Chapter 3

The Mediterranean Squadron, that magnificent display of naval force that
is the guarantee of peace in Europe, after a week of gay festivities in
Leghorn, had sailed for Gaeta, while I, glad to escape from the glaring
heat, found myself back once more in dear old London.

One passes one's time in the south well enough in winter, but after a
year even the most ardent lover of Italy longs to return to his own
people, be it ever for so brief a space. Exile for a whole year in any
continental town is exile indeed; therefore, although I lived in Italy
for choice, I, like so many other Englishmen, always managed to spend a
month or two in summer in our temperate if much maligned climate.

London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and more
dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks in
it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the
seaside.

I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone
north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I
found myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the
Sports Club, where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had
just fallen, and there was that stifling oppression in the air that
fore-tokened a thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and
merriment as it is in the season, for everyone was away, many of the
rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed
in linen.

I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a
friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a
voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian--

"Ah, signore!--why, actually, my padrone!"

And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in
neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who
had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to
better himself.

"Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You--in London--eh?
Well, and how are you getting on?"

"Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling.
"But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What
fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"

"Where are you working?" I inquired.

"At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street--only a small place, but we
gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am
on my way home."

"I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?"

"Yes, signore. I married Armida, who was in your service when I first
entered it. You remember her? Ah, well!" he added, sighing. "Poor thing!
I regret to say she is very ill indeed. She cannot stand your English
climate. The doctor says she will die if she remains here. Yet what can
I do? If we go back to Italy we shall only starve." And I saw that he
was in deep distress, and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused
within him bitter thoughts.

Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar
Square, answering the questions I put to him. He had been a good,
hard-working servant, and I was glad to see him again. When he left me
he had gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples
and New York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him
there in London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.

When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it,
and with a merry laugh said--

"I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something
for which I had been longing and longing?"

"Not at all."

"Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars. I wonder if by chance you
have one? We cannot get them in London, you know."

I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of
those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which
are so dear to the Tuscan palate. These I handed him, and he took them
with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him. Poor
fellow! As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that
reminded him of his own beloved country.

When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some
further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking
housemaid whom he had married.

"Ah, signore!" he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping
into Italian. "It is the one great sorrow of my life. I work hard from
early morning until late at night, but what is the use when I see my
poor wife gradually fading away before my very eyes? The doctor says
that she cannot possibly live through the next winter. Ah! how delighted
the poor girl would be if she could see the padrone once again!"

I felt sorry for him. Armida had been a good servant, and had served me
well for nearly three years. Old Rosina, my housekeeper, had often
regretted that she had been compelled to leave to attend to her aged
mother. The latter, he told me, had died, and afterwards he had married
her. There is more romance and tragedy in the lives of the poor Italians
in London than London ever suspects. We are too apt to regard the
Italian as a bloodthirsty person given to the unlawful use of the knife,
whereas, as a whole, the Italian colony in London is a hard-working,
thrifty, and law-abiding one, very different, indeed, to those colonies
of aliens from Northern Europe, who are so continually bringing filth,
disease, and immorality into the East End, and are a useless incubus in
an already over-populated city.

He spoke so wistfully that his wife might see me once more that, having
nothing very particular to do that evening, and feeling a deep sympathy
for the poor fellow in his trouble, I resolved to accompany him to his
house and see whether I could not, in some slight manner, render him a
little help.

He thanked me profusely when I consented to go with him.

"Ah, signor padrone!" he said gratefully, "she will be so delighted. It
is so very good of you."

We hailed a hansom and drove across Westminster Bridge to the address he
gave--a gloomy back street off the York Road, one of those narrow, grimy
thoroughfares into which the sun never shines. Ah, how often do the poor
Italians, those children of the sun, pine and die when shut up in our
dismal, sordid streets! Dirt and squalor do not affect them; it is the
damp and cold and lack of sunshine that so very soon proves fatal.

A low-looking, evil-faced fellow opened the door to us and growled
acquaintance with Olinto, who, striking a match, ascended the worn,
carpetless stairs before me, apologizing for passing before me, and
saying in Italian--

"We live at the top, signore, because it is cheaper and the air is
better."

"Quite right," I said. "Quite right. Go on." And I thought I heard my
cab driving away.

It was a gloomy, forbidding, unlighted place into which I would
certainly have hesitated to enter had not my companion been my trusted
servant. I instinctively disliked the look of the fellow who had opened
the door. He was one of those hulking loafers of the peculiarly Lambeth
type. Yet the alien poor, I recollected, cannot choose where they shall
reside.

Contrary to my expectations, the sitting-room we entered on the top
floor was quite comfortably furnished, clean and respectable, even
though traces of poverty were apparent. A cheap lamp was burning upon
the table, but the apartment was unoccupied.

Olinto, in surprise, passed into the adjoining room, returning a moment
later, exclaiming--

"Armida must have gone out to get something. Or perhaps she is with the
people, a compositor and his wife, who live on the floor below. They are
very good to her. I'll go and find her. Accommodate yourself with a
chair, signore." And he drew the best chair forward for me, and dusted
it with his handkerchief.

I allowed him to go and fetch her, rather surprised that she should be
well enough to get about after all he had told me concerning her
illness. Yet consumption does not keep people in bed until its final
stages.

As I stood there, gazing round the room, I could not well distinguish
its furthermost corners, for the lamp bore a shade of green paste-board,
which threw a zone of light upon the table, and left the remainder of
the room in darkness. When, however, my eyes grew accustomed to the dim
light, I discerned that the place was dusty and somewhat disordered. The
sofa was, I saw, a folding iron bedstead with greasy old cushions, while
the carpet was threadbare and full of holes. When I drew the old rep
curtains to look out of the window, I found that the shutters were
closed, which I thought unusual for a room so high up as that was.

Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently
gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the
denizens of that locality to go "marketing" in the evening among the
costermongers' stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares. Perishable
commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night
than in the morning.

"I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?" he said apologetically.
"But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her.
She will surely not be long."

"Then I'll wait," I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had
brought forward for me.

"I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone," he said, with a laugh. "I
did not expect a visitor, you know."

"No, no, Olinto. I've only just had dinner. But tell me how you have
fared since you left me."

"Ah!" he laughed bitterly. "I had many ups and downs before I found
myself here in London. The sea did not suit me--neither did the work.
They put me in the emigrants' quarters, and consequently I could gain
nothing. The other stewards were Neapolitans, therefore, because I was a
Tuscan, they relegated me to the worst post. Ah, signore, you don't know
what it is to serve those emigrants! I made two trips, then returned and
married Armida. I called on you, but Tito said you were in London. At
first I got work at a café in Viareggio, but when the season ended, and
I was thrown out of employment, I managed to work my way from Genoa to
London. My first place was scullion in a restaurant in Tottenham Court
Road, and then I became waiter in the beer-hall at the Monico, and
managed to save sufficient to send Armida the money to join me here.
Afterwards I went to the Milano, and I hope to get into one of the big
hotels very soon--or perhaps the grill-room at the Carlton. I have a
friend who is there, and they make lots of money--four or five pounds
every week in tips, they say."

"I'll see what I can do for you," I said. "I know several hotel-managers
who might have a vacancy."

"Ah, signore!" he cried, filled with gratification. "If you only would!
A word from you would secure me a good position. I can work, that you
know--and I do work. I will work--for her sake."

"I have promised you," I said briefly.

"And how can I sufficiently thank you?" he cried, standing before me,
while in his eyes I thought I detected a strange wild look, such as I
had never seen there before.

"You served me well, Olinto," I replied, "and when I discover real
sterling honesty I endeavor to appreciate it. There is, alas! very
little of it in this world."

"Yes," he said in a hoarse voice, his manner suddenly changing. "You
have to-night shown me, signore, that you are my friend, and I will, in
return, show you that I am yours." And suddenly grasping both my hands,
he pulled me from the chair in which I was sitting, at the same time
asking in a low intense whisper: "Do you always carry a revolver here in
England, as you do in Italy?"

"Yes," I answered in surprise at his action and his question. "Why?"

"Because there is danger here," he answered in the same low earnest
tone. "Get your weapon ready. You may want it."

"I don't understand," I said, feeling my handy Colt in my back pocket to
make sure it was there.

"Forget what I have said--all--all that I have told you to-night, sir,"
he said. "I have not explained the whole truth. You are in peril--in
deadly peril!"

"How?" I exclaimed breathlessly, surprised at his extraordinary change
of manner and his evident apprehension lest something should befall me.

"Wait, and you shall see," he whispered. "But first tell me, signore,
that you will forgive me for the part I have played in this dastardly
affair. I, like yourself, fell innocently into the hands of your
enemies."

"My enemies! Who are they?"

"They are unknown, and for the present must remain so. But if you doubt
your peril, watch--" and taking the rusty fire-tongs from the grate he
carefully placed them on end in front of the deep old armchair in which
I had sat, and then allowed them to fall against the edge of the seat,
springing quickly back as he did so.

In an instant a bright blue flash shot through the place, and the irons
fell aside, fused and twisted out of all recognition.

I stood aghast, utterly unable for the moment to sufficiently realize
how narrowly I had escaped death.

"Look! See here, behind!" cried the Italian, directing my attention to
the back legs of the chair, where, on bending with the lamp, I saw, to
my surprise, that two wires were connected, and ran along the floor and
out of the window, while concealed beneath the ragged carpet, in front
of the chair, was a thin plate of steel, whereon my feet had rested.

Those who had so ingeniously enticed me to that gloomy house of death
had connected up the overhead electric light main with that
innocent-looking chair, and from some unseen point had been able to
switch on a current of sufficient voltage to kill fifty men.

I stood stock-still, not daring to move lest I might come into contact
with some hidden wire, the slightest touch of which must bring instant
death upon me.

"Your enemies prepared this terrible trap for you," declared the man who
was once my trusted servant. "When I entered into the affair I was not
aware that it was to be fatal. They gave me no inkling of their
dastardly intention. But there is no time to admit of explanations now,
signore," he added breathlessly, in a low desperate voice. "Say that you
will not prejudge me," he pleaded earnestly.

"I will not prejudge you until I've heard your explanation," I said. "I
certainly owe my life to you to-night."

"Then quick! Fly from this house this instant. If you are stopped, then
use your revolver. Don't hesitate. In a moment they will be here upon
you."

"But who are they, Olinto? You must tell me," I cried in desperation.

"_Dio!_ Go! Go!" he cried, pushing me violently towards the door. "Fly,
or we shall both die--both of us! Run downstairs. I must make feint of
dashing after you."

I turned, and seeing his desperate eagerness, precipitately fled, while
he ran down behind me, uttering fierce imprecations in Italian, as
though I had escaped him.

A man in the narrow dark passage attempted to trip me up as I ran, but I
fired point blank at him, and gaining the door unlocked it, and an
instant later found myself out in the street.

It was the narrowest escape from death that I had ever had in all my
life--surely the strangest and most remarkable adventure. What, I
wondered, did it mean?

Next morning I searched up and down Oxford Street for the Restaurant
Milano, but could not find it. I asked shopkeepers, postmen, and
policemen; I examined the London Directory at the bar of the Oxford
Music Hall, and made every inquiry possible. But all was to no purpose.
No one knew of such a place. There were restaurants in plenty in Oxford
Street, from the Frascati down to the humble coffeeshop, but nobody had
ever heard of the "Milano."

Even Olinto had played me false!

I was filled with chagrin, for I had trusted him as honest, upright, and
industrious; and was puzzled to know the reason he had deceived me, and
why he had enticed me to the very brink of the grave.

He had told me that he himself had fallen into the trap laid by my
enemies, and yet he had steadfastly refused to tell me who they were!
The whole thing was utterly inexplicable.

I drove over to Lambeth and wandered through the maze of mean streets
off the York Road, yet for the life of me I could not decide into which
house I had been taken. There were a dozen which seemed to me that they
might be the identical house from which I had so narrowly escaped with
my life.

Gradually it became impressed upon me that my ex-servant had somehow
gained knowledge that I was in London, that he had watched my exit from
the club, and that all his pitiful story regarding Armida was false. He
was the envoy of my unknown enemies, who had so ingeniously and so
relentlessly plotted my destruction.

That I had enemies I knew quite well. The man who believes he has not is
an arrant fool. There is no man breathing who has not an enemy, from the
pauper in the workhouse to the king in his automobile. But the unseen
enemy is always the more dangerous; hence my deep apprehensive
reflections that day as I walked those sordid back streets "over the
water," as the Cockney refers to the district between those two main
arteries of traffic, the Waterloo and Westminster Bridge Roads.

My unknown enemies had secured the services of Olinto in their dastardly
plot to kill me. With what motive?

I wondered as I crossed Waterloo Bridge to the Strand, whether Olinto
Santini would again approach me and make the promised explanation. I had
given my word not to prejudge him until he revealed to me the truth. Yet
I could not, in the circumstances, repose entire confidence in him.

When one's enemies are unknown, the feeling of apprehension is always
much greater, for in the imagination danger lurks in every corner, and
every action of a friend covers the ruse of a suspected enemy.

That day I did my business in the city with a distrust of everyone, not
knowing whether I was not followed or whether those who sought my life
were not plotting some other equally ingenious move whereby I might go
innocently to my death. I endeavored to discover Olinto by every
possible means during those stifling days that followed. The heat of
London was, to me, more oppressive than the fiery sunshine of the
old-world Tuscany, and everyone who could be out of town had left for
the country or the sea.

The only trace I found of the Italian was that he was registered at the
office of the International Society of Hotel Servants, in Shaftesbury
Avenue, as being employed at Gatti's Adelaide Gallery, but on inquiry
there I found he had left more than a year before, and none of his
fellow-waiters knew his whereabouts.

Thus being defeated in every inquiry, and my business at last concluded
in London, I went up to Dumfries on a duty visit which I paid annually
to my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest
boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many
friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in
the county and moved in the best set.

Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at
Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this
occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are
always gay in August in prospect of the shooting.

"Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem,"
remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after
my arrival. "Their name is Leithcourt, and they've asked me to drive you
over there to tennis this afternoon."

"I'm not much of a player, you know, aunt. In Italy we don't believe in
athletics. But if it's out of politeness, of course, I'll go."

"Very well," she said. "Then I'll order the victoria for three."

"There are several nice girls there, Gordon," remarked my uncle
mischievously. "You have a good time, so don't think you are going to be
bored."

"No fear of that," was my answer. And at three o'clock Sir George, his
wife, and myself set out for that fine old historic castle that stands
high on the Bognie, overlooking the Cairn waters beyond Dunscore, one of
the strongholds of the Black Douglas in those turbulent days of long
ago, and now a splendid old residence with a big shoot which was
sometimes let for the season at a very high rent by its aristocratic if
somewhat impecunious owner.

We could see its great round towers, standing grim and gray on the
hillside commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached
it, and when we drove into the grounds we found a gay party in summer
toilettes assembled on the ancient bowling-green, now transformed into a
modern tennis-lawn.

Mrs. Leithcourt and her husband, a tall, thin, gray-headed, well-dressed
man, both came forward to greet us, and after a few introductions I
joined a set at tennis. They were a merry crowd. The Leithcourts were
entertaining a large house-party, and their hospitality was on a scale
quite in keeping with the fine old place they rented.

Tea was served on the lawn by the footmen, and afterwards, being tired
of the game, I found myself strolling with Muriel Leithcourt, a bright,
dark-eyed girl with tightly-bound hair, and wearing a cotton blouse and
flannel tennis skirt.

I was apologizing for my terribly bad play, explaining that I had no
practice out in Italy, whereupon she said--

"I know Italy slightly. I was in Florence and Naples with mother last
season."

And then we began to discuss pictures and sculptures and the sights of
Italy generally. I discerned from her remarks that she had traveled
widely; indeed, she told me that both her father and mother were never
happier than when moving from place to place in search of variety and
distraction. We had entered the huge paneled hall of the Castle, and had
passed up the quaint old stone staircase to the long banqueting hall
with its paneled oak ceiling, which in these modern days had been
transformed into a bright, pleasant drawing-room, from the windows of
which was presented a marvelous view over the lovely Nithsdale and
across to the heather-clad hills beyond.

It was pleasant lounging there in the cool old room after the hot
sunshine outside, and as I gazed around the place I noted how much more
luxurious and tasteful it now was to what it had been in the days when I
had visited its owner several years before.

"We are awfully glad to be up here," my pretty companion was saying. "We
had such a busy season in London." And then she went on to describe the
Court ball, and two or three of the most notable functions about which I
had read in my English paper beside the Mediterranean.

She attracted me on account of her bright vivacity, quick wit and keen
sense of humor, therefore I sat listening to her pleasant chatter.
Exiled as I was in a foreign land, I seldom spoke English save with
Hutcheson, the Consul, and even then we generally spoke Italian if there
were others present, in order that our companions should understand.
Therefore her gossip interested me, and as the golden sunset flooded the
handsome old room I sat listening to her, inwardly admiring her innate
grace and handsome countenance.

I had no idea who or what her father was--whether a wealthy
manufacturer, like so many who take expensive shoots and give big
entertainments in order to edge their way into Society by its back door,
or whether he was a gentleman of means and of good family. I rather
guessed the latter, from his gentlemanly bearing and polished manner.
His appearance, tall and erect, was that of a retired officer, and his
clean-cut face was one of marked distinction.

I was telling my pretty companion something of my own life, how, because
I loved Italy so well, I lived in Tuscany in preference to living in
England, and how each year I came home for a month or two to visit my
relations and to keep in touch with things.

Suddenly she said--

"I was once in Leghorn for a few hours. We were yachting in the
Mediterranean. I love the sea--and yachting is such awfully good fun, if
you only get decent weather."

The mention of yachting brought back to my mind the visit of the _Lola_
and its mysterious sequel.

"Your father has a yacht, then?" I remarked, with as little concern as I
could.

"Yes. The _Iris_. My uncle is cruising on her up the Norwegian Fiords.
For us it is a change to be here, because we are so often afloat. We
went across to New York in her last year and had a most delightful
time--except for one bad squall which made us all a little bit nervous.
But Moyes is such an excellent captain that I never fear. The crew are
all North Sea fishermen--father will engage nobody else. I don't blame
him."

"So you must have made many long voyages, and seen many odd corners of
the world, Miss Leithcourt?" I remarked, my interest in her increasing,
for she seemed so extremely intelligent and well-informed.

"Oh, yes. We've been to Mexico, and to Panama, besides Morocco, Egypt,
and the West Coast of Africa."

"And you've actually landed at Leghorn!" I remarked.

"Yes, but we didn't stay there more than an hour--to send a telegram, I
think it was. Father said there was nothing to see there. He and I went
ashore, and I must say I was rather disappointed."

"You are quite right. The town itself is ugly and uninteresting. But the
outskirts--San Jacopo, Ardenza and Antigniano are all delightful. It was
unfortunate that you did not see them. Was it long ago when you put in
there?"

"Not very long. I really don't recollect the exact date," was her reply.
"We were on our way home from Alexandria."

"Have you ever, in any of the ports you've been, seen a yacht called the
_Lola_?" I asked eagerly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she might
be able to give me information.

"The _Lola_!" she gasped, and instantly her face changed. A flush
overspread her cheeks, succeeded next moment by a death-like pallor.
"The _Lola_!" she repeated in a strange, hoarse voice, at the same time
endeavoring strenuously not to exhibit any apprehension. "No. I have
never heard of any such a vessel. Is she a steam-yacht? Who's her
owner?"

I regarded her in amazement and suspicion, for I saw that mention of the
name had aroused within her some serious misgiving. That look in her
dark eyes as they fixed themselves upon me was one of distinct and
unspeakable terror.

What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft?

"I don't know the owner's name," I said, still affecting not to have
noticed her alarm and apprehension. "The vessel ran aground at the
Meloria, a dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of
her captain was very nearly lost."

"Yes?" she gasped, in a half-whisper, bending to me eagerly, unable to
sufficiently conceal the terrible anxiety consuming her. "And you--did
you go aboard her?"

"Yes," was the only word I uttered.

A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I
saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had
suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the
key to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me.

Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly--

"Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Muriel. Why are you hidden
here? Aren't you coming?"

We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay
involuntarily escaped her.

Next instant I sprang to my feet. The reason of her cry was apparent,
for there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the
long open windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis
flannels and a Panama hat--the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby!

I faced him, speechless.