“Why not?”
“Because the establishment of my innocence would have given me my happiness.”
“And he denied it to you. He had a motive, I suppose?”
“Yes – oh yes!” she said. “Even my tears did not move him. I went upon my knees and begged him to speak, but he was obdurate. That was eight days ago. And how soon has Fate overtaken him! Two days later he was compelled to fly in secret in order to avoid arrest, and to-day he is lying there dead – his lips, alas! sealed.”
“Ah! unfortunately,” I sighed, “he can no longer bear witness on your behalf, miss – I have not the pleasure of your name?” I said, hesitating purposely.
“Miller – Lucie Miller,” she replied. “And yours?”
“Godfrey Leaf.”
“Yes, Mr Leaf, it is unfortunate for me,” she said, with a dark look of desperation. “I am a doomed woman!”
“Oh, no, you must not speak like that,” I urged. “Surely the charge against you is not so very serious!” To me it seemed impossible that such a sweet-faced girl should have any grave imputation against her.
“I have enemies, bitter, relentless enemies,” was her brief response. She had grown a little calmer, and I had replaced the sheet over the cold, lifeless countenance of the man who had refused to tell the world the truth and thus save her.
“Have you travelled from Rome alone?” I inquired.
“No. I had a companion,” she answered, but did not satisfy me whether it was a male or female.
“You live in Rome, perhaps?” I asked, for I saw that she had a cosmopolitan air which was not that of an English-bred woman.
“No. I generally live in Leghorn.”
“Ah! in Tuscany. I know Leghorn quite well – the Brighton of Italy, a very gay place in summer. Pancaldi’s at four o’clock in the season is always bright and amusing.”
“You really know Pancaldi’s?” she exclaimed, brightening. “Only fancy! We have so very few English in Leghorn. They prefer Vallombrosa or the Bagni di Lucca. Indeed an Englishman in Leghorn, beyond the shipping people, is quite a rarity.”
“And this man Massari – it was not his real name?” I said.
“No. But I regret that I am not permitted to tell you who he really was. He was a person very well-known in Italy – a person of whom you read frequently in the newspapers. That is all I may tell you.”
“Well, really, Miss Miller, all this is very mystifying,” I said. “Why did he come here?”
“Because he thought that he would be able to live in hiding. He feared lest I might follow him.”
“But you said that he also feared arrest.”
“That is so. He was compelled to escape. His enemies laid a trap for him, just as he did for my father and myself.”
“But why did he refuse to give you back your happiness by clearing you of the charge? To me it seems almost incredible that a man should thus treat an innocent woman.”
“Ah! Mr Leaf, you didn’t know him. He was one of the most unscrupulous and hard-hearted men in the whole of Italy. Every soldo he possessed bore upon it the blood and tears of the poor. He lent money at exorbitant interest to the contadini, and delighted to ruin them from the sheer love of cruelty and oppression. Those papers there,” and she pointed to the securities she had scattered upon the dingy carpet, “and every franc he possessed are accursed.”
And he had given me the sum of two hundred pounds for accepting the responsibility of his funeral and of the sealed packet.
“You mean that he was, by profession, a moneylender?”
“Oh, dear no. He lent money merely for the purpose of ruining people. He was heartless and cruel by nature, and if a man committed suicide – as many did because he had ruined them – he would laugh at the poor fellow as a fool, and take the very bread from the mouths of the widow and family.”
“The brute! A Jew, I suppose?”
“No. The people believed him to be one, but he was not. In his methods he was more fiendish than any Hebrew. He did not lend money for profit, but in order to bring misery to others. The one kind, generous action he might have performed towards me, the giving back to me my honour, he refused. To him, it was nothing; to me, everything. It meant my life.”
And I saw in her eyes a desperate look that deeply impressed me.
“I wish you would be more explicit, Miss Miller. If I can be of any service to you or assist you in any way, I shall be delighted. Really I don’t like to hear you talk as you do. If you are in a quandary there must be some way out of it, and two heads, you know, are always better than one.”
She sighed, and raising her fine eyes to mine, replied: —
“Ah! I fear, Mr Leaf, that your kind assistance would be unavailing, although I thank you all the same. That man yonder held my life in his hand. One word from him would have saved me. But he refused, and before I could overtake him Death had claimed him.”
“He told me that he felt no regret in having to die,” I said.
“Of course not. Had he lived the truth would have been revealed, and he would have dragged out his remaining days in a convict prison. I know that truth – a strange and startling one – a truth which would assuredly amaze and astound you. But he is dead,” she added, “and though he refused to give me back my honour and my life I will never seek a vendetta upon one whom the Avenger has already claimed – one whom God Himself has justly judged.”
And together we turned, and left the silent chamber wherein lay the remains of the man who was a mystery.
Chapter Four
Arouses Certain Suspicions
Sammy chanced to be out, therefore I conducted her to our cosy little sitting-room at the back of the house on the first floor, and after a few minutes she had so far recovered from the shock of seeing her dead enemy that she seated herself and allowed me to talk further to her.
I told her of the request which Massari had made respecting his epitaph, and of his fearless encounter with death.
“Naturally. He was unfortunate, and he wished to die,” she said, quite coolly. “Had he lived he would only have fallen into disgrace and been placed in the criminal dock.”
“Towards me he was very pleasant, though not very talkative.”
“Ah! you have had a narrow escape,” she said, with her dark eyes fixed upon me mysteriously.
“A narrow escape? What of, pray? I don’t understand you.”
“Of course not,” she answered, smiling strangely.
“Tell me more,” I said eagerly. “This statement of yours is very puzzling, and has aroused my curiosity. Do you mean that Massari had some sinister design upon me?”
She fixed her dark eyes upon me for a few moments, then said: —
“You were once, about three years ago, in Pisa – at the Minerva, I think?”
I stood before her open-mouthed. What did this sweet-faced woman know regarding that closed page of my life’s history?
Mention of that hotel in the quiet old marble-built city where stands the wonderful Leaning Tower recalled to me a certain unsavoury incident that I would fain have forgotten, yet could never put from me its remembrance.
“Well?” I asked at last, summoning all my strength to remain calm. “What of it?”
She