesty the next day.” “In truth, I don’t think you have much cause to complain, so far . Your poor father was very indulgent with you, and I am sure that Mrs. Percival, though she may sometimes appear a little rigid, is only doing it for your good,” I said frankly, standing on the stove rug and gazing at her beautiful figure. “Oh! I know that in your opinion I am a very willful child,” she exclaimed, with a smile. “You always used to say so when I was at school. ” “I was, to speak frankly,” I answered openly. “Certainly. You men never indulge a child, nor do you grant her anything. You are masters of her liberty when she first puts on her long trousers, whereas we poor children are never left alone or free for a second, either in or out of the house.” No matter whether we are as ugly as a witch or as beautiful as Venus, we must be tied down to some elderly woman, who very frequently happens to be as fond of a moderate flirtation as the ingenue young lady in her charge. Pardon me, Mr. Greenwood, for speaking so candidly, but my opinion is that the modern methods of society are all dissembling and deceitful. “You don’t seem to be in a very good mood today,” I observed, unable to refrain from smiling at myself. “No, I am not,” she confessed. “Mrs. Percival is being very tiresome. I wish to go to Mayville this afternoon, and she won’t let me go alone. ” “Why do you want to go alone so much?” She colored slightly, and for a moment looked puzzled. “Oh! I’m not so keen to go alone,” she retorted, trying to persuade me. “What I object to is the folly of wanting to prevent me from traveling alone as any other young lady does.” If a maid is at liberty to travel alone by rail, why can’t I ?’ ‘Because you have to respect the propriety of society, and a servant doesn’t need that. ‘ ‘Then I prefer the lot that has fallen to this one ,’ she declared in a manner that made me understand that something must have upset her. I, for my part, would have been terribly sorry if Mrs. Percival had allowed her to go to Herefordshire alone, 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 her the reason for wishing to go to Mayville even without a maid, but she excused herself by saying that she wanted to see if they were all right. the other four gamehorses to be looked after by the stud-keeper, and also to make a complete search of her father’s study, in case any important or intimate papers might be left there. She had the keys in her possession, and wished to do this before that odious man took his place. This suggestion, evidently invented as an excuse, seemed to me ought to be effected without further delay; but it was so evident that she wished to go alone, that I hesitated at first to offer her my company. Our friendship was of such an intimate and intimate character, that I might, indeed, make this proposition without going beyond my limits; nevertheless, I resolved to try to learn first what strong motive she had for wishing to travel alone. But Mabel was an intelligent woman, and had no intention of telling me so. It was known that she was under a secret desire to go alone to that splendid country house which was now her property, and that she did not wish Mrs. Percival to accompany her. “If you are going to search the library, wouldn’t it be better, Mabel, if I went with you and assisted you?” I suggested at last. “That is, by the way, if you will allow me,” I added apologetically. She was silent for a moment, like someone who is devising a means of solving a dilemma; then she answered me: “If you will come, it will be a great pleasure for me. Yes, you must help me, for we may discover the key to the riddle in the letters. My poor father, half a month before he died, was there about three days. ” “And when shall we leave? ” “At half-past three, from Paddington Station. Will that be convenient for you? You will come with me and be my guest.” And she laughed mischievously at the breach of convention, the probable displeasure caused to Mrs. Percival being ignored. “Very well,” I agreed; And ten minutes later he was escorting her downstairs and ushering her up, smiling sweetly, into his elegant Victoria, whose coachman and footman were now dressed in mourning. Do you not suppose that I was playing a very dangerous game? And indeed I was, as you will see later. At the appointed hour, I joined Mabel at Paddington, and putting aside her sad meditations and misfortune, we set out for Dunmore Station, beyond Hereford. Once here, we entered the waiting carriage, and after traveling nearly three miles, we got out in front of the splendid old mansion which Burton Blair had bought two years before, because the spot was admirably suited to shooting 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 spots worth seeing. It was an ideal hereditary mansion. The grand old house, with its lofty square turrets, its King James entrance, its porte-cochere, its beautiful, fantastically shaped box trees, and the sundial in its exquisite old-fashioned garden, possessed a delightful charm which few ancient mansions could boast; and, besides, its perfect state of preservation, unaltered in even the smallest details, contained another interesting feature of its attraction. For nearly three hundred years it had been in the possession of its original owners, the Baddesleys, until Blair had purchased it, including the furniture, paintings, suits of armor, and everything else 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 oak-paneled hall, on which were displayed the sword and portrait of the gallant knight, Captain Henry Baddesley, of whom a romantic story was still remembered there . Having barely escaped with his life from the battlefield, the captain spurred his steed and headed home, closely followed by some of Cromwell’s soldiers. His wife, a lady of great valor, barely had time to hide him in the secret chamber before the arrival of the enemy to search the house. Without being overly intimidated, she herself assisted them and personally guided them through the entire mansion. As was often the case, they had to pass through the master bedroom to enter the secret room, and when the soldiers entered the first to inspect it, their suspicions were aroused. They therefore decided to spend the night there. The wife of the pursued man sent them a hearty supper 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 far beyond their reach. From that day on, the old mansion had remained absolutely as it was, unchanged, with its row of dark and weathered family portraits in the great hall, its King James furniture , and its antique helmets and spears that had borne the blows and shocks of the battle of Naseby. The night was bitterly cold. In the great open grate, huge pieces of wood were burning, and as we stood before the fire, warming ourselves after our journey, Mrs. Gibbons, who had been informed of our visit by a well-delivered telegram, announced that she had prepared a good supper 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 removing our coats, we went into the small dining room, where Gibbons and a liveried servant waited on us and served us supper with all the old-fashioned 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, as it seemed to me, to find that I had come alone in company with their young mistress, although Mabel had explained that she wished to examine all the articles belonging to her father in the library, and that for that reason she had invited me to accompany her. I must, however, confess that I had not yet formed any conclusions as to the real motive of this visit; though I was convinced that there was some ulterior motive involved, which I could not, however, suspect. After dinner, Mrs. Gibbons conducted my pretty companion to her room, while Gibbons showed me the one he had prepared for me. It was a large room on the first floor, with windows commanding a wide view over the rolling lawns extending to Wormsley Hill and Sarnesfield. I had occupied this same room on several previous occasions, and knew it well, with its large antique carved four-poster bed, its old-fashioned tapestries and hangings, King James chests and wardrobes, and its polished oak ceiling. After making myself a light toilet, I rejoined my elegant and delicate young hostess in the library. It was a large, long, old-fashioned room, in which a bright fire burned, and the lamps were softly shaded with shades of yellow silk. From one end to the other were the rows of books with their gray spines, which had probably not been disturbed for half a century. After Mabel had allowed me to have a smoke, and told Gibbons that she hoped no one would disturb her for an hour or more, she got up and locked the door, so that we could proceed to our research without interruption. “I don’t know if we shall discover anything of interest,” she said, turning her beautiful eyes upon me, overcome by an agitation which she could not repress as she went to the large desk and took her father’s keys from her pocket . “I suppose that this task devolves upon 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. She seemed to harbor some hope of finding something she wished to conceal from the lawyer. The dead man’s desk was a heavy, old-fashioned piece of carved oak, and as she opened the top drawer and took out its contents, I drew up two chairs and began to assist her, with the aim of making a methodical and thorough examination. The papers were, for the most part, letters from friends and correspondence with lawyers and commission agents in the City, who told her about her various investments. I could see, from some of the papers I read, how enormous had been the profits she had derived from certain transactions in South Africa, while others made allusions to matters that were extremely enigmatic to me. Mabel’s anxious attitude was that of a person searching for a document she believed to be there. She hardly bothered to read the letters; she merely scanned them quickly and laid them aside. Thus we went through drawer after drawer, until I saw in her hand a large blue envelope, sealed with black wax, bearing the following inscription, in the hand of her father: “To be opened by Mabel after my death.–Burton Blair.” “Ah!” she murmured, almost breathlessly, “what could this contain?” And impatiently she broke the seal, and took out a large sheet of paper, written in very close handwriting, to which were fastened with a clasp several other papers. Something else also fell out of the envelope, which I picked up, and found, to my great surprise, that it was a very worn and tattered snapshot, but preserved by being stuck to a piece of linen. It represented a scene of crossroads in a flat and rather desolate country , with a solitary cottage, which had probably once been a toll-house, with tall chimneys, standing on the side of the highroad, with a small garden surrounded by a railing. Before the door was a rustic porch covered with climbing roses, and outside, on one side of the path, was an old Windsor armchair, which seemed to have recently been vacated. While I was examining the photograph by the light, the dead man’s daughter was rapidly reading the document her father had written. Suddenly she gave a cry of terror, as if horrified by some discovery she had made, and, with a start, I turned to look at her. Her face was completely changed; even her lips were white. “No!” she stammered hoarsely. “No—I can’t believe it—I won’t believe it!” She looked again at the paper in her hand, rereading those fateful lines. “What is it?” I inquired anxiously. “May I ask?” I went over to where she stood. “No,” she answered firmly, placing the document behind her. “No!” “Nor must you know this!” And with astonishing swiftness she tore it to pieces, flinging the fragments into the fire before I could save them. The flames leaped up, and in a moment the dead man’s confession, if such a thing it was, was consumed by them, and was gone forever, while his daughter stood haggard, stiff, and pale as death. Chapter 16. In which two curious facts are confirmed. This sudden and unexpected action of Mabel’s surprised and displeased me, for I had believed our friendship to be of so intimate and close a nature, that she would have allowed me, at least, to glance at what her father had written. When, however, I reflected a moment later that the envelope had been specially addressed to her, I understood that its contents had been expressly intended to be seen by her eyes only. “Have you discovered anything that has upset you?” I asked, staring into her pale, wrinkled face. “I hope it’s nothing too disconcerting.” She held her breath for a moment, her hand instinctively placed on her breast, as if she had wanted to still the strong, violent beating of her heart. “Ah! unfortunately it is,” she replied. “Now I know the truth, the A terrible truth—a dreadful truth. And, without another word, she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears. I was at once at her side, trying to comfort her, but I soon perceived the deep impression of horror and awe that these words from her father’s writing had produced upon her. Her grief was immense; her whole being was filled with inconsolable sorrow. The silence that reigned in that long, old-fashioned room was broken only by her bitter sobs and the solemn ticking of the great old-fashioned clock at the farther end of the room. My hand lay tenderly upon the poor child’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 countenance that she was changed, and a different woman. She went back to the desk and lifted the envelope, reading for the second time the inscription Blair had written on it, and then her 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 she picked it up and looked at it for a long time. Then, turning it over, she 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 haven’t the slightest idea,” I replied. “It must be something your father took great care of. It looks very worn, as if someone had carried it in their pocket. ” “Well, then I’ll tell you,” she said. “I had no idea that you still had it, but I believe you have kept it as a memento of those weary journeys on foot in the distant past. This photograph represents the spot for which I was seeking all over England,” she added, still holding it in her hand. “I had only this snapshot for a guide, and we were therefore obliged to explore the top and bottom of every high road in the country, in order to discover the spot I was seeking. It was not until nearly a year later, when you and Mr. Seton were generous enough to send me to school at Bournemouth, that my father succeeded in discovering what he had been seeking for three long years, for he continued his weary excursions alone. One summer night he succeeded at last in identifying the crossroads of Owston, and found living in the house the person he had so earnestly and with so much sacrifice sought. ” “That’s curious,” I exclaimed. “Tell me more about it. ” “There is nothing more to tell, except that, by the discovery of the house, he obtained the key to the secret; “At least, that’s what I always understood when you spoke of this,” she replied. “Ah! I remember well those interminable and tiring walks when I was a child; how we would travel those long, white, endless roads, in sun and rain, envying the people who traveled in carriages and carts, men and women on bicycles, and yet my courage was always sustained by my father’s encouraging words and his declaration that one day we would possess a great fortune. She carried this photograph with her constantly, and at almost every crossroads she would take it out, examine the landscape, and compare it, without knowing, of course, whether the old house had been demolished after the snapshot was taken. ” “Did she never tell you the reason she had for so earnestly wishing to visit that house?” “He used to tell me that the fellow who lived there, the same one who had the habit of sitting on the chair outside the house on summer evenings , 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 believe they had been friends abroad, when my father was away sailing. ” “And was your father’s reason for these constant wanderings to identify this place?” I exclaimed, glad to have clarified the matter. finally, a point which, for five years or more, had been a true mystery. “Yes. A month after he had achieved his desired object, he came to me at Bournemouth, and confided in me that his cherished dream of possessing a large fortune was nearly realized. He had solved the problem, and within a week or two he expected to be well supplied. Almost immediately after this, he disappeared, and was absent for a month, as you remember. At the end of that time, he returned rich; so rich, that you and Mr. Seton were entirely confused. Do you not remember that evening at Helpstone, when I left school for a week to be with my father, for he had just returned from his journey? We had all assembled after dinner, and my poor father remembered the time when we had also assembled there for another purpose, when I was taken sick on the road and brought to your house. And do you not remember that Mr. Seton seemed to doubt my father’s statement that he had already a fortune of fifty thousand pounds?” “I remember,” I replied, as her beautiful, pure eyes met mine. “I well remember how your father completely confounded us when he came down and brought in his account-book from a banker, which proved a balance in his favor of fifty-four thousand pounds sterling. After that, he was a greater mystery to us than ever. But tell me,” I added, in a low, anxious voice, “what it was that you discovered tonight that so shocked you? ” “I have almost found proof of a fact which for years I have feared to be true; a fact which not only affects my poor father’s memory, but affects me as well. I am in danger—yes, in personal danger. ” “How?” I asked her quickly, not understanding the meaning of her words. “Remember, I promised your father to be your protector.” “I know—I know.” “This is very kind of you,” she said, looking gratefully at me with those marvelous eyes which had always held me fascinated by the spell of her beauty. “But,” she added, sadly shaking her head, “I fear that in this matter you are powerless. If the blow falls, as it must sooner or later, I shall be crushed and lost. No power can then save me; not even your faithful and noble friendship will avail me. ” “Certainly, Mabel, you speak in a very strange manner. I do not understand you. ” “I believe so,” was her brief reply. “You do not know everything. If you did, you would understand how perilous my position is, and how great the danger that threatens me.” She stood as motionless as a statue, her hand resting on a corner of the writing-table, and her eyes fixed on the cheerful fire. “If the danger is so great and so real, I think I ought to know. Forewarned is forearmed!” I remarked decisively. “It is very real and grand, but as my father’s confession was for me alone, I cannot reveal it. His secret is mine. ” “Certainly,” I replied, accepting her resolution, which was only natural, under the circumstances. I could not reveal her late father’s confidences . However, if I had done so, how different would have been the course of events! Undoubtedly, the story of Burton Blair was one of the strangest and most romantic that man has ever been allowed to relate, and the strange circumstances that occurred after his death were certainly more remarkable and enigmatic still. The whole affair, from beginning to end, was a complete enigma. Later, when Mabel had calmed down somewhat, we concluded our investigative work, but we discovered very little of interest beyond several letters in Italian, undated and unsigned, although 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, who shared in Blair’s fortune and secretly assisted him in the acquisition of his riches. He often mentioned “the secret” in them, and I also discovered repeated warnings that I was not to reveal anything about it to Reginald or to me. In one letter I found this paragraph in Italian: “Your daughter is growing into a real lady. I hope that one day she will be a countess, or perhaps a duchess. I know, for your part, that Mabel, in her turn, is becoming a very pretty young woman; and I think that you ought, in view of your position and name, to arrange a good match for her. But I know how old-fashioned your ideas are on the subject, for you are one of those who believe that a woman should marry only for love. ”
The reading of these letters impressed one decisive fact vividly on me, and that was: that if this Dawson secretly shared in Blair’s fortune, he certainly had no need to obtain his secret by nefarious means, since he knew it himself. The stable clock struck twelve before Mabel called Mrs. Gibbons, and her husband came immediately, bringing me a comforting whisky and some hot water. My pretty little companion shook my hand cheerfully, wishing me good-night, and then withdrew, accompanied by the housekeeper, while Gibbons remained mixing my drink. “A sad thing, sir, what has happened to our poor master,” ventured the well-trained servant, who had spent all his life in the service of the former proprietors. “I fear the poor young miss is too sorry for her misfortune. ” “She is, Gibbons,” I answered, taking a cigarette and standing with my back to the fire. “She was a very loving and devoted daughter to her father. ” “She is mistress of the whole now, so Mr. Ford told us when he was here about three days ago.” “Yes, it is all hers,” I said; “and I hope you and your wife will serve her as faithfully and as well as you have served your father. ” “We will try, sir,” was the reply of the grave, gray-haired servant. “Everyone is very fond of the young lady, who is our young mistress to-day. She is very good to all the servants.” Then, as I remained silent, she placed my light ready upon the table, bowed to me, and bade me good-night. She closed the door behind her, and then I was left alone in that great, ancient, silent room, where the shifting flames threw 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 taking my hot drink, I went again to my dead friend’s writing-table, and examined it carefully for any secret drawers. I subjected it to a methodical search, but as I could discover no unsuspected cavity or hidden button, after taking a last look at that photograph which had kept Blair wearily wandering for months and years trying to identify it, I extinguished the lamps and, crossing the great old hall, with its standing suits of armor that seemed to conjure up visions of spectral knights, I went upstairs to my room. The bright fire gave the old room, with its funereal hangings, a cheerful and comfortable appearance, which contrasted sharply with the bitter frost outside, and, not yet wishing to sleep, I threw myself into an armchair and sat in deep thought. Again the stable clock struck the half hour, and I believe I must have dozed for a while afterward, for I was suddenly awakened by the sound of light, furtive footsteps on the polished oak floor outside my door. I listened, and distinctly heard someone slipping softly down the great staircase, which creaked very softly. The strange appearance of that old mansion and its many historic traditions seemed to make me a little suspicious, for I found myself thinking of burglaries, robbers, and night visitors. Once again I began to listen with all my attention. Perhaps I was only a servant after all! However, when I looked at my chronometer and saw that it was missing A quarter to two, the thought that the servants were not already resting was immediately banished from my mind . Suddenly, in the room below mine, I distinctly heard a slow, harsh, and dismal noise. Then all was still again . About three minutes later, however, I seemed to hear a vague murmur of voices, and then, quickly extinguishing the light, I drew back one of the heavy curtains of my room and looked out, and beheld, to my great surprise, two figures crossing the lawn in the direction of the copse of bushes. The moon was somewhat hidden by clouds, but in the dim, hazy light it shed, I could distinguish the two figures as a man and a woman. I could not recognize him from behind; but the bearing and gait of his companion, as she hastily made her way towards the somber circle of dark, bare trees, were very familiar to me. This was Mabel Blair. The secret was out. Her sudden desire to come to Mayville had been for the purpose of holding a midnight interview. Chapter 17. WHICH CONCERNS PURELY A STRANGER. Without a moment’s hesitation, I put on my greatcoat, covered my head with a golf cap, and went down into the room below my own, where I found one of the large windows open, and through it I quickly issued upon the sandy road. I intended to discover the cause of this nocturnal interview, and the identity of her companion, who must evidently be some secret beau whose existence she had concealed from us all. But, to follow her straight across the moonlit meadow, was to expose myself at once. I was, therefore, obliged to make a circuitous and winding circuit, always seeking the shelter of the shadows, until at last I came to the copse of bushes, where I halted and listened anxiously. There was nothing to be heard but the soft creaking of the branches and the mournful moaning of the wind. A distant train was crossing the valley, and somewhere in the neighboring village a dog was barking. I could not, however, distinguish any human voices. Slowly I made my way through the fallen leaves until I had skirted the entire wood, and then concluded that they must have crossed it by some stray path and then entered the park. My progress was rendered more difficult by the moon not being sufficiently clouded to conceal my movements, and I was afraid to make my presence known by stepping into the open. But Mabel’s proceeding in coming here to see this man, whoever he was, filled me with confusion and embarrassment. “Why didn’t she see him in London?” I pondered. “Was this bridegroom so unpresentable that his appearance in London was impossible? It is no more unusual or new for a well-born girl to fall in love with a yeoman’s son than it is for a gentleman to love a country girl.” Many pretty girls in London these days entertain a secret admiration for some young scullion or handsome groom in their father’s possession; the seriousness of this undeclared love lies in the utter impossibility of its realization. Being all eyes and ears, I continued on my way, taking full advantage of the shade, but they seemed to have taken a different direction from what I had thought, as they had started nearly five minutes before me. At length I succeeded in reaching the comparative obscurity cast by the old beech avenue that led directly to the gatehouse on the Dilwyn Road, and proceeded along it for about half a mile, when suddenly my heart leaped with joy, for ahead of me I perceived the two walking side by side, engaged in lively conversation. My jealousy and anger were instantly aroused by the sight, and fearing that they might hear my footsteps on the hard snow-covered road, I slipped behind the trees and over the lawns of the park, I soon succeeded in approaching almost abreast of them without making a noise or attracting their attention. When they reached the old stone bridge across the river, which formed the outlet of the lake, they halted, and I, concealing myself behind a tree, was then able, by the moonlight, which had fortunately grown brighter , to clearly see the features of Mabel’s mysterious companion. I judged him to be about twenty-eight years old, and he seemed to me to be a vulgar, ill-bred man, with a broad, snub nose and yellow hair, whose ponderous figure, leaning as he was against the low parapet, was undoubtedly that of a farmer. His face was harsh and prematurely weather-beaten, while the cut of his suit was of that marked kind of “tailoring” done in the emporium tailor’s shop of provincial towns. His stiff felt hat was tilted slightly to one side, as neighborhood dandies and country lads are accustomed to wear it on their Sunday walks . From what I could observe, he seemed to treat her with extraordinary disdain and great familiarity, addressing her informally and lighting an ordinary cigarette in her presence, while she, for her part, did not seem very reassured, as if she had been present rather under compulsion than of her own free will. She had wrapped herself comfortably in a thick woolen cloak and a close-fitting peaked cap, which, pulled down over her forehead and eyes, half concealed her features. “Really, Herbert, I cannot understand your object,” I heard her argue. “What possible benefit can such an action be to you? ” “Much,” replied the man, adding in a coarse and rough voice, which bore the ineffable stamp of the uncultivated language of the countryman, “I will do what I say. You know that well, do you not? ” “Certainly,” he replied. “But why do you treat me in this manner?” Think of the danger I’m exposing myself to by coming to see you here at night. What would people think if they knew? ‘ ‘What do I care what people think!’ he exclaimed indifferently . ‘You have certainly managed to save face —but I have not, happily. ‘ ‘But isn’t it true that you won’t do what you threateningly say?’ he asked her in a voice of true tenor. ‘Remember, our secrets are mutual. I have never revealed you—not a little, not a lot. ‘ ‘You didn’t, because you knew what the result would be, in that case,’ he laughed contemptuously. ‘I have never trusted a woman’s word —I assure you, never. Now that the old man is dead, you are rich, and I want money,’ he added decisively. ‘But I haven’t got anything yet,’ he retorted. ‘And when will you have it? ‘ ‘I don’t know. First, all the legal formalities must be complied with; so Mr. Greenwood tells me.’ “Oh! Damn Greenwood!” burst out the fellow. “They say he ‘s always in London with you; then ask him to get the lawyers to give you a little money. You may tell him you’re in a hurry, with bills to pay, or something of that sort. Any lie will do for him. ” “Impossible, Herbert,” she answered, trying to keep her composure. “You must be patient and wait. ” “Oh, yes, I know!” she cried. “Tell me I’m as good and faithful as a dog and all that; but you must know it’s not that sort of game with me—do you understand? I have no money, and I must—or rather, I must need some now— at once—this very night. ” “I tell you, I have nothing,” she declared. “But you have a good quantity of jewels, silver plate, and other trinkets. Give me some of it, and I can easily sell it at Hereford tomorrow. ” “Where is that diamond bracelet, the one you showed me, that the old man gave you for your last birthday? ” “Here,” she replied, and, lifting her wrist, she showed the beautiful jewel of diamonds and sapphires that her father had given her, worth, at the very least, two hundred pounds sterling. “Give me this, then,” she cried. “It will last me a day or two until you get me some money.” She hesitated, making it clear that she was unwilling to accede to such a request, especially since the bracelet was the last gift her father had ever given her. However, as the man repeated his demand in a more threatening tone, it became clear that his influence was supreme, and that in his unscrupulous hands she was as helpless as a poor child. The situation was a true revelation to me. I could only suspect that it was the result of an innocent “flirtation” before fortune had smiled upon her, which had caused the common man to develop a great arrogance, trying to impose itself on her good nature; and then, seeing that she was generous and tender, he had assumed this attitude of dominance over her actions. It is very difficult to follow the course of the peasant’s thoughts and manner 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, even though very honest in his dealings and business dealings with his own class, cannot resist the temptation to be immoral when selling his products or his labor to the man of fortune. It seems to be part of his religion to extract, whether by lawful or illicit means, all he can from the gentleman, and then to revile him in the village alehouse and mock him as a fool who allows himself to be taken in this way. However much I may regret having to declare it, nevertheless, all this is a bitter and obvious truth, for immorality and deceit are at present the two most notable features of English village life. I stood motionless and astonished, listening to this strange conversation between the millionaire’s daughter and her secret lover. The man’s arrogance made my blood boil. More than a dozen times, when he had scorned her by insulting her, or then flattered her, then threatened her, and finally affected a repellent affection, I had been impelled by the desire to rush upon him and teach him a good, wholesome lesson. But I stayed my hand, because I recognized that in this matter, in view of its gravity, I could only help Mabel by remaining hidden and utilizing what I knew to her advantage. No doubt Mabel, in her youthful inexperience, had believed herself in love with this man, but now the horror of the situation was presented in all its vivid reality, and she was hopelessly involved and ensnared. She had probably kept the appointment nursing a vain hope that she could extricate herself from her perilous position; But the man she called Herbert soon discovered that he was the master of all the honors in the game. “Come,” he said at last, in his coarse language, “if it’s true you have no money, give me the bracelet and that’s it. I don’t think we want to spend the whole night waiting here, for I have to be at Hereford early tomorrow morning. The less said about it the better.” I saw her tremble with terror, white to the lips, shrinking away as if to avoid his touch. “Ah! Herbert, this is too cruel of you,” she cried, “too cruel… after all I’ve done to help you. Have you no pity, no… compassion? ” “No, I have none,” she howled. “I want money, and I must have it. You must pay me a thousand pounds within a week… do you hear? ” “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 be fooled anymore,” he shouted furiously. “I’ve said I want the money, because otherwise, I’m going to make everything public. So where are you going to end up, eh?” And he laughed in a harsh, triumphant way, while she drew back pale, terrified, and breathless. I clenched my fists in anger, and to this day I wonder how I managed to control myself so as not to leap out of my hiding place and throw that impudent man to the ground. peasant. I would have been capable of leaving him dead on the spot at that moment . “Ah!” she cried, with her hands clasped and stretched out towards him in an attitude of supplication, “surely you do not intend to do what you say? You cannot possibly think of such a thing, no; you cannot do it! You will free me, you will spare me this suffering, will you not? Promise me! ” “No, I will not spare you, unless you pay me well,” was her brutal reply. “I will, yes, I will,” she assured him in a hoarse voice, in the voice of a woman eminently desperate, terrified, afraid of seeing some terrible secret of hers discovered. “Ah!” she exclaimed contemptuously, curling her lip, “you once treated me with disdain, because you considered yourself a great lady, but I am now going to take my revenge, as you will see.” You are at this moment the mistress of a great fortune, and I openly declare to you that I intend you to divide it with me. Proceed as you think best, but remember what a refusal will mean to you—exposure! “Ah!” she cried despairingly, “you have revealed yourself to-night under your true colors! Brute! You would lose me, without the least compunction! ” “Because, my dear child, you are not playing fair with me,” was his haughty and cold reply. “You thought you had got rid of me very ingeniously for ever, until this evening I appeared here again— you see, soon, well—ready to be pensioned, shall we call it? Do not suppose I have the spirit to allow you to deceive me this once; therefore, give me the bracelet as my first payment, and let us speak no more.” And he swung a hand at her arm, which she parried with a swift movement. “I do not accept,” she exclaimed with a sudden and fierce determination. “Now I know you! You are brutal and inhuman, without a shred of love or esteem— one of those men who, for the sake of money, would drive a poor woman to suicide. Now that you are free from prison, you intend to live off me: your letter with that proposition is proof enough. But tonight I declare here that you will not get from me one penny more than the sum now paid you every month. ” “To seal my lips,” he interrupted. “And I saw in his black eyes a malignant, murderous flash. ” “You need not keep them sealed any longer,” she retorted in a manner of open defiance. “I will myself state the truth, and thus put an end to this brilliant plan of yours for blackmail. Therefore, I think you have understood me now,” she added firmly, with a courage that was admirable. Silence reigned between them for a moment, broken only by the strange cry of an owl. “Then this is absolutely your decision?” he demanded in a harsh voice, and I noticed that his face was white with anger and disgust as he recognized that if she spoke up and faced the consequences of her own exposure, whatever that might be, his power over the young woman would be destroyed. “My resolve is made up. I fear no revelation you may make concerning me. ” “Give me that bracelet, anyway,” he demanded savagely, gritting his teeth, seizing her by the arm, and trying by force to disengage the clasp from the jewel. “Let me go!” he cried. “You brute! Let me go! Are you going to rob me, after you have insulted me? ” “Rob you!” he muttered, with a wicked expression of unbridled hatred on his rude, pale face. “Rob you!” he hissed, uttering a filthy oath, “more than that I will do!” “I’ll put you where your cursed tongue won’t move again, and you won’t be able to tell the truth!” And unfortunately, before I could know his designs, he seized her by the wrists, and with one swift movement forced her back so violently against the low parapet of the bridge that for a moment they were locked in a death-lock. Mabel screamed in terror as she realized his intentions, but an instant later, with a vile curse, he flung her backward over the wall, where she fell noisily and helplessly to the bottom of the deep, dark waters. At once I rushed forward to save her, while the criminal fled, but alas! it was too late, for I saw with horror, as I peered anxiously into the darkness of the abyss, that the floating mass of ice had covered it, and it was completely out of sight. Chapter 18. THE CROSSROADS OF OWSTON. The sound of the murderer’s quick footsteps, as he fled along the gloomy avenue in the direction of the road, roused me from my despondency and gave me a vivid sense of my responsibility in the presence of that thing. I immediately threw off my coat and jacket, then paused to gaze anxiously into the inky darkness beneath the bridge. Those seconds seemed like hours, until suddenly I caught sight of a white shape in the middle of the river, and without a moment’s hesitation I threw myself into the water to seek it. The shock 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 impede my progress towards the unconscious child’s body. After I had taken it, however, I had to struggle terribly to prevent myself from being swept towards the bend, where I knew the river, joined by another of its tributary, widened, and where the chances of effecting rescue would have been very slight. For some minutes I struggled with all my might to keep the head of the poor unconscious child above the surface; however, so powerful was the current, with its masses of floating ice, that all resistance seemed impossible, and we were both carried some distance downstream, until at last, calling to my aid my last strength, I succeeded in extricating myself with my insensible burden from danger and reached a sandbank, where, with a fierce struggle, I was able to leap ashore and drag the poor child onto the frozen bank. Many years before, I had attended a course in first aid for a time, and I remembered at that moment the instructions I had received then and immediately set to work to produce artificial respiration. It was a heavy task to do alone, with my wet clothes sticking to my body, frozen and stiff with the terrible cold; but I persevered nevertheless, determined, if possible, to bring her back to life, and this I happily accomplished half an hour later. At first, she could not utter a word, and I did not question her. It was enough for me to know that she was still alive, for when I brought her ashore, I believed that all human aid was useless, and that the cowardly attempt of her vulgar lover had succeeded. She shivered and trembled from head to foot, for the night wind cut like a knife, and at last, at my direction, she stood up and, leaning heavily on my arm, tried to walk. The attempt was very feeble at first, but then she quickened her pace somewhat, and, without either of us mentioning what had passed, I conducted her up the long drive to the house. Once inside, she declared that it was unnecessary to call Mrs. Gibbons, and in a very low voice implored me to be silent about all that I had witnessed. She took my hand in hers and held it. “I want you to forget, if you will, all that has passed,” she cried, deeply anxious. “Since you followed me and heard what passed between us, I want you to consider that those words were never spoken. I want you—I want you—” she stammered, and then broke off without finishing the sentence. “What is it you wish me to do?” I asked her after a brief moment of painful silence. “I want you to look upon me still with some esteem, as you always have,” she murmured, bathed in tears, “for I do not like to think that I have fallen in your estimation.” Remember, I’m a woman… and a woman’s impulses and indiscretions can be forgiven. ” “You’ve lost absolutely none of my esteem, Mabel,” I assured her. “My only regret is that that scoundrel committed such a cruel act against you.” that terrible and outrageous attempt. But it has been a piece of good fortune that you followed her, though I feel I must apologize for assuming the character of a spy. “She has saved my life,” he replied in a murmur, as he shook my hand affectionately, as if in thanks. Then he slipped swiftly and silently up the grand staircase and was out of sight. The next morning he appeared in the dining-room at luncheon, the ravages of his perilous escape from death apparently almost unnoticed , the only visible marks perhaps being two large black circles around his eyes, which betokened his terrible anxiety and sleeplessness. But he chatted cheerfully, as if he had not had a care in the world to distress himself. While Gibbons waited on us, he could not speak with confidence, but whenever his eyes rested upon me, their expression was full of significant meaning. At last, when we had finished, and were walking together through the great hall back to the library, I said to her: “Are you going to allow the unfortunate incident of last night to pass unnoticed? If you do, I fear that man may make another attempt on your life. It will certainly be far better for you to know, once and for all, that I have witnessed your infamous cowardice. ” “No,” she answered in a low, pained voice. “I beg you not to discuss it. It must pass unnoticed. ” “Why? ” “Because, if I were to attempt to have him punished, he might declare something— something which I wish to remain a secret. ” I knew this, and I remembered every word of that heated evening conversation. The scoundrel knew some secret of hers, which she dreaded should be revealed, for it must be depressing and damaging. From first to last, he was certainly a most remarkable and strange enigma! From the winter night when I found her fallen by the roadside at Helpstone, until this very moment, mysteries had been piling up upon mysteries, secrets upon secrets, until, with Blair’s death and the packet of little letters he had so curiously left me, the problem had assumed gigantic proportions. “That man would have murdered her, Mabel,” I cried. “Are you afraid of him? ” “Yes, I am,” he answered simply, his gaze fixed across the lawn and the distant park, and he sighed. “But ought you not now to be on the defensive, in view of this man’s deliberate attempt to take your life?” I argued. “His villainous action last night was truly criminal! ” “It was,” he said in a hollow, confused voice, turning his eyes upon me. “I had not the slightest idea of your intention. I confess that I came here because you compelled me to come and have an interview with him.” She has learned of my father’s death, and now realizes that she can extort money from me; that I must necessarily yield to her demands. “But I think you will be able to tell me your name, at least,” I cried. “Herbert Hales,” she answered, not without some hesitation. Then she added: “But I desire, Mr. Greenwood, that you will do me the favor of not mentioning this painful matter again. Do you not know how much it upsets me that depends on this man’s silence? I promised her, although I had previously made every effort to induce her to give me some clue as to the nature of the secret possessed by this rude peasant. But she was inflexible and refused to tell me anything. That the secret concerned her or her honor seemed evident, for whenever I pointed out that it would be well to force this man to confront her face to face, she would shudder with terror at the very thought of the dreadful revelation he might make in revenge. She wondered whether this document, dedicated to her alone, written by one who no longer existed, and which she had destroyed the night before, might not have some connection with the secret of Herbert Hales. Indeed, whatever the nature of what this man knew, the fact is that it was so her secret was so powerful that she was obliged to come from London to arrange with him, if possible, the terms. Happily, however, all the inhabitants of Mayville were entirely ignorant of the events of the preceding night, and when at noon we left the house for London, Gibbons and his wife saw us off at the door and wished us a safe journey. The butler and his wife certainly believed that the object of our cursory visit had been to search the dead man’s effects, and with the curiosity natural to servants, they were both anxious to know if we had discovered anything of interest, although they could not question us directly. Curiosity increases with the greater the fidelity and confidence one has in a servant, until this servant, generally faithful and reserved, knows as much and is as well acquainted with the affairs of his master or mistress as they themselves. Burton Blair had taken a particular liking to the Gibbons couple, and it almost seemed as if they considered themselves undervalued 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 made them, which gave them the deepest pleasure. After leaving Mabel in Grosvenor Place and taking leave of her, I immediately returned to Great Russell Street, and found that Reginald had just returned from his business in Cannon Street. Acting in accordance with the entreaty of my sweet and charming little friend, I said nothing to him about the unpleasant and exciting incident of the previous evening. All I related to him was the examination we had made of Blair’s writing-table, and what we had discovered therein. “We must go and see that house at the Crossroads, I believe,” he exclaimed when he had seen the photograph. “It is a quick trip from King’s Cross to Doncaster ; we can go and return tomorrow. I am interested to see the house that Blair spent all England searching for, and for which he wandered for months and years until he discovered it.” ” This photograph must have come into your possession,” he added, handing it to me, “without any name or indication of its location. I was satisfied that we should go and see the mysterious house with our own eyes; therefore, after spending a quiet and pleasant night in Devonshire, we started the next day for Yorkshire by the first morning train. When we arrived at Doncaster station, to which we were bound from London without stopping, we took a carriage and set off along the broad, snow-covered highroad through Benttey, for some six miles or more, until, after skirting Owston Park, we suddenly found ourselves above the Crossroads, where the solitary old house stood, just as the photograph represented it. It was a strange, ancient building, not unlike those old toll-houses you see in old engravings, only it lacked the old iron bar.” The gateposts, however, were still standing , and as a blanket of snow had fallen during the night, the appearance of the place was truly wintry and picturesque. The old house, with its wide chimneys pouring out smoke, looked as if it had been enlarged since the photograph was taken, for at the right-hand corner rose a new wing of red brick, which made it a comfortable dwelling. Yet as we drew nearer, seeing it rise from the white, snow-covered plain, we felt that it was silently breathing the air of that forgotten age when messengers from York and London passed that way, when masked gentlemen of the highway were hidden in the gloomy fir wood that lay beyond the open common of Kirkhouse Green, and when the postilions were never tired of praising those wonderful and celebrated cheeses at the old Bell Inn on Stilton. Our coachman passed by, and about a quarter of a mile from the point we stopped him, got out and walked back, ordering him to We knocked at the door, and an old woman wearing a cap and ribbons opened it . Reginald, who took the part of the interlocutor, begged her pardon and told her we had been passing; but having observed from its exterior that it was evidently an old toll-house, we had not been able to resist knocking and asking to be allowed to see the inside. “You are welcome, gentlemen,” replied the woman in her rude Yorkshire dialect. “It is an old house, and I assure you many people have called upon it during the years I have been living there.
” Through the room could be seen the black, ancient beams, two centuries old, while in one corner stood the old-fashioned fireplace, which presented a comfortable and attractive appearance with its well-polished oak seat and the large kettle boiling over the cheerful fire. The furniture had changed little from that old age of coaches and messengers, but the general atmosphere was one of plenty and comfort. “Have you lived here long?” asked Reginald, after we had examined our surroundings and seen the little triangular window in the chimney-corner, from which the gatekeeper could formerly command a view for many miles along the wagon-road across the heath. “Next Michaelmas it will be twenty-three years since I have been here. ” “And your husband? ” “Oh! here he is,” laughed the woman, then calling to him: “Come, Henry, where are you?” and then adding: “He has not been away a day from here since he came home eighteen years ago and left the sea. We are both very attached to this old place. A bit lonely, people might say, referring to the place, but Burghwallis is only a mile away . When we heard her mention that her husband was back from sea, we both paid close 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 advanced. It was evident that he had retired upon our arrival to change his coat, for he was wearing a folded blue jacket that had been very little worn, but whose collar was twisted, showing that he had just then put it on. 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 inclemency of the wind and weather of different climates. After greeting us, he laughed gaily when we explained our admiration for old houses. We told them we were from London, and that tollhouses, because of their connection with the ancient means of transportation of the past, had always fascinated us. “Yes, those were very hectic days,” he said in a voice rather subdued for his rough appearance. “Today the automobile has taken the place of the picturesque coach and its teams of horses, and they pass by here drinking in the wind at all hours of the day and night, blaring their bugles. Imagine such a thing at the very spot where Claude Duval stopped the Duke of Northumberland and gallantly escorted Lady Maria Percy to Selby. A celebrated highwayman, of French nationality, but who came to England as a young man.” The old man seemed to deplore the passing 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 in 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 foreigners, whether in the peace of trade or in the clash of arms. He told us that his name was Hales, which gave me the greatest surprise, for it was the same as Mabel’s secret sweetheart, and in the course From the conversation we learned that he had been a good many years at sea, chiefly on trading voyages in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. “But you seem very comfortable now,” I observed, smiling; “you have a comfortable and attractive house, a good wife, and everything that can make you happy. ” “You say well, ” he replied, taking a long clay pipe from the andiron in the open fireplace. “A man needs nothing more. I am only too happy, and I wish everyone in Yorkshire were as comfortable as I am in this trying time.” The elderly couple seemed flattered by our visit, and kindly offered us a glass of strong ale. “It is home-brewed beer,” declared Mrs. Hales. “People like us cannot afford wine, but try it yourselves,” she persisted, and as we were urged, we were happy to find an excuse for prolonging our visit. The old woman went into the kitchen to fetch glasses, and taking advantage of this circumstance, Reginald rose, quickly closed the door, and, turning to Hales, said in a low voice: “We wish to have a private conversation with you for about five minutes. Do you recognize this?” he added, taking out the photograph and placing it before the old man. “It’s my house!” he exclaimed in surprise. “But what’s the matter? ” “Nothing, except that you must answer my questions. They are of the greatest importance, and the real object of our coming here was in order to put them to you. First, have you ever known a man named Blair, Burton Blair? ” “Burton Blair?” repeated the old man, placing his hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned forward anxiously. “Yes; why?” “That man discovered a secret, did he not? ” “Yes, through me—and made millions by it, they say. ” “When was the last time you saw him?” “It must have been five or six years ago. ” “When did he finally discover that you were living here? ” “That’s right. 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? ” “Aboard the Mary Clowle, in the port of Antwerp. He was a sailor, like me. But why do you want to know all this? ” “Because,” replied Reginald, “Burton Blair is dead, and his secret has been bequeathed to my friend, Mr. Gilbert Greenwood, here. ” “Burton Blair is dead!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet as if he had received an electric shock. “Burton is dead! Does Dick Dawson know? ” “Yes, and he’s in London,” I replied. “Ah!” he exclaimed impatiently, as if all his plans had been upset by Dawson’s foreknowledge of the matter. “Who told you? How on earth did you know?” I was obliged to confess my ignorance of the matter, but in answer to his question, I deplored the tragic and unforeseen end of our friend, and told him how he had come into possession of the pack of cards on which was written the ciphered riddle. “Have you any idea what his secret really was?” inquired the gaunt old man. “I mean, do you know where his great fortune came from? ” “I know nothing—nothing at all. Perhaps you can tell us something, cannot you? ” “No,” he said, “I cannot. Suddenly he became rich, though a month or two before he had been wandering and dying of want. He found me, and I gave him certain intelligence, for which he rewarded me very handsomely afterward.” 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 cipher?” I questioned him impatiently. “I don’t know, for I have never seen the letters you mention. When he arrived here one cold night, he was exhausted, starved, and completely dejected. I fed him, gave him a bed to rest on , and told him everything he wanted to know. The next morning, with money which I lent him, he took the train to London, and the next time I heard from him it was by a letter to me that he had paid, to my order, the County Bank at York, 1,000 pounds, as we had agreed should be the sum he would pay me for my reports. And I assure you, gentlemen, that no one was more surprised than I was when, on the next day, I received a letter from the Bank confirming his own. After that, he deposited a like sum in the same Bank every year on the first of January, as a small present, as he called it. ‘You never saw him again, then, after that night when you finally got hold of him? ‘ ‘No, not once,’ replied Hales, then turning to his wife , who had just entered, to say that he was engaged in a private conversation with us, and to request that she leave us alone, which she immediately did. ‘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 he. 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 reckless fool. I remember with what difficulty we once escaped with our lives from a small town on the coast of Algeria. 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 hardly had time to run away , I assure you,” and he laughed heartily at the memory of his pranks on land. “But we both had a hard time at Camarones and in the Andes. I was older than he, and when I first met him I could not help laughing at what I thought was his ignorance.” But I soon realized that he had profited twice as much as I had from his travels and adventures in the short time he had been at sea, for he had a skillful knack for deserting and penetrating to the points he desired, whenever an opportunity 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 of Guatemala had elected him their Minister of Commerce. “Yes,” I confirmed, “he was a very remarkable man in many ways, with a very remarkable history as well. From beginning to end, his life was a mystery, and it is that mystery that I am now trying, after his death, to uncover. ” “Ah! But I fear it will be a very difficult task for him,” replied his old friend, shaking his head. “Blair was extremely secretive in every way. He never allowed his right hand to know what his left was doing. You can never fully understand his liveliness and wit, or his motives.” “And can you not guess the reason he left you his secret?” he added, as if it had been a sudden thought. “He did it only out of gratitude. I was able to render him a little assistance once . ” “I know. He told me everything that had happened, telling me how you two had put his daughter through school to finish her education. But,” he continued, “Blair had some reason for leaving you that unintelligible cipher; you may be sure of that. He knew very well that you would never obtain its solution alone. ” “Why? ” “Because others before you have tried and failed. ” “Who are they?” I inquired, with great surprise. “One is Dick Dawson. Had he succeeded, he would have taken Blair’s place and become a millionaire. Only he was not perceptive, and the secret passed to our friend. ” “Then you don’t think I can ever discover the solution to the cipher?” “No,” replied the old man, very frankly, “I don’t believe it, nor do I predict it. And what about your daughter?” he added. “I believe her name was Mabel, wasn’t it? ” “She’s in London, and she’s inherited the whole fortune,” I replied. At this, the old man’s wrinkled face lit up with a stern smile, and he remarked: “There is no doubt, she will make a splendid matrimonial conquest. Ah! If you could only get her to tell you all she knows, you would be putting him in possession of her father’s secret. ” “What! Does she know him?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure of that? ” “I am; she knows the truth. Ask her. ” “I will,” I declared. “But can’t you tell us what sort of information you gave Blair that night when you finally found him again?” I asked persuasively. “No,” she replied decisively, “it was a confidential matter, and must remain so. My services were rewarded, and as far as I am concerned, I have washed my hands of it, and I have nothing to do with it. ” “But you can tell me something about this strange investigation of Blair’s; something, I mean, that may put me on the path to the solution of the secret. ” “The secret of how he obtained his fortune, you say, eh?” “Certainly. ” “Ah! My dear sir, you’ll never find that out, mind you, even if you live to be a hundred. Burton Blair was very careful to conceal this from everyone. ” “And he was very well helped by men like you,” I said, somewhat impertinently, “I’m afraid.” “Perhaps, perhaps, yes,” he replied quickly, his face flushing. “I
promised to keep silent, and I have kept my promise, for the easy and comfortable position I now enjoy is solely due to your generosity. ” “A millionaire can do anything, certainly. His money ensures his friends. ” “Friends, yes,” replied the old man gravely; “but not happiness. Poor Burton Blair was one of the most unhappy of men, I am quite sure of that. I knew he spoke the truth.” The millionaire had often confided in me that he had been far happier in his days of hardship and reckless adventures overseas than he was now, possessing the great mansion in West End and the first country estate in the county of Herefordshire. “Attention,” cried Hales suddenly, his sharp gaze shifting from Reginald to me and back again, “I’m going to give you a warning,” and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “You say Dick Dawson is back. Beware of him! You can bet your head that the man means bad things! Also, be very careful of his daughter; she knows more than you think. ” “We have a sneaking suspicion that Blair did not die of natural causes,” I remarked. “Are you suspicious?” he exclaimed, startled. “Why do you think so?” “The circumstances have been so remarkable that they have led us to doubt,” I replied, and then I went on to explain our friend’s tragic end and all that had happened, as I have already had occasion to relate. “Don’t you suspect anything about Dick Dawson?” the old man asked anxiously. “Why? Did he have some reason to wish to be rid of our friend? ” “Oh! I don’t know. Dick is a very entertaining client. He always had Blair under his thumb. They made a very remarkable pair; one rising as a millionaire, and the other living abroad, I believe in Italy, in the greatest secrecy and retirement. ” “Dawson must have had some very powerful reason for remaining so secret,” I observed. “Because he was forced to be,” replied Hales, with a mysterious shake of his head. “There were reasons why he kept his face hidden . I am myself astonished to see how he dared to show himself now.” “What!” I cried anxiously, “does the police have any need of him? ” “I don’t suppose you would welcome a visit from any of those searching gentlemen from Scotland Yard,” replied the old man, after some hesitation. “Remember, I’m not making any accusations—none at all. However, if he intends to do any mischief, you may mention, in passing, that Henry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming up to London to pay you a visit.” morning. Observe then what effect these words will produce upon him,’ and the old man laughed, adding: ‘Ah! Mr. Bird Dawson, I suppose you have yet to settle your accounts with me. ‘ ‘Then you will help us?’ I cried vehemently. ‘Can you save Mabel Blair if you will? ‘ ‘I will do all I can,’ was Hales’s reply, ‘for I recognize that a most ingenious conspiracy is afoot somewhere .’ Then, after a short pause, during which he refilled his pipe with tobacco, and with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon me, he added: ‘You said just now that Blair had bequeathed you his secret, but you did not explain to me the exact terms of his will. Did you say nothing of that?’ “In the clause in which he makes me the bequest, there is a strange couplet, which runs: _King Henry the Eighth_ _was a Knave to his queens,_ _Hed one short of seven_ _and nine or ten scenes!_ and he insists, too, that I should conceal the secret from all men, exactly as he has done. But the secret being ciphered,” I added, “it will be impossible for me to know it. ” “And has he not the key?” smiled the old mariner, his face hardened by the inclemency of the sea. “None—unless the key be concealed within that rhyme!” I cried, this strange, quick thought occurring to me for the first time. And again I repeated the couplet aloud. Yes, every playing card in that pack is mentioned in it: _King, eight, Knave,_ _Queen, seven,_ _nine, ten._ My heart leaped. Was it possible that by arranging the cards in the following order, the register could be read? If so, then the strange secret of Burton Blair was mine at last! I expressed my surprising and sudden idea, and the old man’s tanned face lit up with a triumphant smile, as he exclaimed: “Arrange the cards and try it. ” Chapter 20. THE READING OF THE REGISTER. The envelope containing the thirty-two cards was in my pocket, together with the photograph pasted on the canvas; therefore, I cleared the square old oak table, took them out eagerly, and laid them upon it, while Reginald and the old man looked on breathlessly. “The first mentioned in the rhyme is the king,” I said. “Let’s put the four kings together.” When they were arranged, I placed the four eights, the four jacks, the queens, aces, nines, and tens in the order in which they were presented in the poem. Reginald was quicker than I in reading the first column, and pronounced it an entirely unintelligible jumble. I then read it, and, deeply disappointed, was obliged to confess that the key was not to be found there after all . However, I remembered what my friend at Leicester had explained to me, noting how it might be found in the first letter of each letter, by reading consecutively one after the other through the whole packet, and I tried, repeatedly, to arrange them in an intelligible manner, but I had no success. The cipher remained as confused and enigmatic as ever. Whole nights had passed with Reginald, trying, in vain, to discover something, but it had always been useless, for 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 succeeded in finding what he was looking for; but I am sure, however, that he is near it.” That couplet gives the key, you pointed out to me. “I sincerely believe it does, but the question is to discover the proper arrangement of the cards,” I declared, agitated and breathless. “Precisely,” Reginald observed sadly. “That is the ingenuity of the cipher. 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 of that! ” “But we have the rhyme, which distinctly tells us its arrangement.’ And I repeated the couplet. ‘It is clear enough, and we ought to have seen it from the beginning,’ I replied. ‘Then try the king of one suit, the eight of another, the jack of another—and so on,’ suggested Hales, stooping with lively interest over the small cards. Without loss of time I followed his advice, and carefully rearranged them in the manner he had directed. But again the result was unintelligible, for it was nothing more than a group of enigmatical letters, deceptive and deceptive. I remembered what my friend, an expert in the matter, had told me, and my heart sank deeply. ‘Do you not indeed know the means by which the problem may be solved?’ I asked old Mr. Hales, for a suspicion had now seized me that he knew them well. ‘I assure you I can tell you nothing,’ was his quick rejoinder, ‘because I do not know them.’ However, it seems to me that this couplet forms, in a manner, the key. Try another arrangement of the cards. “Which one? What else can I try?” I asked, confused, but he only shook his head. Reginald, with paper and pencil in his hand, was endeavoring to decipher and make comprehensible the letters by means which I had several times tried, namely, by substituting A for B, C for D, and so on. He then tried adding two letters, then three, and still 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 cards 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 their particular arrangement, and reading the record to himself. Perhaps he was in possession of the key to the problem we had unfolded there, and was learning Burton Blair’s secret, while we remained ignorant of it! Suddenly the gaunt old sailor straightened up, and, looking at me, exclaimed with a smile of triumph: “Look here, Mr. Greenwood; there are four suits here, are there not? Try them in alphabetical order: the clubs, cups, spades, and coins. First take all the clubs and arrange them thus: king, eight, jack, queen, ace, seven, nine, ten; then the cups, and then the other two suits. When you have finished the arrangement, see what you can make of it.” Assisted by Reginald, I proceeded to lay out the cards again on the table as he had directed me, and arranged them, according to the strange rhyme, in four columns of eight cards each, in alphabetical order. “At last!” cried Reginald, almost beside himself with joy. “At last! We’ve got it, old man! Look! Read the first letter of each card down, column after column. What are you spelling?” We were all three breathless, and old Hales was apparently the most agitated of all, or perhaps he had been misleading us and feigning ignorance. He had arranged only the first row, the row of clubs, but already it read as follows: King BONTDRNNCROAUIT Eight EITYGOJTAENNWNH Jack TNHJENTYNDJOIDE Queen WTESJTHFDTOLLTC Ace EWJIWHEOEHNDLHR Seven EHLXHEFUFEEEFEO Nine NEEPEFIRERWOIOS Ten TRFARIFJNEINNLS “The first column begins with the word _Between_. “Between!” I cried, gazing in astonishment at the first comprehensible thing I had discovered. “Yes, and I see other words in the other columns!” exclaimed Reginald, snatching some of the cards from me in agitation and helping me to arrange the other rows. Those were the most agitated, nervous, and solemn moments of my life. The great secret that had brought Burton Blair all his fabulous wealth was about to be revealed to us. I could become a millionaire, just as their late owner had become! Once all the cards were arranged in their proper order—the eight of cups, the eight of swords, and the eight of coins under the eight of clubs, I took a pencil and wrote the first letter of each letter. “Yes!” I cried, almost out of my mind and in the greatest excitement, “the arrangement is perfect. Burton Blair’s secret is out! ” “It’s a sort of register!” exclaimed Reginald. ” And it begins with the words: Between the Ponte del Diavolo—” This name is Italian, and I suppose it means: Devil’s Bridge! ” “The Devil’s Bridge is an ancient medieval bridge near Lucca,” I explained quickly, and then I remembered the grave face of the Capuchin monk, who lived in the silent monastery near the spot. But at that moment my whole attention was devoted to clearing up the enigma, and I had no time for reflection. The letter Y was placed at certain points instead of in space, apparently in order to confuse, and thus hide the secret from any probable or casual solution. At last, after almost a quarter of an hour, for some of the letters were quite faded, I discovered that the ciphered 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, 456 paces from the base of the bridge where the sun shines only for one hour on the fifth of April and for two hours on the fifth of May, at noon, descend 24 steps, behind which a man can defend himself against 400. There are two large rocks, one on each side. On one of them will be engraved an old E. Go down to the right hand and you will find what you are looking for. But first find the old man who lives in the house at the Crossroads.” “What does 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 cared to admit. “It means that some secret is hidden in that narrow and romantic valley of Serchio , and these are the directions for discovering it,” I said. “I know the winding river and the exact spot where, through the centuries, the water has managed to force its way over a deep, rocky bed full of gigantic boulders, torrential falls, and deep lagoons. Many strange stories are told about this bridge about the Devil, asserting that it was he himself who built it, on condition that he would take for himself the first living creature that crossed it, and that it was a dog. In truth,” I added, “the spot is one of the wildest and most romantic in the whole Tuscan countryside.” It is strange, too, that only three miles from the place indicated there lives Fra Antonio in the Capuchin monastery. “Who is Fra Antonio?” asked Hales, who was still looking at the letters with great attention. I explained, and the old man smiled, but I knew that in the monk’s description he had recognized one of Blair’s friends from years past. “Who wrote this record?” I questioned him. “It wasn’t Blair, that’s obvious. ” “No,” was his reply. “Now that it is legally yours, by gift from our friend, and that you have succeeded in deciphering it, I can, also, tell you something more about it. ” “Yes, do it,” we both cried anxiously. “Well then; “I’ll tell you how it happened,” explained the gaunt old man, taking the tobacco from his long pipe. “Several years ago I was first mate of the ship “Annie Curtis,” registered in Liverpool, engaged in the Mediterranean fruit trade, regularly plying between Naples, Smyrna, Barcelona, Algiers, and Liverpool. Our crew was a mixed one, consisting of English, Spanish, and Italians, and among the latter was an old man named Bruno. He was a mysterious individual, originally from Calabria, and it was whispered among the other crew members that he had been the leader of a notorious band of brigands who 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 very hard-working, hardly ever drank, and was apparently quite polite, for he spoke and wrote English well, and, moreover, was always tormenting the others to ask him riddles and ciphers, the solution of which he devoted himself to in his leisure time. One day, which was the commemoration of a religious festival—which was a source of excuse for the Italians, as they made use of it as a holiday—I found him on the forecastle writing something on a small packet of cards. He tried to conceal from me what he was doing; but, my curiosity being aroused, I immediately noticed how he had arranged them, and that very fact showed me what a remarkably ingenious cipher he had discovered. The old man was silent for a moment, as if hesitating to tell us the whole truth of the matter. At last, after lighting his pipe with a splinter, he resumed his story, saying: “I left the sea, returned here to my wife, and six years passed without my hearing anything about the Italian, until one day, looking like a man of means and dressed in a new suit and new hard hat, he came 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 and have a good time. He stayed here for two days, and with his little camera, evidently a very recent acquisition, he went around taking all sorts of views, including this house. Before leaving, he made me the depository of his secrets and declared that what had been suspected on board the boat was true, for he was none other than the celebrated Poldo Pensi, the bandit whose audacity 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 profiting by certain intelligence he had acquired during his life as a bandit, he was working for his living on board an English vessel. The intelligence, he told me, he had obtained from a certain Cardinal Sannini of the Vatican, whom he had kidnapped for a handsome ransom, and was of such a nature that he could become a man of fortune any day he chose to be one; but since the government of his country had offered a large prize for his capture, he had resolved to conceal his identity and roam 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 a ciphered 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, that he left the secret stamped on you!” I cried, interrupting him. “Exactly.” The secret of Cardinal Sannini, obtained by the famous brigand Poldo Pensi, whose terrible band of brigands devastated half Italy twenty-five years ago, and compelled Pope Pius IX himself to pay him tribute, is written here, as you have just deciphered it. ” “And Pensi is dead?” I asked. “Oh! yes. He died and was buried at sea, near the port of Lisbon, before Burton Blair came into possession of the letters. The secret, according to my reliable information, was forcibly extracted from Cardinal Sannini, who, while passing through the deserted and inhospitable country between Reggio and Gerace, was seized by Pensi and his band, taken to their stronghold, a small mountain village about three miles from Micastro, and there held prisoner, to exact a large ransom from the Holy See. For some unknown reasons, it appears that the astute old Cardinal did not wish the Vatican to become aware of his capture; He therefore imposed as a condition of his freedom that he should reveal a most remarkable secret, the secret written in these letters, which he did, and Pensi then set him free, fulfilling the engagement. “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 appointed his successor to the Pontificate. “That is true,” observed the old man, who seemed well-versed in the entire modern history of St. Peter’s in Rome. “The secret divulged by the Cardinal is undoubtedly of immense value, and if he acted thus, it was to save his reputation, I believe, from what the Italian bandit told me, for they had discovered that he was in the extreme south of the peninsula, contrary to the orders of the Pope, who had sent him in the opposite direction, and their object had been to stir up a malicious religious agitation against Pius IX. Hence Sannini, in whom His Holiness had so much confidence, was forced at all costs to conceal the news of his capture, which was to remain absolutely unknown. Pensi told me how, before releasing the Cardinal, he went, with the greatest secrecy, to a certain spot in the province of Tuscany and ascertained that the secret revealed by the great ecclesiastic was a reality. After that, he was released and, with an escort to guarantee his safety, 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, calloused hands, “that is the question. On those same letters you have, I know that Poldo Pensi, the former bandit from Calabria, inscribed the Cardinal’s instructions in English. Indeed, you will notice that the wording reveals that their author was a foreigner. Those capital letters, almost erased, were written by him on board the “Annie Curtis,” and he kept their secret safe until his death. What he told me confidentially, I never revealed to anyone until… well, until Burton Blair forced me to do so that night when he recognized this house from the photograph Poldo had taken, and found me again.” “He made him!” cried Reginald. “How?” Chapter 21. WORSE THAN DEATH. The tall, gaunt old man looked at me with his brown eyes and shook his head. “Burton Blair knew too much,” he answered evasively. “It seems that after I retired he became first mate, and Poldo, the man who had been able to extract handsome ransoms from dukes, cardinals, and other great men, worked under him patiently. Some time later, Poldo fell ill with a severe attack of fever and died; but, strange as it may be, he left him, so Blair claimed, the packet of letters containing the secret. “Dick Dawson, however, who was also on the ship as 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 little bag containing the letters from under Poldo’s pillow half an hour before he died. Whether this is true or false, however, the facts remain, and they are: that Poldo must have let slip, in the midst of the delirium of fever, part of his secret, and that Blair became the owner of the little letters. Three weeks after the Italian’s death, Blair, landing at Liverpool, taking with him the letters and the photograph, set out on this very long and tiring journey by all the roads of England, with the aim of finding me and learning from me the key to the secret of the famous bandit, which I possessed. ” “And when he succeeded in finding it, what happened?” “He solemnly stated that Bruno had given them to him as a dying man’s present, and that his reason for seeking me out was because the old bandit, before dying, had asked to see the photograph in his ship’s chest, and after looking at it for a long time, had said thoughtfully in Italian, ‘In this house lives the only man who knows my secret.’ That was evidently Blair’s reason for possessing himself 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 if I would reveal the Italian’s secrets to him. As He was dead, and I saw no reason to refuse, and in return for the promise of payment of the said sum, I told him what he wanted to know, and among other things, I explained the arrangement of the letters, so that he was able to decipher them. I had discovered the key to the cipher that holiday when I found Poldo in the forecastle writing a message on the letters, evidently dedicated to the Cardinal residing in Rome, for I have since learned that the bandit and the ecclesiastic, before the latter’s death, had been in frequent but secret communication. “But this Dawson must have profited enormously from the revelation made by Blair,” I observed. “They seem to have been very intimate friends. ” “He certainly profited,” replied Hales. Blair, in possession of this remarkable secret, was in mortal terror of Dick, who might declare, as he had already done, that the dying man had been robbed. He knew very well that Dawson was an unscrupulous sailor, of the worst kind possible; therefore, he thought it very prudent, I suppose, to enter into partnership with him and have him assist him in exploiting the secret. But poor Blair must have always been in Dawson’s hands , though his profits were evidently enormous. Dick’s have been no less, though he has apparently lived in the most absolute retirement and obscurity. “Dawson was afraid to come to England,” Reginald observed. “Yes,” replied the old man. “There was a nasty incident in Liverpool some years ago , and that is his reason. ” “But is there no negative proof that the reformed robber did not give the pack of cards to Blair?” I asked briskly. “None.” For my part, I believe Poldo must have given it to Blair and recommended that he return to land and seek me out, for Poldo had been good and had shown him many small kindnesses during repeated illnesses. Poldo, having abandoned his wicked ways, had become very religious and used to attend missions to seamen when he was ashore, just as Blair was, as you know, a very God -fearing man for a sailor. When I look back on the circumstances, I think it was only natural that Poldo should have delivered the secret of the dead Cardinal into the hands of his best friend. “The place indicated is near Lucca, in Tuscany,” I observed. “You say that this Poldo Pensi has been there and made inquiries. What did he find? ” “What the Cardinal had told you he would find. But he never explained 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 which appears to exist between the late Cardinal Sannini and Fra Antonio, the Capuchin of Lucca, is strange,” I observed. “Is the monk in possession of the secret?” I pondered. “There is no doubt that he has something to do with this affair, as his constant consultations with Dawson show . ” “It is beyond doubt,” said Reginald, turning over the letters aimlessly. “We must now discover the exact position of these two men, and at the same time prevent this Dawson from succeeding in acquiring too great a share of Mabel Blair’s fortune. ” “Leave that to me,” I exclaimed reservedly. “For the present our course of action is quite clear. We must investigate the area on the banks of the Serchio and discover what is hidden there.” Then, turning to Hales, he added: “I noticed in the search that it clearly commands : ‘Seek first the old man who lives in the house at the Crossroads.’ What does this mean?” “Why is that address indicated?” “Because I believe that when the record was stamped on these letters,” he replied, “I was the only person who knew anything about the Cardinal’s secret; the only one, apart from the interested party, who possessed the key to the cipher. ” “But at first you pretended not to know it,” I observed, still looking at the old man with some suspicion. “Because I wasn’t sure whether you were acting in good faith,” he said. laughing quite frankly. “I was taken by surprise, and I had no intention of expanding prematurely. ” “But have you really told us all you know?” exclaimed Reginald. “Yes, I know nothing more,” he retorted. “As for the item in the register, I am completely ignorant. Remember that Blair paid me fairly, and even more than 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 can you give us no more information about this one-eyed man who seems to have been Blair’s partner in this extraordinary mysterious enterprise? ” “I have nothing more to say, except that it is a very unsavory relationship . It was Poldo who nicknamed him ‘the Fat Man. ‘” “And the monk called Brother Antonio? ” “I have never heard of that person; I know nothing about him.” The question of whether she had a son and whether his name was Herbert was on the tip of my tongue , recalling that tragic night scene in the park outside Mayville Hall. Fortunately, however, I knew how to restrain myself and remain silent, preferring to conceal what I knew and await the unfolding of events and that extraordinary situation. Nevertheless, my heart brimmed with indignation and a fierce, insane jealousy gnawed at it. Mabel, the sweet and kind girl I loved so much, and whose future had been placed in my hands, had made the grave and sad mistake, like so many other girls, of falling in love with a vulgar, clumsy man far beneath her. Cottage love, about which we hear so much, is very good in theory, as is the delusion that one can have a cheerful heart even when one’s purse is empty. But in these modern times, a woman accustomed to comfort and luxury can never be happy in a modest four-room house, any more than a man who marries boldly for love and renounces his inheritance. No. Every time I recalled the threats and slights of that young ruffian, his arrogance and his final burst of criminal passion, which had come so nearly to end the life of my beloved, my blood boiled with rage and my anger was kindled. The scoundrel had escaped, but inwardly I swore that he would not go unpunished. And yet, when I replayed the whole scene, it seemed that Mabel was completely and irresistibly in the man’s power, even though she had tried to defy him. We remained with Hales and his wife for another hour, though we learned little new information, except for a few words the old woman let slip. I ascertained that they did indeed have a son, and that his name was Herbert, but that he was not of very good character. “He was engaged in the stables at Belvoir,” his mother explained when I questioned her about him. “But he left there about two years ago, and we have not seen him since. He sometimes writes to us from different quarters, and seems to be prospering.” This individual was, therefore, as I had supposed from his appearance, a groom, a stableman, or something of that kind. It was nearly half-past seven when we arrived back at King’s Cross, and after a light repast at a little Italian restaurant opposite the station, we took a cab and drove to Grosvenor Place, with the object of telling Mabel of our success in solving the riddle. Carter, who admitted us, knew us so well that he merely led us directly upstairs into the drawing-room, so artistically illuminated with its electric lights most delicately shaded and cleverly placed in every conceivable corner . On the table stood a large antique punch bowl, filled with splendid Gloise de Dijon roses, which the head gardener sent every day, along with the fruit, from Mayvill’s estate. Their arrangement was due, as I well knew, to the delicate hands of the woman I had learned for years to admire and secretly love. On a side table stood a handsome photograph of poor Burton Blair in a heavy silver frame, and in one corner his daughter had pinned a ribbon of crape as a tribute to the memory of the dead man. The large house was full of those delicate feminine features that revealed the sweet sympathy of her character and the placid tranquility of her life. Suddenly the door opened, and we both rose; but instead of the pretty, sparkling, noble-hearted young woman with a musical voice and a cheerful, open countenance, there entered the bearded, spectacled, gold-rimmed man, who had once been boatswain on the ship Annie Curtis, of Liverpool, and afterwards Burton Blair’s secret partner. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he cried, greeting us with that apparent and forced varnish of civility which he sometimes assumed. “I have great pleasure in entertaining you at the house of my late friend.” As you will notice, I have taken up my residence here in accordance with the terms of poor Blair’s will, and I gladly avail myself of this new opportunity of meeting you again. The fine impudence of this man took us by surprise. He seemed exceedingly confident and certain that his position was unassailable and invincible. “We have come to see Miss Blair,” I explained. “We had no idea that you were going to take up your residence here so soon. ” “Oh! that is better,” he affirmed. “Blair’s great interests require immediate attention, for there are many matters closely connected with them that cannot be neglected.” And while he was speaking, the door opened again, and in walked a young woman of about twenty-six, with dark hair and of average height, dressed in a low-cut black dress, somewhat ostentatious, but whose face was rather ordinary, though somewhat forbidding. “My daughter Dolly,” explained one-eyed Dawson. “Let me introduce you ,” and we both gave him a cold bow, for we were much struck by their manner, for they seemed to have settled there and taken the management of the house into their own hands. “I suppose Mrs. Percival is still here ?” I inquired after a moment, having recovered my composure and calmed myself from the shock I had felt at finding the adventurer and his daughter in complete possession of that splendid mansion which half of London admired and the other half envied; the mansion which had been so often described and photographed in the ladies’ magazines and papers. “Yes, Mrs. Percival is in her private study. She left her there five minutes ago. Mabel, it seems, went out this morning at eleven o’clock and has not yet returned. ” “She hasn’t come back!” I exclaimed, in astonishment. “Why?” “Mrs. Percival seems quite deranged. I believe she is afraid something has happened to her.” Without saying or hearing another word, I ran down the broad staircase with its glass balustrade, knocked at the door of the room that had been reserved for Mrs. Percival, made myself known, and was immediately received. The respectable and polished widow no sooner saw me than she sprang to her feet and exclaimed in dreadful distress: “Oh, Mr. Greenwood, Mr. Greenwood! What can we do? How are we to treat these detestable people? Poor Mabel started this morning and drove in the Brougham to Euston Station. There she handed this letter to Peters, addressed to you, and then sent the carriage away. What can all this mean?” I took the letter he handed me, and trembling, opened it, and found, hastily written in pencil upon a sheet of note-paper, these few lines: “Dear Mr. Greenwood,—It will doubtless cause you great surprise to learn that I have quitted my home for ever. I know well that you entertain as high a regard and esteem for me as I do for you; but, as my secret is at last to be known, I cannot remain in my presence, and be obliged to confront you, whom I dare least dare to confront. “These people will pursue me to the point of death; therefore, I prefer to live hidden away from their mockery and vengeance, rather than remain the butt of their scorn, and thus have the opportunity of pointing their mocking and disdainful finger at me. “My father’s secret can never be yours, for his enemies are too ingenious and cunning. They have taken every precaution to secure it against his efforts and endeavors. Therefore , I advise you, as a true friend, that it is useless to try to fight the storm. It is all in vain! “To expose myself to the situation is worse for me than death! Believe me, only despair could have driven me to this step, for the cowardly enemies of my father and myself have triumphed. “At the same time, I ask you to completely forget that a person of the name of the desperate, afflicted, and unfortunate Mabel Blair has ever existed in the world .” I stood there, holding the tear-stained letter open in my hand, absolutely speechless and disconsolate. Chapter 22. The Mystery of a Night Adventure. “To expose myself to the situation is worse to me than death,” he wrote . “What could this possibly mean?” Mrs. Percival divined from the expression of my countenance the seriousness of this letter, and, quickly rising, came to me, placed her hand affectionately on my shoulder, and inquired: “What is the matter, Mr. Greenwood? I cannot know?” In answer, I gave her the letter. She read it quickly, and then uttered a cry of terror, realizing that Burton Blair’s daughter had run away from home. She was evidently afraid of Dawson, having been seized by a terrifying belief that her secret, whatever it was, would now be made public; and she had fled, it seemed, rather than meet me face to face again. But why? Of what nature could her secret be, that it should so shame her and compel her to conceal herself? Mrs. Percival summoned Crump, the coachman, who had conveyed her young mistress in the Brougham to Euston Station, and questioned him. “Miss Mabel ordered the coupe, madam, a few moments before eleven,” replied the man, bowing. “She brought her crocodile-shaped suitcase, but last night she sent for Carter Patterson a large trunk full of used clothes, so the young lady told her maid. I drove her to Euston, where she got out and went into the ticket office. She kept me waiting about five minutes, then appeared with a porter who took her suitcase, and then she handed me the letter addressed to Mr. Greenwood to give to you, and ordered me to retire. Then I went home, madam.” “There is no doubt , she has gone north,” I observed, as Crump withdrew , and the door closed behind him. “It almost seems as if her escape had been premeditated. She sent her baggage last night.” I was thinking at that moment of that arrogant, daring stableman, that impudent young Hales, and wondering whether his renewed threats had not induced her to consent to another interview with him. If so , then the danger was terribly extraordinary. “We must find her,” said Mrs. Percival, with all resolution. “Ah!” she sighed, “I do not know, really, what will happen, for the house is now in the power of this odious man and his daughter, and he is a most rude and ill-bred fellow. He addresses the servants with perfect familiarity, exactly as if they were his equals; and he just now complimented one of the maids on her good looks!” “This is terrible, Mr. Greenwood, terrible,” cried the widow, immensely shocked. “It is the most shameful exhibition of your bad breeding! I certainly cannot remain here any longer, now that Mabel has seen fit to quit the house without even consulting me. Lady Rainham called this afternoon, but I had to pretend that she was not. What can I say to people under these distressing circumstances?” I understood how shocked Mabel’s estimable companion was. for she was an exceedingly 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, gold-rimmed spectacles and examining them as if they had been strange beings of different flesh and blood. It was this last idiosyncrasy that always annoyed Mabel, who professed that very feminine belief that one should be kind to one’s inferiors and only cold and harsh to one’s enemies. However, under the protective wing and haughty tutelage of Mrs. Percival, Mabel had penetrated the best and most elegant social circle, whose doors are always open to the millionaire’s daughter, and had well 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 open sesame to the gates of England’s bluest blood. The old exclusive circles no longer exist, or if they do, they have become obscured and unimportant. Ladies attend concert halls and boast of going to nightclubs. Meals in restaurants, once considered a cause for debasement, are now a great attraction. A generation ago, a high-born lady reasonably objected, saying she didn’t know who she would be sitting next to; but today, as in the theater before Garrick’s time, the dishonorable reputation of some of the guests is an incentive. The more blatant the scandal regarding some well-honed “impropriety,” the greater the incentive to dine in their company, and, if possible, at their side. Such is the trend and the way of London society today! For a quarter of an hour, while Reginald was occupied with the Dawsons, Father and Daughter, I remained in consultation with the widow, trying to see if I could obtain some 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 her firm character so well, did not share her opinion. Her letter was that of a woman who had made a resolution and was prepared to maintain it, cost what it might. She was afraid to confront me, and for that reason, no doubt, she would conceal her resistance. She had a separate account in her name at Cottus’s, so that, for lack of funds, she would not be obliged to reveal her present whereabouts. Ford, the dead man’s secretary, a young man of about thirty, tall, athletic, and completely shaven, appeared, but finding us conversing, withdrew immediately. Mrs. Percival had already questioned him, but she was quite ignorant of where Mabel had gone. This Dawson had usurped Ford’s position in the house, and the latter, filled with resentment, was constantly on the watch for her actions and movements, and possessed of the greatest suspicions, as we all were. Reginald at last came to join me, and entered exclaiming: “This man is a most original fellow, to say the least . So he has invited me to take whisky and soda—at Blair’s house! He considers Mabel’s escape a joke, speaks of her in a joking tone, assuring her that she will soon be back, for she cannot be long absent, and that he will summon her whenever he pleases, or whenever her presence is necessary. In short, this fellow talks as if Mabel were made of wax in his hands, and he could do what he pleases with her.” “He could ruin her financially, that’s certain,” I observed, sighing. “But read this, old man,” and I gave him Mabel’s strange letter. “Good heavens!” he stammered when he had read it, “she’s mortally terrified of these people, there’s no doubt about it. To escape them and you, she’s run away—to Liverpool, and then to take a ship for America, perhaps.” Remember, in her childhood she traveled widely, and therefore knows the routes. “We must find her, Reginald,” I declared decisively. “But the worst of it is that she has resolved to take this step to escape you,” he replied. “It seems she has some powerful reason for proceeding in this way. ” “A reason known only to her,” I observed with melancholy. “It is certainly a setback that Mabel should have disappeared, of her own free will, in this manner, just when we had succeeded in learning exactly the secret of the Cardinal, the source of the Blair fortune. Remember all that is at stake and at risk. We do not know who our friends or our enemies are. We must both go to Italy and discover the spot indicated in that coded record, because, if we do not, others will anticipate it, and it may be that we shall arrive too late.” He agreed with me that, since the secret belonged to me by virtue of having been bequeathed to me, I should immediately take the necessary steps to assert my rights. We couldn’t help but understand that Dawson, as Blair’s partner and sharer of his enormous wealth, must have known the secret very well and had already taken the necessary steps to conceal the truth from me, its rightful owner. He had to be taken seriously, for he was a sinister man, possessed of the most insidious cunning and the most diabolical wit in the art of subterfuge. The reports gathered about him everywhere proved that this was his character. He had the calm, cold manner of a man who has lived by dint of sharpening his wit, and in this matter it seemed that his wit, whetted still further by his adventurous life, was going to have to contend and contend with mine. Mabel’s unexpected resolution and sudden disappearance were maddening, and the mystery of her letter inscrutable. If he really feared that some shameful and unpleasant fact might be revealed, he must have trusted me enough to make me his confidant. I loved her, though I had never declared my passion to her; consequently, ignorant of the fact, she had treated me as a sincere friend, as I had desired. Yet why had she not sought my help? ‘Women are such strange creatures, after all!’ I reflected. ‘Perhaps she did love that rustic man!’ An anxious, feverish week passed, and Mabel showed no sign of life. One evening I left Reginald at the Devonshire about half-past eleven and made my way through the damp, foggy streets of London until I came to a place where the noise of the traffic ceased, the carriages crept along slowly and only occasionally passed, and the wet, muddy roads and pavements were open to the policeman and the poor, shivering, homeless vagrant. In the midst of the dense fog, I walked in profound meditation, and more and more troubled by this remarkable chain of circumstances, which hour by hour seemed to become more entangled. I had walked onward without pausing or considering in what direction my feet led me, passing along Knightsbridge, skirting Kensington Park and Gardens, and was at that moment crossing the corner of Earls Court Road, when a happy circumstance roused me from my profound slumber, and for the first time I became aware that I was being followed. Yes, I distinctly heard footsteps behind me, hurrying when I hurried, and slackening when I slackened. I crossed the road, and before the long, lofty wall of Holland Park, I halted and turned. My pursuer advanced a few steps, but suddenly stopped, and I could only make out, by the light of the feeble lantern that pierced through the London mist, a tall, distorted figure, distorted by the blinding fog. However, it was not so dense as to prevent me from finding my way, for I knew that part of London very well. It was certainly not very pleasant to be followed so persistently at such an hour. I suspected that some vagabond or thief who had passed by me had noticed my distraction and forgetfulness of my surroundings, and had turned around. to follow me with malicious intent. I went on again, without turning back, but hardly had I done so when I felt the light, soft footsteps, like an echo of my own, stealthily sounding behind me. I had heard curious stories of madmen who prowl the streets of London at night, aimlessly following passers-by; this being one of the different kinds of insanity well known to alienists. I crossed the road again, passed through Edwarde Square, and thus retraced my steps, and turned in the direction of High Street, but the mysterious individual followed me with equal persistence. I confess that I felt a certain uneasiness, finding myself in the midst of that thick fog, which in that part had become so dense as to completely obscure the lampposts. Suddenly, as I turned the corner into Lexham Gardens, at a point where the mist had covered everything with its black pall, I felt a sudden assault upon me, and at the same time a sharp piercing sensation behind my right shoulder. The attack was so violent that I uttered a cry, immediately turning to face my assailant, but so agile was he that before I could do so, he eluded me and fled. I heard his footsteps as he ran back along Earls Court Road, and then I shouted for the police. But no one answered me. The pain in my shoulder grew every moment more uncomfortable and mortifying. The stranger had cut me with a knife, and the blood was gushing out, for I felt it, wet and sticky, falling upon my hand. I shouted again, “Police, police!” until at last I heard a voice answer me through the mist, and I made my way in its direction. After some more shouts, I discovered the watchman and related my strange adventure to him. He held his dull lantern behind me and exclaimed: “It’s quite certain, sir; he’s been stabbed! What sort of man was he? ” “I never got a good look at him,” was my clumsy reply. “He always kept at a good distance, and only approached at a point too obscure to distinguish his features. ” “I saw no one, except a clergyman I met just now on the Earls Court road; at least, if he was not a clergyman, I saw he wore a broad-brimmed hat such as they wear. But I could not see his face. ” “A clergyman!” I stammered. “Do you think it could have been some Catholic priest?” for my thoughts were at that moment concentrated on Brother Anthony, who was evidently the keeper of the Cardinal’s secret. ” “Ah! I cannot say.” I could not see his features. I only noticed his hat. “I feel very faint,” I said, as a faintness and languor came over me. “I wish you would bring me a cab. I think the best course of action is to go directly to my own house, which is in Great Russell Street. ” “It is a very long journey. Would it not be more convenient for me to go first to the West London Hospital?” the watchman indicated. “No,” I replied decisively. “I want to go home and call for my doctor.” Then I seated myself on the threshold of a gateway at the end of Lexham Gardens and waited for the vehicle to arrive; the watchman had gone to 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 scarcely escaped becoming the victim of some infamous murder?” Such were my thoughts as I sat there waiting. The last supposition was, for me, decidedly the most feasible. There was a powerful reason for wanting my death. Blair had bequeathed me the great secret, and I had just succeeded in deciphering the enigma contained in the letters. This fact must probably have reached our enemies; hence this cowardly attempt on my life. However, such a contingency was terrifying, because, if I really If it was known that I had deciphered the register, then our enemies would certainly take every step necessary in Italy to prevent us from discovering the secret that lay at that point on the banks of the winding, 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 mist, almost at a walking pace, such was the difficulty of marching. I had placed my silk scarf over the right side of my back to staunch the blood that was flowing from my wound. As soon as I had almost entered the hanson, I felt strong fainting spells and a strange numbness creeping up my legs. At the same time, a curious repugnance came over me, and, although I was fortunately able to staunch the flow of blood, which tended to show that the wound was not, after all, so serious, my hands began to contract in a strange manner, while my cheeks were attacked with a peculiar pain, very similar to that which one experiences at the beginning of an attack of neuralgia. I felt dreadfully ill and powerless. The coachman, who had been informed of my wound by the watchman, opened the little door of the deck to ask me how I was, but I was hardly able to utter a few words. If the wound was only superficial, certainly the effect it produced upon me was strange. Of the many hazy lights I saw at Hyde Park Corner, I have one distinct recollection; but after that my senses seemed to be dulled by the fog and the pain I was in, and I remember nothing more of what passed, until I again painfully opened my eyes, and found myself in my bed, with the beautiful daylight shining in through the window , and saw Reginald and our old friend Thomas Walker, surgeon of Queen Anne Street, standing by me, regarding me with profound graveness, which at the time seemed humorous. I must, however, confess there was very little humor in the situation. Chapter 23. WHICH IS IN MANY WAYS ASTONISHING. Walker was confounded—really confounded. While I had been unconscious, he had dressed my wound, after examining it, I suppose, and injecting various antiseptics. He had also sent for Sir Charles Hoare, the very distinguished surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital, for consultation; and both of them had been greatly confounded by my symptoms. When, an hour later, I was strong enough to speak, Walker took me by the wrist and asked what had happened to me. After I had explained everything as well as I could, he said: “All I can tell you, my dear friend, is that you have been as near death as any person I have ever attended. Yours has been as dangerous a case as can be. When Seton first called me, and I saw you, I thought all was over. Your wound is very small, or rather superficial, yet your state of decay and prostration has been most extraordinary; and there are certain symptoms so mysterious that they have thrown Sir Charles and me into confusion. ” “What weapon did this man use? It was certainly no common dagger. It was, no doubt, a dagger with a long, slender blade—a stiletto, most likely. I found on the outside of the wound, upon the material of his surtout, something like fat, or rather, animal fat.” I’ll have it analyzed a little, and do you know what I expect to find in it? ‘ ‘No; what? ‘ ‘ Poison,’ was his reply. ‘Sir Charles agrees with my supposition that you were wounded with one of those small, old-fashioned dirks with perforated blades, which were so much in use in Italy during the fifteenth century. ‘ ‘In Italy!’ I cried, the mere name of that country arousing in me a suspicion that the attempt must have been committed by Dawson or by his intimate friend, the monk of Lucca. ‘Yes; Sir Charles, who, as you probably know, possesses a large collection of ancient weapons, told me that in medieval Florence they used to impregnate animal fat with some very powerful poison and then rub this mixture onto the perforated blade. When the victim was wounded and the weapon withdrawn from the wound, some of the poisoned fat remained in his bosom, which was fatal. “But you certainly do not anticipate that I am poisoned,” I stammered. “You are poisoned, there is no doubt about it. Your wound does not correspond to your prolonged insensibility, nor to those strange, livid blotches on your body. Look at the backs of your hands!” I did as he told me and was horrified to find on both of them small, dark, copper-colored blotches, extending also to the wrists and arms. “Do not be too alarmed, Greenwood,” laughed the kind and good doctor; “I have already succeeded in rounding the dangerous curve, and your time to die is not yet come .” Your escape was almost a miracle, for the weapon was the most deadly imaginable; but fortunately, you were wearing a thick greatcoat, besides other heavy garments , all of which sucked out most of the poisonous substance before it could penetrate the flesh. And I assure you it was fortunate for you, for, had this attack taken place in summer, when clothing is light, there would have been no hope of salvation. ” “But who was the author of this attempt?” I cried, wildly, my eyes riveted on those ugly blotches that covered my skin, evident proof that a terrible poison had been instilled into my nature . “Someone who will bear you an implacable hatred, I suppose,” laughed the surgeon, who had been my friend for several years, and who was in the habit of sometimes attending the shooting parties with the Fitzwilliams. “But come, old companion, cheer up; “You must rest them for a day or two on milk and broth, let the wound heal, and remain very quiet. You will see how soon you will be well again. ” “That is all very well,” I answered impatiently, “but I had a world of things to do, and some private affairs to attend to. ” “You must let them rest for a day or two, certainly. ” “Yes,” persisted Reginald; “you must be quiet, Gilbert. I am only too glad it was not so serious as we at first thought. When the coachman brought you home, and Glave ran to fetch Walker, I fancied you would die before he arrived. I did not feel your heart beating, and you were completely frozen. ” “I cannot guess who this scoundrel may be who wounded me!” I cried. “By Jacob! if I catch him, I fancy I would wring his precious neck right there . ” “What use are you inconveniencing yourself, when you will soon be well again?” inquired Reginald philosophically. But I remained silent, reflecting on Sir Charles Hoare’s opinion that the dagger employed in the attempted murder had been an old Florentine weapon, poisoned. This very fact led me to suspect that the cowardly attempt made on my person had been the work of my enemies. We, incidentally, said nothing to Walker about our curious investigation, for we considered the matter strictly confidential at the time . He spoke of my wound in a joking manner, declaring that I would very soon recover my health, if only I had a little patience. After he had retired, shortly before noon, Reginald sat down by my bedside, and we gravely discussed the situation. The two most pressing matters 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 passed long, heavy, and weary, gloomy days of early spring, during which I tossed and turned in my bed, impatient, desperate, and helpless. I longed to get up and be active, but Walker forbade me. Instead, he brought me books and diaries, and ordered quiet and absolute rest. Although Reginald and I always had our little hunting lodge at Helpstone, we had not gone there once since Blair’s death . Besides, that season had been one of extraordinary activity in the lace trade, and Reginald seemed more than ever a slave to his business. He was, consequently, alone most of the day, having Glave to look after and supply my wants. From time to time, some friends came to see me, conversed and smoked with me. Thus the month of March passed, my convalescence being much slower than Walker had at first imagined. The analysis had discovered a most harmful irritating poison mixed with the fat, and it seems my nature had absorbed more than was at first supposed, hence my late recovery. Mrs. Percival, who, by our earnest advice, still resided at the house in Grosvenor Square, sometimes visited me, bringing me fruit and flowers from the greenhouses at Mayville, but she knew nothing about Mabel. The latter had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened up and swallowed her up. She was anxious to quit Blair House now that it was occupied by the usurpers, but we had flattered her with great care, in order that she might remain and moderate the actions of Dawson and his daughter. Ford had been so exasperated by the man’s behavior that, on the fifth day of the new regime, he had protested, with the result that Dawson quietly placed a year ‘s salary in an envelope, and at once dismissed him from his services for the future, a thing which he had doubtless intended to do from the first . However, the former private secretary was assisting us, and was at the moment intent on making every kind of inquiry to ascertain where his young mistress was. “The house is completely upside down—everything about it is in disarray,” declared Mrs. Percival one day, while visiting me. “The servants are in revolt, and poor Noble, the housekeeper, is, I assure you, having a terrible time. Carter and eight other servants gave her notice yesterday that they are quitting the house. This Dawson is the very type of ill-bredness and bad manners; yet I overheard him telling his daughter two days ago that he was seriously considering speaking for Reform and entering Parliament. Ah! what would poor Mabel say if she knew such a thing?” The daughter, Dolly, as he calls her, that common girl, has taken up residence in Mabel’s boudoir, and is about to have the decorations renovated, for she wants it yellow, to suit her complexion, I believe. From what Mr. Leighton says, it appears that poor Mr. Blair’s fortune must be entirely transferred to the management of this individual. ” “It is a shame, an abominable shame!” I cried angrily. “We know this man to be an adventurer, and yet we are quite 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, since her father’s death, 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 to this man without conscience, to whom so much power over her and her fortune has been granted. She has made many confidential confessions to me, and I believe that, if she were only to reveal the truth to us now, we might be freed from this demon. Why doesn’t she do it… to save herself? “Because she is afraid of him at present,” he answered in a harsh, desperate voice. “She has some secret that keeps her living in constant terror. That is the reason, I believe, for her sudden disappearance and for abandoning her own home. She has left this man in complete and unchallenged possession of everything.” I had not forgotten the arrogance and self-confidence she had displayed on the evening she first called upon us. “But, Mr. Greenwood, will you now be good enough to excuse me for what I am about to say to you?” inquired Mrs. Percival, after a brief pause, looking steadily into my face. “Perhaps I have no right to interfere thus in your most intimate affairs, but I trust you will pardon me when you reflect that it is for her sake, for that poor child, that I dare do it. ” “Well!” I exclaimed, somewhat surprised at her unexpected change. She was generally extremely haughty and cold, a terrible critic who had the names of everyone’s cousins, aunts, and nephews at her fingertips . “The truth is this,” he pursued. “You might induce her to tell us the truth, that is my belief, for you are the only person who has any influence over her now that her father is gone, and, let me tell you, I have reason to know that she esteems you very highly. ” “Yes,” I observed, unable to repress a sigh, “we are friends—good friends. ” “More than that,” declared Mrs. Percival. “Mabel loves you. ” “She loves me!” I cried, jumping up and supporting myself on one elbow. “No, I think you must be mistaken. She looks upon me rather as a brother than as a lover, and has learned, I believe, from the first day we met on such romantic terms, to look upon me as a sort of protector.” “No,” I added, shaking my head, “there are certain obstacles which must prevent her from loving me—the difference in our ages, position, and all.” “Ah! You are quite mistaken,” exclaimed the widow, quite frankly. “Your father left his secret to you, as far as I have occasion to learn, in order that you might make the most of it, as he had done, and because he divined the direction Mabel’s course 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 whether his daughter had ever spoken to me of you in any significant manner that would have made me suspect anything. I confessed to him the truth of what I knew on the subject, exactly as I have just related it to you. Mabel loves you—loves you dearly. ” “Then I owe you in no small measure that poor Blair has left me his secret,” I observed, adding a few words of thanks , and then sinking into deep thought on what he had just revealed to me. “I only did my duty to you both,” was her reply. “She loves you, as I have already told you, and I am convinced, therefore, that with a little persuasion you could prevail upon her to tell us the truth respecting Dawson. She has run away, it is true, but more from fear of what you will think of her when her secret is disclosed than from any horror of this man. Remember,” she added, “that Mabel loves you passionately, as she has often confessed to me; but for some extraordinary reason, which remains a mystery, she endeavors to repress her affection. She fears, I believe, that there is only friendship on your part , that you are a determined bachelor, too recalcitrant to entertain any thought of affection for her.” “Oh, Mrs. Percival!” I cried, overcome by a sudden burst of passion, “I assure you—I confess that I have always loved Mabel—that I love her now tenderly, passionately, with all that vehement ardour which a man feels only once in his life. She has misjudged me. It was I who was to blame, for I have been blind, I have acted foolishly, and I have never read the secret of her heart. ” “Then she must know this at once,” replied the respectable lady sympathetically. “We must, whatever the cost, find her, and tell her everything. Yes, a meeting must be held, and she, for her part, must confess her feelings to you. I know very well how “She loves you deeply,” he added, “I know how much she admires you, and how, in the solitude of her room, she has often wept bitterly and long, because she believed you to be indifferent and blind to the ardent passion of her noble, sincere, and innocent heart. ” “But how was it possible to do this now? The whereabouts of my beloved were a mystery to us all; no one knew. She had disappeared entirely, with the object of evading the terrible revelation which caused her such horror, and which she dreaded to see divulged at any moment. While I remained weak and helpless, Ford and Reginald in the ensuing days busied themselves with the most active investigations, but all in vain. I appealed to Leighton, the lawyer, and asked his opinion, but all he could think of was to insert notices; however , we were both agreed that this method was neither convenient nor adaptable to her.” Strange as she might seem, Dorotea Dawson, or Dolly, as her father called her, the brown-faced young woman, also manifested the liveliest anxiety for Mabel. Her mother had been Italian, and she spoke English with a slight foreign accent, having lived always in Italy, as she said. She came to visit me once to express her sympathy on my illness. Her apparent vulgar appearance was solely due to her mixed nationality, and although she was a very clever young woman, possessing all the subtle perspicacity of the Italian, Reginaldo had found her a lively and entertaining companion. Yet all my thoughts were occupied with a sweet lost love, and with that arrogant, vulgar individual who, by his threats and slights, held her under his irresistible, hidden power. Why had she run away in terror from me? Why had this cowardly and ingenious attempt been made on my life? I had solved the secret of the cipher riddle, only to sink still deeper into a profound abyss of doubt, despair, and mystery; for what the sealed book of the future held in store for me was, as you will see, maddening and astonishing. When the light dawned, the reality appeared in a terrible, harsh , and incontestable form; but nevertheless, it was so startling and strange that belief in it wavered, and doubt seemed to take its place. Chapter 24. A TERRIBLE REVELATION. Several sad and weary weeks passed before I felt sufficiently well to go out, and at last, accompanied by Reginald, I took my first drive in a carriage. It was the middle of April, the weather was still quite cold, and the glittering world of London had not yet returned from spending the winter in Monte Carlo, Cairo, or Rome. Every year society turns into a swallow, flying south on the first cold day of autumn, only to return later to the city, and each season in London seems longer than the last. We walked up Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner, and then, rounding Constitution Hill, we turned into Pall Mall. Once here, I was seized with a vehement desire to rest a while and enjoy the air of St. James’s Park; therefore, we got out of the carriage, paid the driver’s fare, and, leaning on Reginald’s arm, we slowly made our way along the sandy paths of the promenade until we found a convenient seat. The splendor and beauty of St. James’s Park, even on an April day, are always a joy to true Londoners. I have often been surprised 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 English rural landscapes , and then that feeling one experiences when one realizes one is surrounded by the great palaces, apartments, and offices of the government of our great empire; or, in other words, that silence one enjoys within it, interspersed with the feverish and tumultuous life outside, make St. James’s Park one of the loveliest retreats in England. Reginald and I repeated this to each other several times, and then, under the delicious influence of that atmosphere, the time came for reflection and reminiscence, until at last there followed those long silences which occur between friends, and which are the best symbols of their complete harmony of feeling and ideas. As we sat meditating, I perceived that we were precisely at the spot where it is most likely to see, at that hour, the most prominent political figures of the day passing, either on their way to their different offices, or on their way to Parliament, where the session was about to open. In rapid succession, a Cabinet Minister, two Liberal peers, a Conservative, and an Under-Secretary passed towards the Storey Gate . Reginald, who took such an interest in politics, and had often occupied a seat in the gallery of the Houses, pointed out to me the politicians as they passed; but my thoughts were elsewhere; they had flown to where my lost love lay. Now that Mrs. Percival had revealed to me Mabel’s true feelings, I understood what a fool I had been to try to feign indifference toward her, pretending the very opposite of what really existed in my heart. I had been a great fool, and I was paying dearly for it. During the weeks I had been confined to my bedroom, I had managed to acquire a good number of books and discovered certain facts and information concerning the late cardinal, who, in exchange for his liberty, had been forced to reveal his secret. Andrea Sannini, it seems, was a native of Perugia, rose to become Archbishop of Bologna, and was later awarded the cardinal’s hat. Pius IX, whose great favorite he was, appointed him to several delicate missions to different powers, and since he proved, as a diplomat, to possess remarkable insight and vivacity, the Pope made him Treasurer General, as well as Director of the universally famous museums and galleries of the Vatican. He was one of the most distinguished and powerful figures in 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. On the death of Pius IX, eight years later, it was thought that he would be designated as his successor, but the choice fell on his colleague, Cardinal Pecci, who became Pope Leo XIII. I was preoccupied with all this information, which I had acquired after much labor and hard reading, when Reginald suddenly exclaimed in a low voice: “Look, there comes Dawson’s daughter accompanied by a man!” I glanced quickly in the direction indicated and saw, crossing the bridge that spans the lake and approaching where we were standing, the figure of a well-dressed woman, wearing an elegant fur jacket and a beautiful cap, with at her side a tall, thin man in a black suit. Dolly Dawson walked quietly along, talking and laughing, while from time to time he leaned close to her ear 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 from over his surtout. This man was evidently some canon or other dignitaries of the Catholic Church. He was about fifty-five years old, gray-haired, clean -shaven, and wore a top hat of a somewhat ecclesiastical kind; altogether a rather pleasant-looking man, in spite of his thin, sensitive lips and ascetically pallid face . It immediately occurred to me that they must have met secretly and were hanging about to avoid being recognized in the street. The priest seemed to treat her with studied courtesy, and I noticed his slight gesticulations as he spoke, which led me to believe he was a foreigner. I conveyed this thought to Reginald, who replied: “We must watch them, old man. They must not see us here.” I wish they would go the other way. We watched them for a moment, fearing that, having crossed the bridge, they might turn back in our direction, but fortunately they did not, for they turned to the right along the shore of the lake. “If that priest is Italian, then he must have come expressly from Italy to meet her,” I observed. “For from the moment I had spoken with Brother Antonio, there seemed to exist a curious connection between the secret of the deceased cardinal and the Church of Rome. ” “We must find out and learn the truth,” observed Reginald. “But you must not remain here any longer. It is getting too cold for you,” he added, jumping to his feet . “While you go home, I will follow them. ” “No,” I said. “I will walk a little with you. I am interested in this game.” And rising also, I put my arm in his and started off, leaning on my stick. They walked very close together, deeply engaged in animated conversation. From the priest’s rapid gestures, the way he first shook his clenched fingers, and then raised his open hand and touched his left forearm, I might have concluded that he was discussing some secret whose possessor had disappeared. If one knows Italian well, one can follow the subject of the conversation to a certain extent by the gestures, for each has its own particular meaning. Walking as quickly as I could, we gradually drew nearer, for they had shortened their pace and were moving relatively slowly. The priest held 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 she shrugged her shoulders and withdrew from him, turning away as if in an attitude of defiance, but at once the astute priest was all smiles and apologies. They spoke, of course, in Italian, so that passers-by could not understand their conversation. I noticed that their clothes were of a decidedly foreign cut, and that their shoes were low, though they had removed their bright steel buckles. At the moment they appeared across the bridge, she had been laughing gaily at some remark of her companion’s, but now all her mirth seemed entirely gone, and she had realized the true object of this stranger’s errand. The path they had followed led to Horse Guards Parade, and realizing a moment later that my weakness would not permit me to walk further, I was obliged 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 frozen, for, despite having worn my large woolen greatcoat, which I used for carriage rides when I was at Helpstone, I had not been able to keep out the cold, biting wind. I sat by the fire for two full hours trying to repair my loss, until at last my friend returned. “I followed them everywhere,” he explained, throwing himself into an armchair opposite me. “He evidently threatened her, and she is afraid of him.” When they reached Horse Guards Parade, they turned down Birdcage Walk again , and then crossed Green Park. Afterwards, he drove her to one of Fuller’s shops in Regent Street. The priest seems to have a terrified fear of being known, and before leaving Green Park, he turned up the collar of his greatcoat to hide that little bit of purple that was showing. ” “Have you discovered his name?” “I followed him as far as the Savoy, where he stops. There he registered his name as Monsignor Galli of Rimini. Our information on the subject ended there.” They were sufficient, however, to show that the priest was in London with a fixed purpose, probably to persuade the daughter of the Ceco to give him certain information which she vehemently desired to know, and that she had the I intended to obtain some important information in my possession. Several rainy and gloomy days passed, and Bloomsbury presented its most melancholy appearance. I had been unable to discover the slightest trace of my vanished love, nor to obtain any further information from Monsignore, the white-haired priest. He appeared to have left the Savoy the following evening, returning, no doubt, to the Continent, but whether he had succeeded in his mission we did not know. Dolly Dawson, with whom Reginald had formed a sort of pleasant friendship, more for the purpose of observing and questioning her than for any other purpose, called to see us to inquire after my health, and to learn if we had obtained any intelligence concerning Mabel’s whereabouts. Her father, she told us, had been absent from London for several days, and she was going to Brighton to visit an aunt. Could it be possible that Dawson, having learned of my success in solving the cipher, had set out for Italy to save the cardinal’s secret and wrest it from us? Hour by hour I longed to regain all my strength so that I could set out for the appointed place on the banks of the Serchio, but I found myself detained within those narrow rooms by my terrible weakness. Four long and dreadful weeks of martyrdom passed, until the middle of May arrived, and I was able to muster enough strength to go out only for walks and a few short strolls in and around Oxford Street. Burton Blair’s will had already been probated, and Leighton , on the several occasions he visited us, told us of the carelessness and indifference with which this Dawson handled the property. That the adventurer was in secret communication with Mabel was proved by the fact that certain checks signed by her had passed through his hands on their way to the bank; however, strange as it may seem, he affected complete ignorance of the matter and professed not to know its whereabouts. Dawson was already back at the house in Grosvenor Square when, one day, about twelve o’clock, Glave invited Carter into my presence. I saw from his countenance the agitation that dominated him, and no sooner had he entered than, after bowing me respectfully, he exclaimed: “I have succeeded in discovering Miss Mabel’s address, sir! Since she left the house, I have kept a close eye on the letters sent by post, as Mr. Ford had directed me to do; but Mr. Dawson has never written to her until this morning, when, by chance, I believe, he posted a letter addressed to her, among a number of others which he gave to the messenger. She is at Mill House, Church Enstone, near Chipping Norton.” Overjoyed, I leaped to my feet; I thanked him for the news, ordered Glave to give her something to drink, and left London for Oxfordshire by the half-past one train. Before five o’clock I found Mill House, a somber, old-fashioned house, standing behind a high box hedge in the village street at Church Enstone, on the highroad from Aylesburg to Stratford. Before the house lay a small lawn, gay and bright with its beds of tulips and fragrant daffodils. A coarse-tongued servant opened the door and showed me into a low, small, old-fashioned room, where I surprised my beloved sitting glumly in a large armchair, reading. “Mr. Greenwood!” she stammered, rising quickly, pale and breathless, “you! you here! ” “Yes,” I answered, when the servant had closed the door and we were alone. “I have found her at last, Mabel—at last!” And, coming forward, I tenderly took her two little hands in mine. Then, overcome by the ecstasy of that moment of pleasure, I looked straight into her eyes, exclaiming: “You tried to run away from me, but today I have found you again. I have come, Mabel, to confess to you frankly, to tell you… to tell you, my dearest Mabel, that… that I love you! ” “That you love me!” she cried, terrified, jumping back, and pushing me away from her with her two small white hands. “No! No!” she moaned. “You you must not—you cannot love me. It is impossible! “Why?” I asked her quickly. “I have loved you ever since that first night we met. Certainly you must have long ago discovered the secret of my heart. ” “Yes,” she stammered, “I have known it. But alas! it is too late— too late! ” “Too late?” I cried. “Why?” She remained silent. Her face took on a sudden deadly pallor, and even her lips grew white: then I saw her tremble from head to foot. I repeated my question gravely, with my eyes fixed upon her. “Because,” she answered at last slowly, in a tremulous voice, and so low that I could hardly hear the fatal words she uttered, “because I am already married! ” “Married!” I cried, stammering and stiffening. “And your husband! What is his name?” “Don’t you guess?” he asked me. “Don’t you suspect? The man you have already had an opportunity of knowing: Herbert Hales.” His eyes were lowered as if in shame, while his fine beard lay limply on his heaving breast. Chapter 25. THE SACRED NAME. What could I say? What would you have said? I remained silent. I did not know what words to utter. This young stableman, this rascal, son of the respectable old sailor who spent the evenings of his peaceful days sitting at the door of his house at the Crossroads, was, in fact, the husband of the millionaire’s daughter! It seemed utterly incredible, however, when I remembered that midnight scene in Mayville Park; I immediately recognized how helpless and helpless she was in the hands of that vulgar and arrogant yokel, that infamous peasant, who, in a moment of mad frenzy, had made this desperate and furious attempt on Mabel’s life. I recognized, too, that love, if it had ever existed, had long since died between them, and that the only idea that dominated his mind was to profit by his union with her, to abuse and exploit her basely, as so many women of wealth and position are at this very moment falling victim to similar misfortunes in England. Like a flash, the memory of her refusal to pursue and punish this infamous man for his cowardly attempt on her life flashed before my mind, and the reason then became clear and conclusive. She was his wife! The very thought of it stirred in me a spasm of jealousy, pain, and hatred, for I loved her with all the sincere and honest passion of which a good man is capable. Ever since Mrs. Percival had revealed the truth to me, I had lived only for her, thinking of meeting her again and frankly declaring my love for her. “Is this true?” I asked her at last, in a voice whose asperity I could not repress. I took her cold, lifeless hand in mine and gazed at her beautiful, drooping head. “Alas! unfortunately it is,” was her feeble reply. “He is my husband; consequently, all love between us is excluded,” she added. “You have always been my friend, Mr. Greenwood, but now that you have forced me to confess the truth, our friendship is at an end. ” “And your husband is here with you? ” “He has been,” she replied, “but he is gone. ” “I suppose you left London secretly to join him ?” I remarked bitterly and sourly. “Because he asked me to. He wished to see me. ” “To extort money by threats, as he tried to do on that memorable night at Mayville?” The pale, dejected girl nodded. “I’ve come to live in this house, but I have to pay for it,” she explained. “Isabel Wood, an old schoolmate of mine, lives here with her mother. They both believe that I have made a secret marriage against my family, which required me to run away from home, and for the last two years they have been extraordinarily kind to me. ” “So you’ve been married for two years!” I exclaimed in surprise and confusion, truly astonished to see the way in which I had been deceived. “Yes, nearly two years ago. We were married at Wymondham, in the county of Norfolk. ” “Tell me the whole story, Mabel,” I prompted her, after a prolonged pause, striving to preserve a feigned outward calm, which certainly did not coincide with my innermost and deepest feelings. Her chest rose and fell pantingly beneath her lace and chiffons, her large, wonderful eyes shone with tears. For five long minutes she remained overcome with emotion and unable to utter a word. At last, in a low, hoarse voice, she said: “I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. Greenwood. I am ashamed of myself, and of the way I deceived you. My only apology can be contained in these two words: it was imperative. I was forced into the marriage by a terrible chain of circumstances, which you will only understand when the light is broken, when you know the whole truth.” And she was silent again . “But won’t you tell me now?” I persisted. “As your best friend, as the man who has truly loved you, I believe I have a right to know.” She shook her head with bitter sadness, and, looking at me through her tears, answered briefly: “I have already told you. I am married. I can only ask your pardon for having deceived you, and tell you that I was forced to do it. ” “Do you mean to say that you were forced to marry him? Forced by whom? ” “By him,” she stammered. “It is two years since I left London alone one morning and joined him at Wymondham, where I had previously stopped for a fortnight while my father was fishing. Herbert met me at the station, and we were secretly married, two unknown men, chosen at random, acting as sponsors. After the ceremony was over, we separated. I took off my ring and returned home.” That evening we were giving a dinner, and among the guests were you, Lord Newborough, and Lady Rainham; afterward we went to the Haymarket. Don’t you remember? When we were seated in the box, you asked me why I was so sad and thoughtful, and I apologized by saying that I had a bad headache. Ah! if you had only known! “I remember that evening perfectly,” I said, pitying her. ” Was that then your wedding night? But how did he force you to marry him? His reasons are only too clear, indeed. He wanted to take advantage, no doubt, either because you could not suffer it to be known that you were the wife of a common man, a groom, or because he intended to come into possession of your money on your father’s death. Yours is certainly not the first marriage of this kind that has taken place,” I added, with a feeling of horror and confusion. At the very moment when my hopes had been raised to their highest pitch, and seemed almost ready to be realized, through Mrs. Percival’s declaration, a terrible blow had fallen upon them, and I understood at once that all love between us was impossible. Mabel, the woman I had loved with such passion and tenderness, was the wife of a crude peasant, who tormented her to madness with his threats, and who, as he had already shown, would hesitate at nothing to accomplish his despicable ends. The state of my mind and feelings was indescribable. I have no words which can adequately convey the conflicting emotions that tore at my heart, nor how cruelly they tortured it. Hitherto, she had been under my protection; but now that I knew her to be another’s wife, I had no right to exercise control over her actions; I had no right to admire her, nor had I the right to love her. Ah! if ever a man felt desperate, dejected, and disillusioned! If she has understood how useless and aimless her sad and lonely life has been, that man has been me. I tried to persuade her to tell me how that rustic peasant had had forced her to marry him, but the words caught in my throat and emotion choked me. Tears must have sprung to my eyes, I suppose, for with a surge of sudden sympathy, a burst of feminine tenderness vibrating so strongly within her noble being, she placed her hand affectionately upon my shoulder and said, in a calm, serene, low voice: “We cannot revoke the past; why then dwell on it? Proceed as I bade you in my letter. Forgive me and forget. Leave me to my sorrows. I know now that you have loved me, but it is…” He could not finish the sentence, for he was bathed in tears. “I know what you mean,” I said, confused. “Too late— yes, too late. Both our lives have been destroyed by my foolishness—because I withheld from you what, as a sincere and honorable man, I should have told you long ago.” “No, no, Gilberto,” he cried, calling me by name for the first time, “I don’t say that. The fault is not yours, but mine—mine,” and he covered his face with his hands and sobbed loudly and melancholically. “Where is your husband—or rather, that man who tried to kill you?” I asked him fiercely a few minutes later. “Somewhere in the North, I believe. ” “And when was he here with you? ” “He came a week ago and stayed a couple of hours. ” “But he can’t possibly abuse you like this anymore! If I can’t be your lover anymore, I can always be your champion, Mabel!” I cried with determination. “From now on you must put up with me. ” “Oh, no!” he stammered, turning to me with suspicion and fear. ” You must do nothing. Otherwise he might—” “What could he do?” She remained silent, gazing through the open window, aimlessly and without interest, at the wide meadows that stretched before her, hazy and silent in the twilight darkness. “You may,” she said in a low, broken voice, “you may tell the world the truth! ” “What truth?” “The one he knows… by which he forced me to be his wife,” and she placed her hand upon her breast, as if to stop the terrible beating of her tender heart. I tried to persuade her to reveal the secret to me, to confide her troubles to me, since I was her most faithful and true friend, but she refused. “No,” she cried in a broken voice, “do not ask me, Gilbert, now that I can afford to call you so, for of all men it is you I cannot tell. 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 her confidence and esteem in me, I realized that no power in the world would induce her to reveal this terrible truth to me. “But you know the reason your father had for appointing your friend Dawson as administrator of his fortune,” I told her. “He was confident that a word from you would force him to withdraw from the position he now holds. You cannot possibly pretend to be ignorant of your father’s mysterious motive for acting in this way. ” “I have already told you. My poor father also acted under pressure. Mr. Leighton knows it as well. ” “And you know the reason?” She nodded. “Then you can counteract this man’s plans?” “Yes, I could,” she answered slowly, “if I dared. ” “What are you afraid of? ” “I fear what my father feared,” she replied. “And what was that?” “That he would carry out a certain threat he had often made to my father, and later to me.” The day I left home, he threatened me too… challenging me to utter a single word. Yes, that one-eyed man had absolute power over her, as he had boasted to Mrs. Percival. This man also knew the cardinal’s secret, while I was ignorant of it. We sat in that small, antiquated room until twilight turned into deep night, and she rose with difficulty. and lit the lamp. In the light, I noticed with a start how her sweet face had changed. Her cheeks were pale and withered, her eyes swollen and red, and her whole countenance denoted a deep, terrible, burning anxiety , a panicky terror of the unknown that the future held in store for her. Certainly, her position was strange, almost inconceivable: a pretty young woman, with a fortune of more than two million pounds deposited with her bankers, and yet persecuted, haunted by her cruel enemies who sought her ruin, degradation, and death. The revelation of her marriage had dealt me a terrible blow, enough to make me stagger. I could no longer be to her more than a simple friend like any other man; all thoughts of love were excluded, all hope of happiness abandoned. I had never pursued her for her fortune, that I can honestly confess. I had loved her only for what she was worth, because she was sweet and pure, because I knew that her heart was true and loyal; that in character, strength of will, grace, and beauty, she was incomparable. For a long time I held her hand in mine, feeling a certain satisfaction, I suppose, in repeating in this way what I had so often done in the past, now that I had finally to bid adieu forever to all my hopes and aspirations. She sat silent, and heaved deep sighs of grief, while I spoke, relating to her that strange nocturnal adventure in the streets of Kensington, and how nearly she had come to death. “Then, knowing that you have succeeded in reading the secret written in those letters, they have tried to seal your lips forever,” she cried at last, in a hard, mechanical voice, almost as if she had been talking to herself. “Ah! Did I not warn you in my letter? Did I not tell you that the secret is so well and ingeniously guarded that you will never succeed in learning it or in profiting by it?” “But I intend to persevere in the solution of the mystery of your father’s fortune,” I declared, still holding her hand in mine, bidding her my sad and bitter farewell. “He left me his secret, and I have decided to leave for Italy tomorrow to seek the indicated spot and learn the truth. ” “Then you had better save yourself the trouble, sir,” exclaimed the voice of a vulgar and ill-mannered man, which, upon hearing it, made me start , and, turning quickly, I saw that the door had quietly opened , and on the threshold, gazing at us with apparent satisfaction, stood the man who stood between my beloved and me: 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 should like to know what you have to do here?” asked this vulgar individual, with coarse features, whose flat gray hat and short breeches gave him a decidedly stable-boy appearance. And he stood in the doorway, crossing his arms defiantly and staring me in the face. “The business that brought me here concerns me alone,” I replied, meeting him with disgust. “If it concerns my wife, I have a right to know it,” he persisted. “Your wife!” I cried, advancing toward him and with difficulty controlling the powerful impulse I felt to strike and throw this young ruffian to the ground. “Don’t call her your wife, man! Call her by her true name: your victim! ” “Do you call 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 to whom words, however harsh, can be no insult,” I answered violently, “and you are one of them.” “What do you mean?” he cried. “Do you wish to fight?” He advanced with his fists clenched. “I do not wish to fight,” was my quick reply. “All I command is that you leave this lady alone. She may legally be your wife, but I I will assume the role of your protector. ‘ ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, curling his lip in mockery. ‘I wish to know by what right you intervene between us? ‘ ‘With the right every man has to protect a helpless and persecuted woman,’ I answered firmly. ‘I know you, and I am well aware of your ignominious past. Since you dare to defy me, need I perhaps remind you of an incident you seem to have very comfortably forgotten? You don’t remember a certain night, not far ago, in Mayville Park, when you attempted to commit a vile and brutal crime? Don’t you remember? ‘ He jumped with a start, then looked at me angrily, the fire of criminal hatred glowing in his eyes. ‘She told you so! Damn you! You sold me out!’ he exclaimed, casting a look of profound disdain on his trembling and terrified wife. “No, she didn’t tell me,” I replied. “I happened to be a witness to your cowardly attempt. I was the one who pulled her alive from the icy river into which you had criminally thrown her. By that act you committed then, you are going to answer me now. ” “What do you mean?” he asked, and from the lines on his face I knew that my attitude and words had caused him immense unease. “I mean that it is not for you to dare to defy me, considering the fact that, had it not been for the happy circumstance of having been present that night in the park, you would be a convicted murderer today.” At the last words, he contracted in terror. Like all of his kind, he was arrogant and tyrannical with the weak, but as easily held firmly in check as a dog that submits to its master’s voice. “And now,” I continued, “I may also add that on that very night when you almost killed this poor little girl who is your victim, I heard your demands. You are a vile exploiter, the most despicable and vile type of criminal, and you seem to have forgotten that for crimes such as yours there are severe laws that punish. You demand money by means of threats, and when faced with a refusal you make a desperate attempt on your wife’s life. The evidence I could present against you in the tribunal of Assisi would condemn you to penal servitude for a term of years, do you understand? I will, therefore, make an agreement with you: if you promise not to bother your wife any more, I will keep silent. ” “And do me the favor of telling me who the devil you are to speak to me in this manner—well, like a prison chaplain on his weekly visit to the cells! ” “You’d better hold your tongue, man, and think carefully about my words,” I said. “I’m not one to enter into arguments.” I proceed. “Well, proceed as you please. I’ll do what you think best , do you hear? ” “And you will brave danger? Expose yourself to everything? Very well,” I retorted. “You know the worst of it—the prison. ” “And you don’t,” he laughed. “If it weren’t so, you wouldn’t be talking like a complete idiot. Mabel is my wife, and you have nothing to do with it, so that’s enough,” he added insolently. “Instead of trying to threaten me, I have the right to ask you why I find you here—with her. ” “I’ll tell you!” I cried angrily, my hands burning with the desire to teach the reckless scoundrel a lesson he deserves. “I’m here to protect you, because I fear for your life. And I will remain here until you leave. ” “But I am your husband, and therefore I will stay,” cried the individual, completely unaffected. “Then she will go with me,” I cried decisively. “I will not allow that. ” “You will proceed as I think proper,” I said. Then, turning to Mabel, who had remained silent, trembling, and pale, for fear of our coming to blows, I added: “Put on your coat and hat at once, for you must return to London with me. ” “You will not!” she cried, unyielding. “If my curses and oaths can irritate her, they will be thick and heavy.” “Mabel,” I said, paying no attention to the ruffian’s words, but stepping back to allow him to pass, “put on your coat, please . There’s a flyer waiting for me outside. ” The scoundrel tried to make a movement to prevent him from leaving the room, but at once my hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and he read my determination in my face. “You’ll be sorry for this!” he hissed menacingly, uttering a curse between his teeth. “I know what you’re after… but,” he laughed, “you’ll never get the secret that gave Blair those millions. You think you have the thread that will unlock the mystery, but you’ll soon realize your mistake. ” “And what’s my mistake? ” “Not associating with me, instead of insulting me.” “I have no need of the aid of a man who attempts upon the life of a poor, helpless woman,” I replied. “Remember that from now on you must keep away from her, or, by Job! I assure you that without further ado, I shall request the cooperation of the police, and your past history will prove 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 of evils. If you doubt what I say, ask her. Take heed how you proceed before you make a fool of yourself and make her a victim.” And with this vain and harsh insolence, he threw himself 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. “Fear not, it will be only one of you who will lose,” I replied significantly. “And that will be you. ” “Very well,” he exclaimed, “we shall see.” I left the room and joined Mabel, who was waiting for me fully dressed in the hall. After bidding a hasty farewell to Isabel Wood, her old schoolmate, I led her out, put her in the carriage, and with her returned to Chipping Norton. Although, on calmer reflection, I could not understand the exact position occupied by this young ruffian named Herbert Hales, or the true meaning of his final ominous words of frank defiance, I had, for the time being, succeeded in snatching my beloved from the clutches of this impudent, heartless, and arrogant brute and exploiter, yet I dared not predict for how long this would be. My
position was insecure and uncertain, as I could not face the situation openly. I loved Mabel, but I had no right to do so. I was, unfortunately, the wife—alas! the victim, rather— of a man of a vulgar type and criminal instincts. Our journey to Paddington Station was uneventful, and almost in complete silence. Our hearts, which had been beating sadly, were filled with grief and pain, and we had no breath left to utter the simplest words. An insurmountable barrier had been placed between us; we were both despondent and sick with sorrow. The hopeful past was over; a gloomy, melancholy, and despairing future lay before us. When we arrived in London, she expressed a desire to see Mrs. Percival, and as she refused to live under the same roof with Dawson again, I drove her to the York Hotel in Albemarle Street; then, in the same carriage, I proceeded to Grosvenor Place, informing Mrs. Percival where my beloved was. The widow did not lose a minute in going to her, and at midnight, accompanied by Reginald, I went back to the hotel, for I wished to give her certain instructions concerning her husband, recommending that she refuse to see him if he ever met her, and also to take leave of her, for at nine o’clock the following morning we were leaving Charing Cross for Italy. I had resolved with Reginald that we should not lose a moment longer , now that I felt sufficiently improved and strong to travel, and that it was necessary to leave for Tuscany, for the purpose of ascertaining the truth of this mysterious ciphered record. She bade us both a most affectionate farewell, and insisted that we should not We should grieve more for her, yet we could not but notice how great was her anxiety regarding the issue of my defiance of her infamous husband. She wished us good luck, speed in the dangerous enterprise we were about to undertake, complete success, and a speedy and happy return to our homeland. Chapter 27. HIS EMINENCE’S INSTRUCTIONS. The green and winding valley of Serchio presented its most cheerful and beautiful appearance in the month of May, the time of flowers in old Italy. Far, far away, from the great roads traversed in winter by the numerous English, American, and German tourists, solitary and unexplored, visited only by the simple contadini of the mountains, the murmuring river winds its way in tortuous curves and capricious bends, around sharp angles, and under immense trees with their drooping tops, around great boulders and enormous stones, worn and smoothed by the action of the water through the centuries. In these solitary reaches of the river, where it rushes impetuously from the gigantic Apennines toward the sea, the brilliant kingfisher and the majestic heron dwell, tranquil and content, undisturbed by humans , feeling themselves absolute masters of it. As we set off, having left the carriage that had brought us from Lucca to the strange medieval bridge called the Devil’s Bridge, the picturesque, serene, and solitary rural beauty of the landscape impressed us. The silence was profound; not the slightest sound could be heard, except for the buzzing of the thousands of insects swarming in the sun, and the soft, musical murmur of the water, which in this spot glides peacefully over its rocky bed. My first impulse when we arrived at the Universo, in Lucca, was to go up to the Monastery and visit Brother Antonio. However, his relationship with Blair’s partner, the former boatswain Dawson, seemed so intimate to me that we decided to first explore the indicated spot and make some observations. Therefore, at eight o’clock that morning, we climbed into one of those old and dusty Tuscan carriages, whose horses are decorated with noisy bells, and about noon we found ourselves on the left bank of the river, counting the four hundred and fifty-six paces, as indicated by the secret register inscribed on the charts. We ordered our driver to return and wait for us at the little inn, or tavern, that stood beside the road and in front of which we had just passed; and to avoid his observing us from a distance, for we knew that he would try to stealthily spy out our movements, we were obliged, in view of the lack of a path, to make a detour through the center of a copse, emerging again on the river bank a little higher up. When we were by the water, standing amidst the tall bushes that grew over the banks, we could only look back towards the bridge and estimate that we were about a hundred paces from it. Then, marching ahead in single file, we made our way with difficulty through the tall weeds, grasslands, giant ferns, and tangled creepers, advancing slowly toward the designated bridge. In certain places, the trees intertwined their tops, and the bright sun penetrated through the foliage, reflecting its rays on the murmuring, turbulent waters, producing a beautiful effect. According to the register, the place must have been in the open, since the sun shone upon it for one hour at noon on April 5 and two hours on May 5. It was then the 19th of May, and therefore the duration of the sun would be, roughly , 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 could never penetrate there, since its banks were so high and boxed in that they impeded it. From the cracks in the rocks, mountain pines and other trees emerged, taking root and growing enormously, bending over the river until they almost touched it. the water with its branches; consequently, our progress was becoming more and more slow and difficult, owing to the roughness of the bank, the tangled wild vegetation, and the grasslands. One fact was established: it had been a long time since anyone had approached the indicated spot, for we found not the slightest trace to show that the feet of some intruder had trodden a leaf or destroyed a single stick. At last, after we had climbed along a steep cliff that dropped abruptly to the water, and had calculated that we were within 420 paces of the old bridge, we suddenly turned a bend in the river and emerged into a space where it widened, although it always glided along at a depth of 100 feet or more, so that it ran unobstructed to a width of at least 40 yards, as far as the eye could see. “This must be it!” I cried with eager anticipation, stopping and rapidly inspecting the place. “The directions say twenty-four steps down. I suppose they mean steps cut into the rock; we must find them. ” We both began to look for them with the greatest interest, but could discover no footprints amidst the tangled vegetation. “The register says to descend to the point behind which a man can defend himself against four hundred,” exclaimed Reginald, reading a copy of the original which he took from his pocket. “This seems to show that the entrance is in some narrow cleft between two rocks. Do you not see something of the kind?” I looked anxiously around, but was forced to confess that I could discern nothing corresponding to the description. So abrupt was the dark limestone crag that dropped down to the water, that I approached its edge with great caution, and then, throwing myself on my belly, crept and looked over its perilous bank. As we did so, a huge piece of rock came loose and fell into the river with a great crash. I observed everything very carefully, but I could see nothing, absolutely nothing, that corresponded to what the old bandit Poldo Pensi had left behind. For more than half an hour we wandered around, searching in vain, until we realized, alarmed, that since we had not accurately measured the steps marked from the Devil’s Bridge, we were not at the right spot. We retraced our steps, slowly and laboriously, once again having to wade through the almost impenetrable undergrowth, tearing our clothes and injuring ourselves. Once we reached the bridge, which was our starting point, we set off again. So erroneous had our calculation been that, at 387 paces into our second exploration, we passed the spot we had so thoroughly scrutinized moments before. Continuing on, ever forward, we stopped at 456 paces on the crest of a high field very similar to the other, though wilder and even more inaccessible. “There seems to be nothing here,” observed Reginald, whose face was all bruised by thorny undergrowth and dripping with blood. I looked around and, with disgust, had to endorse his words. The trees were large and gloomy where we stood, some of them leaning over the deep ravine through which the river wound. Cautiously, we crept face down to the edge of the rock, using this precaution because we did not know if the bank was rotten, and we inspected the spot with a penetrating gaze. “Look!” cried my friend, pointing to a spot farther down the rock, halfway across the deep river, after it had turned sharply, “there are some steps and a narrow path leading down . And what is that?” Chapter 28. Description of an Astonishing Discovery. I looked and saw, upon a sort of natural platform made in the rock, a small stone hut, whose dark tiled roof we looked down upon . “Yes,” I exclaimed, “there are the twenty-four steps mentioned in the register, there’s no doubt about it. Does someone live within that hut? ” “Let’s go down and investigate,” Reginald urged anxiously, and a few minutes later we discovered a narrow track leading from the chestnut wood directly to the rough steps, which descended to a narrow opening between two rocks. Over the one on the right, we saw, deeply cut in the stone, an old-fashioned capital E, about a foot long, and passing alongside this, we came upon a dangerous and rugged bucket, which, zigzagging, led to the little hut. The closed door and the little iron window of this solitary cabin excited our curiosity. A moment later, however, the mystery was revealed. The front of the hut was pointed, and over the keystone was a small stone cross. It was a hermit’s cell, like so many other ancient places of retreat and contemplation in ancient Italy, and immediately, as we passed the rocks and cautiously descended the path, the door opened, and a monk emerged from the hermitage, in whom I recognized, to my great surprise, the stout, bearded Capuchin, Fra Antonio. “Gentlemen,” he cried in Italian, greeting us, “this is certainly an unexpected meeting.” And he pointed out the stone bench outside the low, small hut, which I noticed was cleverly hidden by the tall trees, whose tops bent down over the river, so that it was invisible on both sides of the Serchio. When we seated ourselves in acceptance of his invitation, he picked up his faded crimson habit and sat down beside us. I expressed my surprise at finding him there, but he smiled and said: “Are you disappointed at not having discovered something else?” “We hope to learn Cardinal Sannini’s secret,” was my frank reply, knowing full well that he was in possession of the truth, and suspecting that, along with the one-eyed Englishman, he had also been an associate of Blair. The monk’s coarse, sun-tanned features assumed an enigmatic and confused expression, for he understood that we had learned something, but he hesitated to question us for fear of revealing himself. Capuchins, like Jesuits, are admirable diplomats. Undoubtedly, the personal fascination exercised by the monk was due in part to his splendid presence. His face was handsome, clear, with well-defined and energetic features, softened by eyes that seemed to shine with the light of perpetual youth, with a modest, candid expression. “So you have recovered the register,” he finally remarked, looking me straight in the face. “Yes, and since I have read it,” I replied, “I have come here to investigate it and to claim the secret that has been bequeathed to me.” He breathed heavily, looked at us both for a moment, and his heavy black brows contracted. It was hot where we sat, for the bright Italian sun fell flat upon us; therefore, without answering me, he rose and invited us into his cool little cell, a bare, square room with a plank floor, the furniture of which consisted of a low, old-fashioned wooden bedstead with a piece of an old, dark counterpane for a cover; a Renaissance priedieu of antique carved oak, blackened with use and age; a chair, a hanging lamp, and on the wall a large crucifix. “And Mr. Dawson?” he inquired at last, when Reginald had seated himself on the side of the bed and I in the chair. “What does he say?” “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 present possessor,” was his calm observation. “Its present possessor has no right to it. Burton Blair has given it to me, and therefore it is mine,” I declared. “I do not dispute that,” replied the monk. “But as keeper of the secret From the cardinal, I have a right to know how the register inscribed in the letters came into your possession , and how you obtained the key to the cipher. I told him exactly everything he wished to know, and when he had ascertained this, he exclaimed: “You have certainly succeeded in what I predicted would fail, and your presence here fills me with surprise. You have apparently overcome all the obstacles that have been set before you, and today you come to claim from me what is rightfully yours, beyond all doubt.” He seemed to speak sincerely, but I must confess that I had no confidence in him and still harbored some misgivings. “Before we go any further, however,” he continued, standing with his hands thrust into the wide sleeves of his habit, “I am going to ask you whether you intend to observe the same methods practiced by Mr. Blair, who allotted one-eighth of the money derived from the secrecy to our Capuchin Order.” “Certainly I do,” I replied, somewhat surprised. “It is my wish to respect in every respect the obligations of my late friend. ” “That is a promise you make,” he said with some anxiety. “It is necessary that you make it solemnly… come, swear it. Will you repeat it? Raise your hand!” And he 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. “Then I suppose the moment has come to reveal the secret to you, although I have no doubt that it will cause you unspeakable surprise. Consider, sir, that you are still a comparatively poor man, but that in half an hour you will be richer than you have dreamed in your wildest dreams… that you will have millions, as happened to Burton Blair. ” I waited on him in astonishment, hardly believing my ears. Yet what good was it to me to possess fabulous riches, now that I had lost my love? From a small cupboard he took an old, rusty lantern and carefully lit it, while we both stared at it with eager , breathless interest. Then he locked the door and secured it with an iron bar, closed the window shutters, and we were left in darkness. Were we about to see some supernatural illusion? We stood waiting , eager and ecstatic, not realizing or guessing what was about to happen. A moment later he moved his heavy bed out of the corner where it lay, and we saw in the floor, skillfully concealed, a sort of door, which when opened revealed a deep, dark shaft. “Be careful,” he warned us, “for the steps are somewhat rough and difficult in places.” And holding the lantern aloft , he soon disappeared from sight, leaving us behind to follow him up those rough steps cut into the living stone and then into the solid rock—steps damp and sticky where the water seeped in and fell in resounding drops. “Duck down!” our guide commanded, and we saw the faint sliver of his light illuminating our way along a narrow and winding path that extended into the very heart of the enormous crag. At certain points we passed through muddy patches of sticky mud and mold, while the air there lingered with a foul, unwholesome, and unpleasant odor. Presently we came out into a large open space, the dimensions of which we could not estimate by the feeble light of that poor lantern. “These caverns go on for miles,” the monk explained. “The galleries run in all directions and lead directly beneath the city of Lucca and toward the Arno. They have never been explored. Listen!” In the strange darkness we heard the distant roar of distant waters crashing down. “That is the subterranean river, the river that separates the secret from all men except you,” he said. “Then he went on, still along one side of the gigantic cavern we were crossing, and We followed him, coming nearer and nearer to those noisy waters, until at last he ordered us to pass, and began to examine the rude and rugged walls, on which great, glittering stalactites glittered. At last he found a large white sign, identical with the letter E he had graven in the rock at one side of the entrance to the enormous crag, and laid his lantern on the ground. “Do not advance one step farther,” he cried. Then he produced from a hollow, where it seemed to be well concealed, a long and rude bridge, consisting of a single plank, with feeble railings on either side. He pushed it forward while I held up the light, until it reached the very edge of the deep chasm, and crossed it, so that we could pass. When we were in the middle of it, he raised his lantern higher, and we shuddered to see, far below, about a hundred feet from us, a sort of ravine, through which rushed mighty masses of black water, roaring furiously as they lost themselves in the bowels of the earth, and forming a terrible trap for those who might venture to explore this strange, curious, and damp place. After crossing the bridge, we again skirted a new rocky wall on the right, then passed through a long, narrow tunnel, and at last emerged into another open space, the dimensions of which we were also unable to estimate. The monk then placed his lantern in a niche, within which were several candles placed on rude boards and fastened between three nails. When he lit them and our eyes became accustomed to the light, we saw that we were in a sort of room, not very large, but long, narrow, and drier than the other parts of the cavern. “Look!” exclaimed the Capuchin, waving his hand. “Here it is, Mr. Greenwood, and it’s all yours.” Then I realized, with amazement and astonishment, that all around the walls of that room, piled high, one upon another, were an immense number of leather sacks filled almost to bursting. I touched a pile within easy reach and saw that what was contained within 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 bands of rusty iron studded with nails, must contain, I thought, the mysterious riches that had made Burton Blair a millionaire, when a few days before he had been a poor, homeless wanderer. “What!” I cried in astonishment; “this is an immense hidden treasure!” “Yes,” answered Friar Antonio in his low, deep voice. “The hidden treasure of the Vatican.” “Look,” he added, “everything is here, except the part which Mr. Blair brought out.” And opening one of the massive chests, he held up the lantern and displayed before my eyes such a varied collection of gold chalices, patens, and monstrances, vestments covered with jewels and precious stones, and magnificent ornaments, as I had never seen before . Reginald and I were completely confounded and speechless at the sight. At first, I believed I was living in an enchanted world of legend and romance, but when a moment later the gruff Capuchin reminded me of the past, my astonishment was boundless. The secret of Burton Blair was out—and it was mine! ” “Ah!” exclaimed the monk, laughing; “this revelation has completely bewildered him. But did I not 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 , for I had cut open one or two of the leather sacks and found that every one of them was overflowing with gold and precious stones, mostly inlaid in crucifixes and ecclesiastical vestments. Chapter 29. In which a strange story is related. “I think it right that you should now know the truth, although the greatest efforts have been made to conceal 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, at Rome, are the greatest of the world, and also that every Pope, on the occasion of his jubilee or some other notable anniversary, receives an enormous number of gifts, while the Church of St. 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. Early in 1870, Pope Pius IX received, through the wonderful diplomatic channels possessed by our Holy Church, secret reports announcing that Italian troops intended to bombard and enter Rome, as well as to plunder the Vatican Palace. His Holiness confided his fears to the great Cardinal Sannini, his favorite, who was then Treasurer-General. The latter knew that a safe hiding-place existed here, for he had lived in this district as a young peasant; Thus, in the months of June, July, and August of 1870, he succeeded in secretly transporting a large quantity of the Vatican treasure and storing 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 launch a vigorous attack on the Vatican. Since then, the treasure torn from its bosom has remained here. Cardinal Sannini was, it seems, a traitor to the Church, for although 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 assisted the cardinal in his work, and who, apart from him, were the only possessors of the secret, should have disappeared so completely. It is very probable, I think, that they were hurled to the bottom of that subterranean river we have just crossed. The small entrance to these galleries was formerly hidden only by weeds and brambles, but after the treasure was stored here, His Eminence discovered that the spot was very suitable for building a hermitage, and he had this small hut you have seen built over the small opening in the rock, on the side of the enormous crag, for the purpose of concealing it. So that the masons 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 robes and led the life of a hermit in this cell, but he had no other object in doing so 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 reveal the existence of his treasure. Pensi, in view of this, came here secretly and saw the treasure, but being extremely superstitious, as all those of his station are, he did not dare to touch a single object. He sought out a man who had once been part of his party and who later repentantly entered our Monastery, a certain Brother Horatius, and gave him the hermitage to look after, but without telling him anything about the secret tunnel and its subterranean caverns. Sannini and the Pope died, while Brother Horatius, completely ignorant of the fact that he resided over a veritable mine of fabulous wealth, continued to live here for sixteen years, until his death, and I succeeded him in the occupation of the cell, where I spend almost six months every year in meditation and prayer. Meanwhile, the secret of His Eminence, inscribed in the secret cipher used by the Vatican in the seventeenth century, passed, it seems, from the hands of Poldo Pensi to those of Burton Blair, his seaman and intimate friend. It was about five years ago, or so, that I first learned this. My peace of mind was disturbed one day by a visit from two Englishmen, Blair and Dawson, who told me a strange story about the secret they had been given. But at first, I didn’t want to believe there was any truth to this tale of hidden treasure. However, we investigated, and after a very long, difficult, and dangerous exploration, we managed to uncover the truth. “So Dawson shared in the secret, as well as the profits?” I observed, astonished at the astonishing truth. “Yes, the three of us were the only ones who knew the secret, and then we agreed that Blair would have the largest share, since the ex-bandit had given it to him, while Dawson, to whom Pensi, it seems, had disclosed some information concerning the treasure before his death, would share a quarter of the annual proceeds, and I, appointed guardian of the treasure house, would share an eighth—or, rather, my community, for whose benefit it was. I would not be paid directly , because that would have aroused suspicion, but rather the Vicar General of the Capuchin Order, resident in Rome, with Blair’s bankers in London in charge of this mission. This agreement has been honored for five years.” Once every six months, we would all enter this place together and select a quantity of jewels and other valuables, which were then sent by different routes to convenient points: the jewels to Amsterdam to be sold, and the other articles to the great auction houses of Paris, Brussels, and London, while other objects ended up in the hands of famous dealers and antique collectors. As you can see, this collection of jewels is inexhaustible. Three rubies alone brought in Paris last year 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 channels 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,” Reginald observed. “No,” replied the great monk, speaking in English; “according to Cardinal Sannini, His Holiness, after the peace with Italy, presented it to him as a token of consideration, and considering also that, with the occupation of Rome by the Italian troops, it would be difficult, without exciting great suspicion, to bring back the great collection of jewels to the Vatican treasury. ” “Then all this is mine!” I exclaimed, still unable to fully believe the truth. “All,” replied the Capuchin, “except my own, or rather my Order’s, share to be distributed among the poor, in payment for their protective mission here, and Mr. Dawson’s, too, together… with some grant of reward,” and he turned to Reginald, “to your friend here present. At least, that is what I suppose. I once put him on my guard against him,” he added, “but it was because of what Dawson told me, which was nothing but lies.” “I have already sworn to proceed with your Order as did Burton Blair. As for Dawson, that is a different matter; but my friend Seton will not, be assured, be forgotten, nor will you personally, as the faithful possessor of the secret. ” “Any reward or gift that may be given me is for my Order,” was the calm reply of the manly monk. “We are forbidden to possess money, for our small personal needs are supplied by the Father Superior, and of the riches of this world we desire nothing except what is necessary to succor the poor and relieve the afflicted. ” “Fear not,” I said, laughing, “you will have a sum for that purpose.” Afterward, as the air, exhausted by the lights, seemed to grow more and more impure, we decided to return to the cell so skillfully constructed at the entrance to the narrow outer gallery. We had reached the edge of that terrible abyss, where deep below the water roared in a mighty current, and I had already crossed the narrow bridge and set foot on the opposite shore, when, unexpectedly, a pair of iron arms seized me in the darkness, and almost before I could utter a cry, I was violently pushed towards the edge. from the frightful precipice. The hands that had imprisoned me tightened with steely fingers on my throat and arm, and so sudden was the attack that at first I believed it was a joke on Reginald’s part, for he was very given to jokes when he was in a good humor. “My God!” I heard him cry a second later, as the flickering light of the lantern fell upon the face of my assailant. “It’s Dawson!” The consciousness of this terrible reality, and the feeling that I was seized by my worst enemy, who, no doubt, had been following us, for he knew the place well, aroused in me a superhuman strength, and I engaged in a terrible struggle 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 the profound darkness, on the very edge of the abyss, into whose bosom it was his intention to throw me, to perish like the two Swiss Guards, who must have been driven to the bottom by the cunning cardinal. I understood his murderous design, but not so soon that he had time to murmur, panting, with a terrible oath: “This time he shall not escape!” The blow I struck him in the mist had not produced the desired effect; but here, once he has fallen, he will not be able to interfere in my affairs again. Down with you!” I felt my strength ebb as he made me retreat a few more steps, giving us the embrace of death. In the darkness, I felt myself seized by one of my companions and saved, but at that very moment, he had resorted to an old schoolboy trick, and, suddenly turning so that my adversary was in my place, I pushed him back, freeing myself, at the same time, from his grasp. It was all the work of a second. In the flickering light of the lamp, I saw him waver, madly grasping at the void, and with a frightful cry of rage and despair, fall to the bottom of that black abyss, where the rushing waters would drag him down to subterranean, unknown, and unexplored regions. Without a doubt, my escape from death was the most difficult and terrible ever known to man, and after that violent effort, I remained there, breathless, panting, and stunned, until Reginald took me by the arm and pulled me out of that dark cavern, amid a silence more impressive than all words. Chapter 30. THE MOTIVE AND THE MORAL. The following evening we took leave of the vigorous Capuchin monk on the platform of the Lucca station, and boarded the train, in which we were to traverse the first part of our return journey to England. He was to return at once to his hermit’s cell above the winding Serchio, and remain, 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, for we did not know what would have become of Mabel. However, with the consciousness that the malignant and poisonous influence of the adventurer Dawson was gone, we returned to our homeland somewhat more at ease. It was as rich as I had ever dreamed, for in the midst of my wildest fancies I had never imagined such a prodigy. However, the hope that Mabel would ever become my wife, an illusion which had been my ideal, the very desire of my existence, had been shattered, and during those long, melancholy, silent hours of travel, while the sleeping car of the express rolled northward across the plains of Lombardy, then Switzerland and France, my despairing thoughts were entirely upon her and her future. A cab took us directly from Charing Cross to Great Russell Street , where I found a notice from Mabel, dated in the mansion in Grosvenor Square, bidding me return immediately from our journey. I had no sooner washed and tidied myself up than I did so, and Carter conducted me, without ceremony and at once, into the great white and gold drawing-room with which I was so familiar. 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 joy and pleasure at seeing me again. Her face seemed to me to express a lively anxiety, and the pallor of her cheeks showed how cruelly her heart had been broken by terror and sorrow. “Yes, Mabel, we are back again,” I said, clasping her hand in mine and looking into her eyes. “I have discovered your father’s secret! ” “What?” she cried in anxious surprise. “You have discovered it? Tell me what it is—tell me,” she persisted breathlessly. First I obtained from her a promise of absolute silence about what I revealed to her, and then I related to her our visit to the hermit’s cell, the reception Fra Antonio had given us, and our discoveries. She listened with the greatest amazement to the whole story of the Vatican’s hidden treasure, until it was time to describe Dawson’s attempt on my life and its tragic end; then she exclaimed vehemently : “If that man is dead—really dead—then I am free! ” “What? Explain!” I said. “Now that circumstances have combined to free me in this way, I will confess everything to you,” she replied after a brief pause. Her face had turned crimson, and, glancing towards the door, she first ascertained that it was closed. Then, in a deep, intense voice, fixing her marvelous eyes upon me, she began: “I have been the victim of a vile and infamous 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 from a high sense of duty and rectitude. You will see that the conspiracy hatched against me is unequaled for its ingenuity and real cunning.” I have just succeeded in discovering the truth and in learning the deeply hidden motive behind it all. My first meeting with Herbert Hales was apparently casual and took place on Widemarsh Street in Hereford. I was then a schoolgirl finishing my studies, and as full of romantic ideas about men as all girls of that age are. I saw him often, and although I knew he led a precarious life looking after racehorses, I allowed him to entertain me. At first, I confess, I fell in love with him, a fact that was not lost on Herbert Hales, and during that summer at Mayville, after dark, I had many secret interviews with him in the park. We had known each other for about three months when one evening he suggested that we should be married; but, as I had meanwhile discovered that his love for me was only feigned, I refused. Night after night we continued to see each other, but I steadfastly refused to marry him, until, during one of them, he revealed himself in his true light, telling me, to my great horror, that he was well acquainted with my father’s life story , and then alluding to a dishonorable act in which, he claimed, he had taken part. He told me that my father, in order to gain possession of the secret which fortune later gave him, had murdered the Italian sailor Pensi on board the “Annie Curtis,” as they sailed from the coast of Spain. I refused to listen to this terrible accusation, but my surprise was great when I found that he arranged for me to have an interview with my father’s friend, this Dawson, during which he declared that he had been a witness to the event. When we were alone that same evening, and were walking along a by-path in the park, he made his intentions plain to me, and imposed upon me the obligation of accepting him as my husband, compelling me to marry him secretly, without my father’s knowledge. He threatened to bring the alleged crime to the attention of the police, if I did not accept his terms. “You scoundrel! You infamous one!” I cried indignantly. “He pointedly pointed out to me,” he continued, “how Dawson, my father’s most intimate friend, had been a witness to the crime, and I found myself as completely lost in his unscrupulous hands, as I also saw the reputation of the author of my days was so compromised that, after a week of useless resistance, I was forced to accept the conditions imposed and consent to this odious marriage. From that moment, even when I returned home immediately after the marriage ceremony, I was completely under his power, and at every new demand I had to give him money, money which I extracted by threats. After he had secured me as his victim, his true instincts were almost instantly revealed , those of a man who lives by his infamies and to whom a woman’s heart is of no value. And from that time until now, although the world believed me to be a spinster, and I attended like a child all the parties and gatherings of the most brilliant circle in London, I have nevertheless lived constantly in a state of panic terror of the man who was by law my husband. She paused to breathe and take breath, and I noticed that her very lips were white and she trembled from head to foot. “Happily,” she continued at last, “you were able to save me; “Otherwise, the plot would have succeeded in every respect. Until yesterday I was quite ignorant of the real motive that had existed for forcing me into this marriage, but now that I have discovered it, I see how clever and astute was the mind that contrived it. Herbert sought me out from the first, it seems, because he had heard old Mr. Hales make a casual remark on my father’s mysterious and large fortune. Being an adventurer, he calculated that he might marry me, considering me to be the sole heiress of his great wealth. We had been acquainted for a month when Dawson unexpectedly arrived from Italy and stayed with us at Mayville for a few days. One afternoon, while out shooting wild pigeons, he saw us walking together on the edge of the wood that borders the park. The moment he saw us, he formed his diabolical plan, and the next day he set himself to make inquiries concerning Hales, and when he had ascertained the individual’s character and circumstances, he met him and made a curious compact, the result of which was that if Dawson would so arrange matters as to effect a secret marriage between Hales and myself, he should receive, in case of my father’s death, the sum of two thousand pounds a year, instead of coming forward to claim any rights to the estate left to his wife. He pointed out to Hales that by the secret marriage with me he would have a constant source of income, as I would not refuse to satisfy his demands for money; for if I would disclose the secret of our union, and thus put an end to his demands at once, he could then at once assume his true place as the lawful husband of the millionaire’s daughter. After this plan was concocted, he related to Hales many true facts about my father’s life at sea, the better to confuse and deceive me, but he added this false accusation, which, seeing it corroborated by him, I had the misfortune to believe, namely, that my father had committed murder to obtain that small packet of letters with the secret cipher. Dawson, who quickly learned the character of Hales, secretly assisted him in getting me under his power, a fact of which I was certainly ignorant. His motive for making this marriage, under such terrible circumstances for me, was far- reaching and foresighted. He understood that if I joined the man I loved, my husband, upon my father’s death, would take care to secure my rights as heiress and look after my interests, while, as Hales’s wife, I would be terrified at the very idea that my matrimonial mésalliance might become known, and, as I in turn had him completely dominated by this agreement, he would finally obtain the object he pursued: the possession of my father’s entire fortune. He knew very well, indeed, that being one of those who knew the secret, which we know today to be the Vatican treasure, it was essential that my father leave the administration of my father’s fortune in his hands. “my estate, and therefore took every precaution to secure, after his death, our complete possession of it. The ingenious manner in which he secretly acquainted Hales with certain facts which he believed only my father and myself knew; the perceptive and subtle manner in which he corroborated his own invention by asserting that my father was guilty of a crime; and the secrecy and stealth with which he assisted Hales to marry me by exerting pressure on my mind, have been, as I now see, the marvels of a clever and infamous conspiracy. I feared, nay, I was convinced, that the terrible secret of my father’s, which Hales knew, was a dreadful truth; and it was only the day before yesterday that I succeeded, with the aid of old Mr. Hales, in discovering, in a street in lower Grimsby, a man named Palmer, an ex-sailor on the Annie Curtis, who was present at the time of the Italian’s death. He has told me that the charge against my father is absolutely false; that, on the contrary, he was that man’s kindest and best friend, and that, in recognition of this, the Italian presented him with the little chamois bag containing the ciphered letters. My misgivings and fears that the secret had been obtained by nefarious means are at last entirely dispelled; and the stain which weighed upon my poor father’s memory is removed. ” “And the mystery of his death?” I said, astonished at this remarkable revelation of stratagem and deceit. “Ah!” he sighed, “I have changed my mind. He died of natural causes, but just at the moment when a secret attempt was about to be made on his life. Herbert Hales, whom my father never met, and Dawson boarded the same train in which he left for Manchester, and I have no doubt that they intended, if an opportunity offered, to wound him with the same fatal knife with which the attempt on yours was later made.” Death, however, snatched their victim from them. “But what has become of that scoundrel whom cruel fate had bestowed upon her as a husband? ” “Divine Judgment has judged him,” was her almost mechanical reply. “What!” I stammered, full of anxiety. “Is he dead? ” “The night you left London, you had a quarrel with Dawson, and once again the one-eyed man displayed his remarkable cunning. For, in order to get rid of Hales and to suppress the dishonorable deeds of which he was aware, he appears to have confidentially informed the police of a robbery committed after the races at Kempton Park nearly a year ago, which resulted in the death of the victim, for in order to rob him of a large sum of money which he had with him, he was severely wounded. Two detectives went to Hales’s rooms in Lomer Seymour Street about two in the morning, but he, realizing that Dawson had carried out his threat, shut himself in and securely fastened the doors. When they finally succeeded in breaking one down, they found him lying on the ground, quite dead, with a revolver at his side. “Then you are free, Mabel, free to marry me!” I cried, almost beside myself with joy. She bowed her head and answered, in a voice barely audible: “No, Gilberto, I do not deserve it; I am unworthy of it. I have deceived him. ” “What is done is done, and all is forgotten,” I cried, taking her hand and bending down until my ardent, passionate lips touched hers. “You are mine—only mine, Mabel!” I cried. “That is, if you dare to place your future in my hands. ” “If I dare!” she repeated, smiling through the tears that filled her eyes. “Have I not trusted you these five years?” Have you not been my best friend from the night we first met, until this moment? “But do you have enough esteem for me, my dearest Mabel?” I asked her, deeply moved by her words. “I mean, do you love me? ” “Yes, Gilberto, I love you,” she stammered, lowering her eyes modestly. “You are the only man I have ever loved in my whole life.” Then I clasped her to my breast, and in those moments of ecstasy I I repeated to my beloved the old love story, so often told, which every man in the world repeats to the chosen one of his heart, to the woman before whom he bows in adoration. “And what more need I say? A delicious sensation of pleasure made my heart beat. She was mine—mine forever! I was convinced that through all the terrible sufferings she had undergone, she had always remained true and loyal to me. She, poor thing! She had been, like her father, the innocent victim of the ingenious adventurer Dawson and the unscrupulous young rascal who had been his instrument, who had persuaded her, by means of deceit and threats, to consent to this fatal marriage, in order that they might afterwards possess all the enormous Blair fortune. Fortune, 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 they had intended to occupy. CONCLUSION Mabel and I are now married, and there is certainly no couple in all London so truly happy. After the storms and trials of life, we have been granted a peaceful and happy life. The faithful Ford is back with us as my secretary, and we often tease Reginald, who has sold his lace business, about his profound admiration for Dolly Dawson, who, although the daughter of an adventurer, is a very charming and modest girl, I am obliged to confess, and I am sure will make an excellent companion for my old schoolmate and friend. The other day he asked, with the greatest reserve, Mrs. Percival, who resides with us at Mayville, whether she thought Mabel would take it amiss if he proposed to Dolly. It is evident, then, that his thoughts are evidently directed toward matrimonial matters. Old man Hales 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, nothing has been revealed to this day; it is unknown to the public, for it is too closely guarded by us. Before the entrance to the great repository of fabulous riches still lives the grave, black-bearded monk, his habit faded and worn, Fra Antonio, the friend of the poor of Lucca, dividing his solitary life between meditation and tending to the needs of those destitute of fortune in that populous city that rises in the green Tuscan valley. The Church of Rome has a good memory. For years it has taken every step, it seems, to try to discover and recover 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 try to ascertain some information concerning her father’s last acts and movements , for it had become known that a few months earlier he had sold in Paris to a dealer in the trade the historic jeweled crucifix worn by Clement VIII, which was deposited in the Vatican treasury after his death in 1665. Many men in the City are aware of the great fortune that has come into my hands, and it is likely that many of those who read this story will also be familiar with the white facade of one of the great mansions in Grosvenor Square; but certainly no one knows the strange facts that I have for the first time committed to print. It has been about a month since I sat in the quiet little cell which so skillfully conceals the vast wealth of which I am now the sole owner and which has placed me among the millionaires of England, relating to Friar Anthony the details of Mabel’s tragic story and how cruelly she had been the victim of such infamy, and in so doing, giving free rein to my thoughts, expressing myself frankly on the cowardly action of the man who had sunk to the depths of the underground river; but the kind monk, with his weathered and wrinkled face, raised his hand and, pointing to the large crucifix hanging on the wall, said in his calm voice: “No, no, Mr. Greenwood. Hatred and malice should not be harbored in the heart of an honest man. Let us rather remember those divine words: ‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.’ As we forgive! Therefore, let us forgive the one-eyed Englishman, the man who did so much evil, but who is no more. 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 one really escape the consequences of unveiling long-kept secrets ? Thank you for joining us in this intriguing story. See you in the next one.
¡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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¡Dale like 👍, comparte 📤 y suscríbete 🔔!
♥️Grandes cosas pueden pasarle a quien cree en Dios. Yo me deprimí porque tenía una deuda de más de 12.000, pero para gloria de Dios, saldé mi deuda y sigo generando dinero para mí y mi familia. Dios bendiga a la señora Carolina Victoria Rodriguez , Dios la ha usado para cambiar muchas vidas.🇺🇸🤞🏻