“I certainly will be there,” I said, and then we went along to Giacosa’s, where we each had that cocktail-like speciality known as a “piccolo.”
At five minutes to four that afternoon I entered the big Gambrinus Café, which was nearly opposite my hotel on the other side of the piazza, and I took a seat just inside the door. The orchestra was playing, and the place was well filled with a gay cosmopolitan crowd, many of them winter idlers.
I looked around, wondering if the butler, Robertson, had arrived, and waited in patience for the coming of my friend.
Punctually at four he appeared, and greeting me, cast his eyes over the many small tables, until suddenly he exclaimed:
“Ah! There he is!”
We walked to a table some distance away, where a stoutish, grey-haired, clean-shaven Englishman was smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, with a glass of vermouth and seltzer before him.
“Hallo, Arthur!” he exclaimed as he raised his eyes to my friend.
“This is a friend of mine, Mr. Garfield,” my companion said, introducing me, and then we sat down and began to chat. At last I could possess myself in patience no longer, and addressing the millionaire’s butler, told him frankly that I was in search of information concerning the dark-haired young lady who had been guest up at the villa about three months ago.
“Oh! I suppose you mean Miss Thurston — the young American lady, don’t you? But she’s fair-haired!”
“The lady I mean is named Engledue,” I replied.
“Oh! I don’t know anyone of that name,” was his reply. “Miss Thurston has stayed with us in London and down in Cornwall, and has been here several times. I fancy she’s some relation of the mistress’s. She first came to stay about three years ago, when she left school in Paris. Then she went home to America, and after six months came back again to us.”
“You haven’t any idea who her parents are — or where she lived in America?”
“She lived somewhere near Detroit, I believe. That’s all I know about her. I believe her people are motor-car makers and extremely wealthy. At least, somebody said so — and she’s very free with tips to the under-servants.”
“When did she leave here?”
“When the master went to London. I was to go too, but I had influenza and had to remain here.”
“And where was Mrs. De Gex?” I inquired.
“She was already at Stretton Street. She and the little boy went to London early in October, but came back at the end of the month.”
Then I questioned the estimable Robertson concerning the domestic happiness of his master. I said I had heard rumours in London of matrimonial differences.
“Well, that’s a lie,” he replied quickly. “There isn’t a pair in the whole of London Society who are more devoted to each other.”
This greatly surprised me after the words that had fallen from the millionaire’s lips.
Again I referred to the mysterious Gabrielle whom I described as minutely as I was able, and apparently my description fitted that of Rose Thurston, save for the colour of her hair.
“You have no idea where she is, I suppose?”
“Not the slightest. Back in America, perhaps. She seems to come over every year.”
“I wonder if you could find out her address?” I asked. “If you could, it would be of very great service to me,” and I handed him my card, expressing a hope that he would refrain from mentioning the matter to his master.
“I’ll try,” he said. “But I fear I shan’t succeed. Mr. Henderson, the master’s secretary, would know, of course.”
The point at issue now was whether the young American girl, who had been the millionaire’s guest at the villa, and Gabrielle Engledue were actually one and the same person. If they were, then I had made one step towards the solution of the enigma.
I confess to utter bewilderment. My brain was still confused. Sometimes my skull seemed wrapped in cotton wool. From a mere unimportant person in the world of electrical engineering I had suddenly become a man upon whom rested a great and criminal responsibility!
In that huge, garish café, with its great arc lamps glowing though night had not yet fallen, and with a noisy orchestra playing selections from the latest crazes of music from the revues in London, I sat with a perfectly open mind. I had been the victim of some extremely clever plot. But of its motive, of its ramifications, or of its conception, I had no knowledge. Even my wildest imagination was at fault.
All I knew was that the sallow-faced De Gex — the millionaire who lived up at the huge Villa Clementini — had plotted against the handsome girl, and she had died in his wife’s bedroom in Stretton Street.
“Well, Mr. Robertson, how can I find out anything more about Miss Thurston? Give me your advice.”
“I’ll try and see what I can do,” he said. “Perhaps I may be able to get a glance at the mistress’s address book. I have seen it. I’ll try.”
“Yes — do!” I said very anxiously. “It means so very much to me.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. My intention was to mislead both of my companions.
“Well,” I said with a laugh, “the fact is, I — I’m very fond of her!”
Both men exchanged glances. Then they smiled, almost imperceptibly, I know, but it struck them as humorous that I had fallen in love with the daughter of a wealthy American.
“Of course I’m not yet certain whether she is the same lady,” I went on. “She may not be. But on calm consideration I believe she is. The description you give of her is exact.”
“Well,” exclaimed the butler, “I’ll see if I can get at the address book. She keeps it in a drawer in her boudoir, which is usually locked. But sometimes she leaves it open. At any rate, I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
I thanked him and told him that I was staying at the Savoy. Then I was compelled to discuss with the estate-agent’s clerk the pretended renting of an apartment out by the Porta Romana, which, he said, was vacant.
On the following day, in order to still sustain the deception, I went and viewed the place, and found it really quite comfortable and very reasonable. But, of course, I was compelled to express dislike of it. Whereupon my friend promised to find me another.
Day after day I waited in Florence, hoping against hope that Robertson would be able to furnish me with Miss Thurston’s address. But though I saw him several times he reported that the drawer containing the address book was still locked.
Mr. De Gex had gone to Rome, and was away for three days. The British Ambassador was giving some official function and the millionaire had been invited. Indeed, I read all about it in the Nazione.
On the fourth day he returned, for I saw him in his big yellow car driving along the Via Calzajoli. An elegant Italian, the young Marchese Cerretani, was seated at his side, and both were laughing together.
Twice I had been up to the Villa Clementini, and wandered around its high white walls which hid the beautiful gardens from the public gaze. Surely there was no fairer spot in all sunny Italy than that chosen by the rich man as his abode. To the hundreds of visitors of all nations, who came up by train to Fiesole from Florence to lunch or dine at the various pleasant little restaurants, the great imposing place was pointed out as the residence of the rich “Inglese” — the man who possessed more money than any of the most wealthy in the kingdom of Italy.
When I thought of that fateful