Chapter Nineteen.

A Secret Despatch.

At noon next day Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador to the Court of St. James, stood at the window of his private room gazing out upon cabs and carriages passing and repassing around Grosvenor Square.

In his hand was a secret and highly important despatch which had only ten minutes before arrived from Rome by special messenger. His brows were knit, and he was pondering deeply over it. He stroked his grey beard and sighed, murmuring to himself—

“Extraordinary! Most extraordinary! If I had suspected such a complication as this, I should have never accepted this Embassy. True, this is the highest office in our diplomatic service—an office which I have coveted ever since I was a young attachÉ at Brussels. And now that I have fame in my own country, and honour among these English, I am unable to enjoy it. Ah! the fruits of life are always bitter—always!”

Then he drew another heavy sigh, and remained silent, gazing moodily out, his dark eyes fixed blankly upon the handsome square. No sound reached that well-furnished room with its double windows and hangings of dark-red velvet, the chamber in which the greatest of English statesmen had often sat discussing the future of the European situation and the probabilities of war; the room in which on one memorable day a defensive alliance had been arranged between Italy and England, the culminating master-stroke of diplomacy which had obviated a great and disastrous European war. And it was the tall, handsome, grey-bearded man, at that moment standing at his window plunged in melancholy, who had thus successfully saved his own country, Italy, by concluding the treaty whereby the fine Italian Navy would, in the event of war, unite with the British fleet against all enemies—the alliance whereby England would be strengthened against all the machinations of the Powers, and bankrupt Italy would still preserve her dignity among nations. It had been a truly clever piece of diplomacy. By careful observation and cunning ingenuity, Count Castellani had obtained knowledge of the projected action of France, of Germany, and of Russia, while the British Foreign Office had remained in utter ignorance. Then one day he had invited Lord Felixtowe, His Majesty’s principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and in that room he had plainly told the story of the conspiracy in progress against England. The Foreign Minister was so surprised that at first he could not credit that the Powers implicated could have the audacity to contemplate the invasion of our island; but when His Excellency brought forward certain undeniable proofs, he was compelled to admit the truth of his assertion.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the subject of a defensive alliance was mooted. United with the magnificent vessels of the Italian Navy, the battleships of Britain could hold the seas against all comers. There was no time to be lost, for Russian diplomacy was shrewdly at work in Rome with the object of contracting an alliance between the Government of the Czar and that of King Humbert. Therefore, without consulting the Cabinet, Lord Felixtowe had accepted the Ambassador’s proposals, and within twenty-four hours a treaty was signed, which has ever since been Europe’s safeguard against war. It was a short document, its draft only covering half a sheet of foolscap; but it was a bond between two friendly nations, which, it is to be hoped, will never be severed.

Yet the life of an Ambassador is by no means enviable. Even when promoted to the first rank, he obtains but little thanks from his chief, and less from his own compatriots at home. In this instance, Count Castellani, through whose ingenuity and far-sightedness England, and perhaps the whole of Europe, had been saved from an encounter of so fierce, sanguinary, and frightful a nature as the world has never yet witnessed, obtained not a word of thanks from the Italian people. Indeed, beyond a private autograph note from his sovereign and a long and formal despatch from the Marquis Montelupo, his master-stroke had passed by unnoticed and unknown save to those who had for years been plotting the down fall of the British Empire. The result was that in this, as in nearly every case where clever diplomacy is needed, the result of the negotiations remained hidden from the public. In this case, as in so many others, the alliance was entirely secret, and only after some months was its existence allowed to leak out, and only then in order that the enemies of England should hesitate before embarking upon any desperate step.

Sometimes, in his fits of melancholy, Count Castellani, like all other men, could not help feeling discontented. He was but human. When he reflected upon the glory which the German and French Ambassadors were accorded in their own countries each time they carried through some paltry, unimportant little piece of diplomacy, his heart grew weary within him. It was in this mood, unhappy and discontented, that he stood at the window with the secret despatch in his white, nervous hand. What he had read there brought back to him a recollection of days bygone—a recollection that was painful and bitter now that he had risen to be chief of the service in which he had spent the greater part of his life.

Yet it held him stupefied.

Again he sighed. His daughter Carmenilla, a slim, dark-haired girl of twenty, entered softly and, seeing her father silent and pensive, moved noiselessly across the room. He was wifeless, and all his love was bestowed upon his daughter, who held her father in absolute reverence. Carmenilla was not beautiful, but she was her father’s companion, helpmate, and friend. She stood behind him, and heard him exclaim, in a low voice only just audible—

“If what I suspect is true, then the secret is out. I must obtain leave of absence and go to Rome. Perhaps even now my letters of recall are on their way! Nevertheless, it is too strange to believe. No; at present I must wait. I can’t—I won’t believe it!”

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and as Carmenilla slipped out noiselessly, the liveried Italian servant announced that Dr Malvano had called.

“Show him in here,” His Excellency answered, crossing instantly to his writing-table, unlocking one of the drawers, and placing the secret despatch therein.

When Malvano entered, rosy, buxom, and smiling, well dressed in frock-coat, and carrying his silk hat and stick with that air adopted by members of the medical profession, the Count shook him by the hand and greeted him cordially. Without invitation, His Excellency’s visitor tossed his hat and stick upon the sofa, sank into the nearest chair, and stretched out his legs, apparently quite at home.

The Ambassador, first raising the heavy velvet portiÈre, and slipping the small brass bolt of the door into its socket, took a seat at his table, and fixing his eyes upon the man who had served him with wine the night before, said, with a sigh—

“Well, Filippo. A crisis appears imminent.”

“You have heard from Rome?” Malvano exclaimed quickly. “I met Varesi, the messenger, in the hall.”

“Yes,” His Excellency said. “I’ve received certain instructions from the Minister, but it is impossible to act upon them.”

“Why?”

“For the prestige of Italy, for our own reputations, for the personal safety of the one to whom we owe our knowledge, it is impossible to act,” the Count answered gravely. “My hands are tied absolutely.”

“And you will stand by and see murder committed without seeking to bring pressure to bear against those who seek our ruin? This is not like you, Castellani.”

“No, Filippo,” the other said, in a tone of confidence quite unusual to him, for he was a stern, rather harsh, diplomat, who never allowed any personal interest to interfere with his duties as Ambassador. “Not a word of reproach from you, of all men. You alone know that I have secretly done my best in this affair; that I have more than once risked my appointment in order to successfully accomplish the work which you and I have in hand.”

“And I, too, have done my utmost,” Malvano observed. “Up to the present, however, our enemies have been far too wary to be caught napping.”

“Yes,” the Ambassador said. “In this matter I have relied absolutely upon your patriotism. Like myself, you have run great risks; but I fear that all is to no purpose.”

“Why?”

“Because we have not yet fathomed the mystery of the death of the girl Vittorina Rinaldo. If we could do that it would give us a clue to the whole affair.”

“Exactly,” Malvano answered. “In that matter we are no nearer the truth than we were on the first day we commenced our investigation. And why? Because of one thing—we fear ‘La Gemma.’”

“Where is she now?”

“Ah! Unfortunately she quarrelled with young Armytage, left the Hotel Victoria suddenly, and—”

“And her whereabouts are unknown,” His Excellency gasped. “Dio mio!” he cried. “Then she may actually have gone back to Italy and betrayed everything!”

“I think that very probable,” Malvano said gravely. “For the past fortnight I’ve been daily at the Bonciani, and have kept my ears open. There is something secret in progress.”

“What’s its nature?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you ought to know,” His Excellency cried petulantly. “You must find out. Remember, you are the secret agent of this Embassy, and it is your duty to keep me well informed.”

Malvano smiled. The expression upon his round ruddy face at that moment was the same as when, on the night Romanelli dined with him at Lyddington, he had urged his young friend to travel to Livorno, and make a declaration of love to the unfortunate Vittorina. It was a covert glance of cunning and double dealing. “I always report to you all I know,” he answered. “Yes, yes,” His Excellency said hastily, in a more conciliatory tone. “I withdraw those words, Filippo. Forgive me, because to-day I’m much worried over a matter of delicate diplomacy. In this affair our interests are entirely mutual. You and I love our country, our beloved Italia, and have taken an oath to our Sovereign to act always in his interests. It therefore now becomes our duty to elucidate this mystery. In you Italy has a fearless man of marvellous resource and activity—a man who has, in the past, obtained knowledge of secrets in a manner which has almost passed credence. Surely you will not desert us now and relinquish all hope of obtaining the key to this extraordinary enigma. What have you heard at Lady Marshfield’s?”

“I sent in my daily report this morning,” the Doctor answered rather coldly. “You have, I suppose, read it?”

“I have,” His Excellency said, leaning both his arms upon the table. “I cannot, however, believe that your surmise has any foundation. It’s really too extraordinary.”

“Why?”

“Such a thing seems not only improbable, but absolutely impossible,” the Count replied.

There was a pause, brief and painful. The men looked at one another deeply in earnest. At last Malvano spoke.

“I know well the conflicting interests in this matter. If we do our best for Italy, we do the worst for ourselves—eh?”

The Ambassador nodded. “My political enemies in Rome have, I fear, ingeniously plotted my downfall,” the Count replied in a low tone, as he pressed the other’s hand. “A single spark is only required to fire the mine. Then the Ministry will be overthrown, and the country must inevitably fall into the hand of the Socialists. Look what they have already done in Venice and in Milan. At the latter city they’ve closed La Scala, one of the finest theatres in the world; they’ve dissolved the dancing-school, and have done their worst in every direction. Venice has been revolutionised and now at every local election one reads, written with black paint upon the walls, ‘Down with the King and the robbers! Long live the Revolution!’ I’m a staunch supporter of law and order, a firm upholder of country and of King, therefore my days of office are numbered.”

“Not if we successfully solve this enigma.”

“Why? By doing so I shall defeat the plots of my enemies, and thus embitter them against me far more than before.”

“You fear La Gemma?”

His Excellency nodded.

“Why?”

“She knows too much.”

“So did Vittorina. She was silenced.”

“What do you mean, Malvano?” the Ambassador cried, pale and agitated. “That she should share the same fate?”

“No,” the other answered gravely. “As far as I can see no life need be taken if we act with cunning and discretion. Can you trust me?”

“I do so implicitly,” His Excellency answered, seeing that the secret agent was now entirely in earnest. “More than once you have obtained knowledge by means little short of miraculous.”

“Briefly, I’m an excellent spy—eh?” the Doctor laughed. “Well, I didn’t spend ten years at the Questura in Firenze, and practise as a doctor at the same time, without obtaining a little wholesome experience. If you’ll give this affair entirely into my hands, I’ll promise to do my level best, and to assist you out of your dilemma. Your position at this moment is, I know, one of the most extreme peril; but by playing a desperate game we may succeed in discovering what is necessary, thereby placing ourselves and our country in a position of absolute security.”

“You are an extremely good friend, Filippo,” the Count answered quickly. “In this country, surrounded as I am by traitors and spies, you are the only one in whom I can absolutely trust—except Carmenilla.”

“Your daughter must know nothing,” the Doctor exclaimed quickly. “This is no woman’s affair. If life must be sacrificed, then she might inadvertently expose us—women are such strange creatures, you know.”

“Whose life, then, do you fear may be taken?” His Excellency eagerly asked.

The Doctor raised his shoulders with a gesture expressive of profound ignorance.

“Not Gemma’s?”

“Why not Gemma’s?” Malvano inquired, in an intense voice. “In this affair we must speak plainly. Is she not your enemy?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, if a life must be taken, why not hers?”

There was a silence, broken only by the low rumble of carriages and cabs outside.

“No,” His Excellency answered. “Before I give you perfect freedom in this matter you shall promise me that she shall be spared. I have reasons—strong ones.”

“Certainly, if you desire it,” the secret agent replied. The thought at that moment flashed across his mind that, if for the preservation of their secret her lips must necessarily be closed, there were others beside himself who would compass her death. The life of a man or woman can always be taken for a sovereign in London, if one knows where to look for men ready to accomplish such work.

“Then you give me your promise?” the Count asked eagerly.

“On one condition only,” Malvano replied in a firm voice, while his eyes fixed themselves upon those of the Ambassador.

“What is your condition?” His Excellency inquired.

“There must be no secret between you and me, for in order to successfully accomplish this stroke of diplomacy we must act deliberately, with forethought, and yet boldly face the facts, risking everything—even our lives,” he answered. Then, gazing straight into the other’s face, he added, “I shall not act unless you allow me to read the despatch you received to-day from Rome.” The Ambassador’s brows instantly contracted, and he held his breath. For the first time, he became seized with a suspicion that this man, whose deep cunning as a secret agent was almost miraculous, was now playing him false.

“No,” he answered, “that is impossible. My oath to the King prevents me showing any one a despatch marked as confidential.”

“Then your oath to the King prevents you from acting in the interests of Italy and the Crown; it prevents me from forging a weapon wherewith to fight the enemies of our beloved country.”

“The despatch is entirely of a private character, and concerns myself alone,” His Excellency protested.

“In other words, you can’t trust me—eh?” the Doctor said, with a hard look of dissatisfaction. “I therefore refuse to act further in this affair, and shall leave you to do as you think fit. I must be in possession of all the known facts before I embark upon the perilous course before us; and as you decline absolutely, I am not prepared to take any steps in the dark. The risks are far too great.”

The Ambassador was silent for a few moments, his eyes riveted upon those of the secret agent. Then, in a deep, intense voice, he said—

“Malvano, I dare not show you that despatch.”

Chapter Twenty One.

At Lyddington.

Outside it was a dry, crisp, frosty night, but in Doctor Malvano’s drawing-room at Lyddington a great wood fire threw forth a welcome glow, the skins spread upon the floor were soft and warm, and the fine, old-fashioned room, furnished with that taste and elegance which a doctor of independent means could afford, was extremely comfortable and cosy. “Ben,” the Doctor’s faithful old black dog, lay stretched out lazily before the fire, a pet cat had curled itself in the easiest of easy chairs, and with her white fingers rambling over the keys of the grand piano sat a slim, graceful woman. It was Gemma.

With Mrs Nenci as companion, she had been visiting at Lyddington for about a fortnight, and, truth to tell, found life in that rural village much more pleasant than in the unwholesome side street off the Walworth Road. They had both left Boyson Road suddenly late one night, after receiving a note from Nenci, who had been absent a couple of days. This note was one of warning, telling them to fly, and giving them directions to go straight to Lyddington. This they had done, receiving a cordial welcome from the Doctor, who had apparently received word by telegraph, and understood the situation perfectly. So they had installed themselves in the Doctor’s house, and led a quiet, tranquil life of severe respectability. Gemma dressed well, as befitted the Doctor’s visitor, for she had received one of her trunks which, after leaving the Hotel Victoria, she had deposited in the cloakroom at Charing Cross Station, and her costumes were always tasteful and elegant. She had obtained a cycle from Uppingham, and the weather being dry and frosty, she rode daily alone over the hilly Rutlandshire roads, to old-world Gretton, to long, straggling Rockingham, with its castle high up among the leafless trees, to Seaton Station, or even as far afield as the tiny hamlet of Blatherwycke. The honest country folk looked askance at her, be it said, for her natural chic she could not suppress, and her cycling skirt was just a trifle too short, when judged from an English standpoint. Her dress was dark blue serge, confined at the waist by a narrow, white silk ribbon, its smartness having been much admired when she had spun along the level roads of the Cascine. But English and Italian ideas differ very considerably, and she was often surprised when the country people stood and gaped at her. Yet it was only natural. When she dismounted she could only speak half a dozen words of English, and Rutland folk are always suspicious of the foreigner—especially a woman.

As she sat at the piano on this chilly night, she looked eminently beautiful in a loose, rich tea-gown of sage-green plush, with front of pale pink silk, a gown of striking magnificence, with its heavy silver belt glittering beneath the shaded lamplight. It was made in a style which no English dressmaker could accomplish, and fastened at the throat by a quaint brooch consisting of three tiny golden playing-cards, set with diamonds and rubies, and fastened together by a pearl-headed pin, a charming little phantasy. The pink silk, in combination with the sombre green, set off her fair beauty admirably, yet her face was a trifle wan as she mechanically fingered the keys with all the suppleness and rapidity of a good player. But she was Tuscan, and the love of music was in her inborn. In her own far-off country one could hear the finest opera for sixpence, and there was scarcely any household that did not possess its mandoline, and whose members did not chant those old canzonette amorose. Music is part of the Italian’s life.

She stopped at last, slowly glancing around the handsome room, and drawing a heavy sigh. At that moment a sense of utter loneliness oppressed her. Her companion, Mrs Nenci, had retired to bed half an hour before, and the Doctor was still in his study, where he usually spent the greater part of his time. He was often locked in alone for hours together, and was careful never to allow any one to enter on any pretext. She had, indeed, never seen the interior of Malvano’s den, and was often seized with curiosity to know how he spent his time there through so many hours. As she sat silent, she pondered, as she ever did, over her lost lover, and wondered if he were still in England, or if, weary and despairing, he had left for the Continent again.

“He has misjudged me,” she murmured—“cruelly misjudged me.”

Her fathomless blue eyes glistened with tears, as, turning again to the instrument, she commenced to play and sing, in a soft, sweet contralto, the old Tuscan love-song, “Ah! non mi amava”; the song sung by the contadinelle in the vineyards and the maize-fields, where the green lizards dart across the sun-baked stones—where life is without a care, so long as one has a handful of baked chestnuts, or a plate of polenta di castagne—where the air is sweet and balmy and the very atmosphere breathes of love.

“E mi diceva che avria sfidato,
Per ottenermi tutto il creato;
Che nel mio sguardo, nel mio sorriso
Stavan le gioie del Paradiso.
E mentre al core cosi parlava.
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!
“Tu sei, diceva, l’angelo mio:
Tu sei la stella d’ogni desio:
Il sol mio bene sei che m’avanza;
Tu de’ miei giorni se’ la speranza.
Fin le sue pene mi raccontava,
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!”

Slowly, in a voice full of emotion, she sang the old song she had heard so many times when a child, until its sad, serious air trembled through the room.

Behind her were two long windows, which, opening upon the lawn, were now heavily curtained to keep out the icy draughts. Blasts of cold air seemed to penetrate to every corner of that high-up house, exposed as it was to the chill winds sweeping across the hills. As she was singing, one of the maids entered with her candle, and placing it upon the table, wished her good-night.

“Good-night!” she answered in her pretty broken English; and, when the girl had gone, went on playing, but very softly, so as not to disturb the household. Her voice, full of emotion, had repeated the final words of that passionate verse—

“Non aveva core che per amarmi
Con i suoi detti ei m’ingannava,
Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!”

when the curtains before one of the windows behind her suddenly stirred, and an eager face peered through between them. The slight sound attracted her, and she turned quickly with a low exclamation of fear. Next, instant, however, she sprang up from the piano with a glad cry, for the man who had thus secretly entered was none other than Charles Armytage.

“You, Nino!” she gasped, pale and trembling, holding aloof from him in the first moments of her surprise.

“Yes,” he replied in a low, intense tone, standing before her in hat and overcoat. “I came here to see the Doctor, but hearing your well-remembered voice outside, and finding the window unfastened, came in. You—you do not welcome me,” he added with disappointment. “Why are you here?”

“Welcome you!” she echoed. “You, who are in my thoughts every day, every hour, every moment; you who, by leaving me, have crushed all hope, all life from me, Nino! Ah! no; I—I welcome you. But forgive me; I never expected that we should meet in this house, of all places.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. Her fingers twitched nervously.

“Because—well, because you ought not to come here,” she answered ambiguously. She remembered Nenci’s covert threat, and knew well what risks her lover ran. He was in deadly peril, and only she herself could shield him.

“I don’t understand you,” he exclaimed. “I have for the past month searched everywhere for you. You left the hotel and disappeared; I have made inquiries in Livorno and in Florence, believing you had returned to Italy, and here to-night, as I passed across the lawn, I heard your voice, and have now found you.”

“Why?” she inquired, her trembling hand still upon the piano. “Is not all our love now of the past? I am unworthy of you, Nino, and I told you so honestly. I could not deceive you further.”

“Heaven knows!” he cried, “you deceived me enough. You have never even told me your real name.”

She looked at him with an expression of fear in her eyes. “Ah!” she cried. “You know the truth, Nino. I see by your face!”

“I know that you, whom I have known as Gemma Fanetti, are none other than the Contessa Funaro!”

Her breast heaved and fell quickly, and she hung her head.

“Well?”

He moved towards her, his hands still in the pockets of his heavy tweed overcoat.

“Well,” he repeated, “and what excuse have you for so deceiving me?”

“None,” she answered in her soft Tuscan, her eyes still downcast. “I loved you, Nino, and I feared—”

She hesitated, without finishing the sentence.

“You feared to tell me the truth, even though you well knew that I was foolishly infatuated; that I was a love-blind idiot? No; I don’t believe you,” he cried fiercely. “You had some further, some deeper motive.” She was silent. Her nervous fingers hitched themselves in the lace of her gown, and she grew pallid and haggard.

“I now know who you are; how grossly you have deceived me, and how ingeniously I have been tricked,” he cried bitterly, speaking Italian with difficulty. “You whom I believed honest and loving, I have found to be only an adventuress, a woman whose notoriety has spread from Como to Messina.”

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely, “yes, Nino, I am an adventuress. Now that my enemies have exposed me, concealment is no longer possible. I deceived you, but with an honest purpose in view. My name, I well know, is synonymous with all that is vicious. I am known as The Funaro—the extravagant woman whose lovers are legion, and of whom stories of reckless waste and ingenious fraud are told by the jeunesse dorÉe in every city in Italy. Ask of any of the smart young men who drink at the Gambrinus at Milan, at Genoa, at Rome, or at Florence, and they will relate stories by the hour of my wild, adventurous life, of my loves and my hatreds, of my gaiety and my sorrow. Yes, I, alas I know it all. I have the reputation of being the gayest woman in all gay Italy; and yet—and yet,” she added in a soft voice, “I love you, Nino.”

“No!” he cried, drawing from her with repugnance, as if in fear that her hands should touch him; “it is not possible that we can exchange words of affection after this vile deceit. All is now plain why the police of Livorno ordered you to leave the city; why Hutchinson, the Consul, urged me to part from you; why, when we drove together in those sun-baked streets, every one turned to look at you. They knew you!” he cried. “They knew you—and they pitied me!”

She shrank at these cruel, bitter words as if he had dealt her a blow. From head to foot she trembled as, with an effort, she took a few uneven steps towards him.

“You denounce me!” she cried in a low tone. “You, the man I love, declare that I am base, vile, and heartless. Well, if you wish, I will admit all the charges you thus level against me. Only one will I refute. You say that I am an adventuress; you imply that I have never loved you.”

“Certainly,” he cried. “I have been your dupe. You led me to believe in your innocence, while all the time the papers are commenting upon your adventures, and printing scandals anent your past. Because I did not know your language well, and because I seldom read an Italian newspaper, you were bold enough to believe that I should remain in utter ignorance. But I have discovered the extent of your perfidy. I know now, that in dealing with you, I’m dealing with one whose shrewdness and cunning are notorious throughout the whole of Italy.”

“Then you have no further love for me, Nino?” she asked blankly, after a brief space.

“Love! No, I hate you!” he cried. “You led me to believe in your uprightness and honesty, yet I find that you, of all women in Italy, are the least desirable, as an acquaintance—the least possible as a wife!”

“You hate me?” she gasped hoarsely. “You—Nino!—hate me?”

“Yes,” he cried, his hands clenched in excitement, “I hate you!”

“Then why have you come here?” she asked. “Even if you had heard my voice, you need not have entered this room to taunt me.”

“I have come to call upon the Doctor,” he answered.

“Eleven o’clock at night is a curious hour at which to call upon a friend,” she observed. “Your business with him must be very pressing.”

“It is—it is,” he answered quickly, striding to and fro. “I must see him to-night.”

“Why?”

“Because I leave England to-morrow.”

“You leave England?” she said hoarsely. “You intend to leave me here?”

“Surely you are comfortable enough? Malvano is Italian, and, although I was not aware that you were acquainted with him, he is nevertheless a very good fellow, and no doubt you are happy.”

“Happy!” she cried. “Happy without you, Nino! Ah! you are too cruel! If you could but know the truth; if you could but know what I have suffered, what I am at this moment suffering for your sake, you would never treat me thus—never.”

“Ah! your story is always the same—always,” he laughed superciliously. “I know now why you would never invite me to your house in Florence. You could not well take me to your great palazzo without me knowing its name. Again, you lived in that small flat in the Viale at Livorno instead of at your villa at Ardenza, that beautiful house overlooking the sea, coveted by all the Livornesi.”

“I have a reason for not living there,” she exclaimed quickly. “I have not entered it now for two years. Perhaps I shall never again cross its threshold.”

“And it is untenanted?”

“Certainly. I do not wish to let it.”

“Why?”

“It is a caprice of mine,” she answered. “To a woman of my character caprices are allowed, I suppose?” Then, after a slight hesitation, she raised her fine eyes to his, saying, “Now tell me candidly, Nino, why have you come here to-night?”

“To see the Doctor. I want to consult him.”

“Are you ill?” she asked with some alarm, noticing that he was unusually pale.

“No, I want his advice regarding another matter, a matter which concerns myself.” As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and saw how handsome she was. In that loose gown of silk and plush, with its heavy girdle, she looked, indeed, the notorious Countess Funaro about whom he had heard so much scandalous gossip.

Slowly she advanced towards him, her small white hands outstretched, her arms half bare, her beautiful face upturned to his. Those eyes were so blue and clear, and that face so perfect an incarnation of purity, that it was hard to believe that she was actually the notorious woman who had so scandalised Florentine society. He stood before her again, fascinated as he always had been in her presence in those bygone sunny days in Tuscany, when he had basked daily in her smiles and idled lazily beside the Mediterranean.

“Nino,” she said, in a soft crooning voice scarcely above a whisper—a voice which showed him she was deeply in earnest—“Nino, if it pleases you to break my heart then I will not complain. I know I deserve all the terrible punishment I am now enduring, for I’ve sinned before Heaven and have sinned against you, the man who loved me. You cast me aside as a worthless woman because of my evil reputation; you credit all the base libellous stories circulated by my enemies; you believe that I have toyed with your affection and have no real genuine love for you. Well, Nino,” she sighed, “let it be so. I know that now you are aware of my identity you can never believe in my truth and honesty; but I tell you that I still love you, even though you may denounce and desert me.”

He turned from her with a gesture of impatience.

“Tell me, Nino,” she went on eagerly, following him and grasping his arm convulsively, “tell me the truth. Why are you here to-night?”

He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement to free himself from her grasp.

“Malvano is Italian,” he answered. “I have come to consult him upon a matter in which only an Italian can assist me.”

“I am Italian,” she said quickly. “Will you not let me render you at least one service, even if it be the last?” She looked earnestly into his face, and her soft arms wound themselves around his neck.

“I have no faith in you,” he answered. “I was a fool to enter here, but your voice brought back to me so many memories of those days that are dead, and I couldn’t resist.”

“Then you still think of me sometimes, caro,” she said, clinging to him. “Your love is not yet dead?”

“It is dead,” he declared, fiercely disengaging himself. “Gemma, whom I knew and loved in Livorno, will ever remain a sad sweet memory throughout my life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro, the woman against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, I can never trust, I can never love.”

She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A deathlike pallor overspread her face, and her eyes grew large, dark, and mournful. There are some griefs that are too deep, even for tears.

“You cannot trust me, Nino,” she cried a moment later. “But you can nevertheless heed one word which I speak in deepest earnest.”

“Well?”

“Leave this house. Do not seek this man, Malvano.”

“Why?” he inquired, surprised. “He’s my friend. We have met once or twice since we shot together in Berkshire.”

Again she advanced close to him, so close that he felt her breath upon his cheek, and the sweet odour of lilac from her chiffons filled his nostrils.

“If you absolutely refuse to tell me the reason you have come here to-night, then I will tell you,” she whispered. “You are in fear.”

“In fear? I don’t understand.”

“You have enemies, and you wish to consult the Doctor with regard to them,” she went on boldly. Then, in a voice scarcely audible, she added, whispering into his ear: “You have received warning.”

He started suddenly, looking at her dismayed.

“Who told you? How did you know?” he gasped.

“I cannot now explain,” she answered breathlessly, still holding his arm in convulsive grasp, panting as she spoke. “It is sufficient for you to know the intention of your enemies, so that you may be forewarned against them.”

“Then it is actually true that I’m in personal danger!” he cried. “To my knowledge I’ve never done an evil turn to anybody, and this is all a puzzling enigma. The letter here”—and he drew from his overcoat a note which had been delivered by a boy-messenger at his chambers in Ebury Street—“this letter is evidently written by an Italian, because of the flourish of the capitals: and I came here to-night to ask Malvano the best course to pursue. I’m staying in the neighbourhood, over at Apethorpe.”

“Then leave at once,” she urged earnestly. “To-morrow, get away by the first train to London, and thence to the Continent again. Take precautions that you are not followed. Go to France, to Germany, to Spain, anywhere out of reach. Then write to me at the Poste Restante, at Charing Cross, and I will come to you.”

“But why? How do you know all this?”

“Look at that letter, Nino,” she said in a low, deep tone. “Look once again at the handwriting.”

He opened it beneath the silk-shaded lamp and scanned it eagerly.

“It’s yours,” he gasped, the truth suddenly dawning upon him. “You yourself have given me this warning!” She nodded.

“Tell me why, quickly,” he cried, placing his hand upon her shoulder. “Tell me why.”

“I warned you, Nino,” she answered, in a soft, hoarse voice; “I warned you because I love you.”

“But what have I to fear?” he demanded. “If I’m threatened I can seek protection of the police. To my knowledge I haven’t a single enemy.”

“We all of us blind ourselves with that consolation,” she replied. “But listen. Of all men, avoid Malvano. Leave this house at once, and get out of England at the earliest moment. Your enemies are no ordinary ones; they are desperate, and hold life cheap.”

“But you!” he cried, puzzled. “You are here, in the house of this very man against whom you warn me!”

“Ah! do not heed me,” she answered. “Your love for me is dead. Yet I am still yours, and in this matter you must, if you value your safety, trust me.”

“But Malvano is an excellent fellow,” he protested. “I must just wish him good-night. What would he think if he knew I had been here and had this private interview with you?”

“No, Nino,” she cried, her countenance pale and earnest. “You must not! You hear me? You must not. If it were known that I had given you warning then my position would be one of greater peril than it now is.”

“But surely I need not fear the Doctor? Every one about here knows him. He’s the most popular man for miles around.”

“And the most dangerous,” she whispered. “No, for my sake, fly, Nino. He may enter this room at any moment. I love you, and no harm shall befall you if you will obey me. Leave this place at once, and promise me not to make any attempt to see Malvano.” His eyes met hers, and he saw in them a love-light that was unmistakable. By her clear open glance he became almost convinced that she was speaking the truth. Yet he still hesitated.

“Ah!” she cried, suddenly flinging her arms again about his neck. “Go, Nino; you are unsafe here. Leave England to-morrow for my sake—for my sake, caro. But kiss me once,” she implored in her sweet, lisping Italian. “Give me one single kiss before you part from me.”

His brow darkened. He held his breath.

“No, no,” she cried wildly, divining his disinclination, “I am not the Contessa Funaro, now. I am Gemma—the woman who loves you, the woman who is at this moment risking her life for you. Kiss me. Then go. Fly, caro, abroad, and may no harm befall you, Nino, my beloved!” Then she raised her beautiful face to his.

His countenance relaxed, he bent swiftly, and their lips met in one long, tender, passionate caress. Then, urged by her, he wished her a whispered farewell, and disappeared through the heavy curtains before the window as silently as he had come, while she stood panting, breathless, but in an ecstasy of contentment. Once again he had pressed her lips and breathed one single word of love.