But what you have told me is utterly astounding."
"That man's end relieves you of all further anxiety, yet at the sametime it dooms me to shame--and to death!" she remarked hoarsely, risingsuddenly to her feet with quick resolution.
I made no remark. What she had revealed to me was so bewildering. Thatthe woman, before me had interests in common with myself was now plain.She was in deep distress--in fear of what the dark future held in storefor her, abandoned by the one man who could clear her of this mysteriousallegation, so infamous that she dare not repeat it to me, a stranger.
Her grace and beauty, too, were assuredly incomparable. Truly she wasone of the prettiest women I had ever met--yet at the same time the mostdespairing. I saw tragedy in her countenance--the shadow of death wasin her eyes, and I stood before her silent and fascinated by the mysterywhich enveloped her.
"I must go, Mr Leaf," she said. "I must telegraph to my father andinform him of the _contretemps_ which has occurred. He will direct mehow to act. But before I go I would like to thank you very very muchfor your great kindness and sympathy towards me. I am sure that, ifpossible, you would seek to assist me. But it is out of the question--entirely out of the question. What must be, must be."
And she put out her small hand to me in farewell.
"There must, I am sure, be some way in which to evade this misfortunewhich you apprehend," I said. "At any rate we may meet again, may wenot? Where shall you stay in London?"
"I really don't know," she said, in a vague, blank manner which showedthat she wished to evade me, fearing perhaps lest I might make unwelcomeinquiries concerning her. "As to our meeting again, I hardly think sucha course would be wise. My friendship might imperil you still further,therefore let us end it now, as pleasantly as it has commenced."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You will know what I mean, Mr Leaf, some day," she answered, with astrange look in her dark eyes. Then sighing she added: "Farewell."
And I was compelled to take the hand she offered. Refusing to tell mewhere she lived, and holding out no fixed promise of returning, she atonce went down with me to the front door.
After I had bowed farewell and she had descended the steps, I closed thedoor, and was returning along the hall when suddenly Sammy emerged fromthe dining-room, where he had evidently been standing, and facing mewith a strange, serious expression upon his features, such as I hadnever seen there before, asked:--
"Godfrey! what's that woman doing here--in this house? Do you know whoshe is? By Jove, you don't, that's certain, otherwise you would neverhave let her cross this threshold. Why has she dared to come here?"
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE VILLA DU LAC.
"Look here, Sammy!" I exclaimed, when we were together in our littleden a few minutes later, "what's the good of beating about the bush?Why don't you tell me straight out what you have against her?"
"My dear fellow! surely it isn't for me to cast a slur upon any lady'scharacter. I merely warn you that she has a very queer reputation--that's all." And he stretched out his legs and blew a cloud of smokefrom his lips.
"Every woman seems to enjoy a reputation more or less queer nowadays," Ideclared. "Have you ever come across a woman about whom somethingdetrimental was not whispered by her enemies? I haven't."
"Perhaps you're right there, Godfrey," was my friend's reply. "Youdiscovered the truth concerning Ina Hardwick, and that was a hard blowfor you, eh? But didn't I give you a hint long before which you refusedto take?"
"And now you give me a hint regarding Lucie Miller. Well, tell mestraight out--who and what she is."
"First tell me why she came to see you."
"She certainly didn't come to see me," I protested. "She came to seethe stranger--she's a friend of the dead man's."
He turned, knit his brows, and stared straight into my face.
"A friend of Massari's! Who told you so?"
"She did."
Sammy smiled incredulously. He was a man who had passed through lifehaving singularly escaped all the shadows that lie on it for most men;and he had far more than most what may be termed the faculty forhappiness.
"H'm. Depend upon it she came here more on your account than to visitthe mysterious Italian."
"But she saw Miss Gilbert and asked for Massari!" I exclaimed. "It wasMiss Gilbert who called me and introduced me. I took her up to the deadman's room, and the sight of him was a terrible shock to her. She's notexactly his friend; more his enemy, I think."
"How could she know Massari was here, pray?"
"Ah! I don't know that. The Italian was probably followed here afterhis arrival at Charing Cross."
"Did she explain why the fellow came here?"
"Yes, she told me various things that have utterly stupefied me," Ianswered. "She hints that the Italian and the woman Ina Hardwick werein league to take my life."
"Your life?" he cried. "What absurd romance has she been telling you?Why you didn't know Massari until yesterday!"
"That's just it. But nevertheless there's some truth in what shealleges. Of that I'm quite convinced."
"Why?"
"For several reasons. One is because she is aware of one curiousincident in my life, one of which even you, Sammy, are in ignorance. Itis my secret, and I thought none knew it. Yet Massari was aware of it,and she also knows something about it, although, fortunately, not thewhole of the details."
Sammy twisted his small, fair moustache, and was puzzled.
"She actually knows a secret of yours, eh? Then depend upon it sheintends to profit by it. Be careful of her, that's all, Godfrey. Shemay have known Massari, for she's mixed up with a very queer lot. Butit's quite evident that she came really to see you. Did she enlist yoursympathies in any way; did she ask you to do anything for her--anyservice, I mean?"
For a few moments I hesitated; then, in order to further convince him, Itold him all that had occurred, and repeated her strange story of howthe man we knew as Massari had refused to tell the truth and liberateher.
"He probably had sufficient reason," declared Sammy, in a hard voice,quite unusual to him. "The truth, however, is quite plain. She hasspread out her net for you, and you bid fair to fall an easy prey, oldfellow."
"But, my dear chap, I'm pretty wary. Remember I'm thirty-two and ampast the adolescence of youth."
"She's uncommonly good-looking. You've told me so yourself. Admirationis the first stage always," he sneered.
"But tell me what you know of her," I urged. "Where did you first comeacross her?"
"At Enghien, just outside Paris, nearly three years ago. They lived ina rather fine villa, the grounds of which went down to the lake. Youknow Enghien--a gay little place, with pretty villas and a casino on thelake. Brunet, the dramatic critic of the _Temps_, introduced her fatherto me in the American bar at the Grand, and he invited me to go down tohis place and dine. I did so, and found several other male guests, menof the smartest sporting set in Paris--mostly Frenchmen. At first Ibelieved Mr Miller was a person of means, but one day a man who said hehad known him, told me that he was a `crook'. I admit I could notdiscover what was the source of his income. I only knew that hisfriends were mostly rich racing men and _chevaliers d'industrie_, andthat he frequently gave very delightful dinners. Though she never dinedwith her father's friends, Lucie was often to be seen. She seemed thento be a mere slip of a girl of nineteen or so, extremely pretty, withher dark hair dressed low and tied with a broad bow of black ribbon.The men who frequented the place always addressed her as `_Bebe_,' andwould sometimes take her boxes of chocolate. One evening after dinnersomebody suggested a hand at cards, when suddenly I caught Miller doinga trick, and I stood up and openly denounced him. It may have beenfoolish of me, but I spoke without reflecting. He denied my accusationfiercely, and was supported by his friends. Therefore I took my hat andleft the house, now convinced that the fellow was a `crook'. After thatI made inquiries about him of a man who had been in the
Paris _surete_whom I know very well, with the result that I found the Englishmanenjoyed half a dozen aliases and was undoubtedly a queer character. Hisassociates were mostly persons known to the police. Even his butler atthe villa was a man who had `done' five years for burglary. The theoryof my friend, the ex-detective, was that he was allied with a gang ofinternational thieves, those clever gentry of means who operate in theprincipal cities throughout Europe, and who are so ingenious that theyin most cases outwit the police. Though there was not sufficientevidence to justify any direct allegation it
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