On the following day, about noon, I took a cab to the Italian Embassy, that fine stone-built mansion2 in Grosvenor Square.
A tall footman with powdered hair asked me into the great reception-room where, at one end, hung a great portrait of the late King Humbert, the other end of the room opening upon a large conservatory3 where stood a grand piano. It was a sombre apartment, furnished with solid, old-fashioned taste and embellished4 with a number of photographs of noteworthy persons presented to the popular Ambassador and his wife in the various cities wherein His Excellency had represented his sovereign.
Like most London reception-rooms, it looked its best at night under the myriad5 electric lamps. At noon, as I sat there, it looked a trifle too dull and gloomy. Presently one of the staff of the Embassy, a short, pleasant-faced, elderly Italian of charming manner, and speaking perfect English, greeted me courteously6 and inquired the object of my request to see His Excellency.
“I have called,” I said, “in order to give some confidential8 information which may be of interest to His Excellency. The fact is I have been present at the death of the ex-Minister for Justice Nardini.”
“His death!” exclaimed the pleasant official. “What do you mean? Is he dead?”
“He died here, in London, and unrecognised. It was only on searching his papers that I discovered his identity. He came to an obscure boarding-house in Shepherd’s Bush, giving the name of Massari, but on the following day he died. He had for a long time been suffering from an internal complaint and suddenly collapsed9. The effort of the rapid journey from Rome and the anxiety were evidently too great for him.”
“This is astounding10! We had no idea he was here! There were orders given for his arrest, you know,” remarked the Embassy archivist, for such I afterwards found him to be—a trusted official who for many years has held that position, and is well-known and popular in the diplomatic circle in London. “But,” he added suddenly, “how were you enabled to establish his identity?”
“By these,” I answered, drawing out a packet of official papers from my pocket, opening them and handing him one of them to read.
The instant his eyes fell upon it he started, turned it over, and looked up at me amazed.
“I presume you know Italian?” he asked quickly.
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you are aware what these papers are—most important Government documents, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry11 of Justice in Rome?”
“I know,” I replied briefly12. “That is why I secured them, and why I have brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not be allowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain much confidential information regarding certain well-known persons.”
“Of course,” he said. “His Excellency will, I’m sure, be extremely indebted to you for acting13 with such discretion14. Had they fallen into the hands of the London police they might have been copied, and the secret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would be most detrimental15 to our prestige, if the public knew that confidential reports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to hand for any one to read.”
“I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint,” I said. “My own opinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levy16 blackmail17 by their means.”
But the official only shrugged18 his shoulders in ignorance. It was not likely that he would condemn19 his own compatriot, even though at heart he despised both the man and his dishonest methods.
Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent20 to ejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain persons in high positions in Rome which amazed him.
“At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, Mr Leaf, you will leave these with me,” he suggested. “We shall send them back under seal to Rome.”
“Of course, that was my intention,” I said. And then, in reply to some further questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardini had died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of her strange story of the dead man’s mysterious hatred21 of myself. I only apologised that I had not thought of communicating with the Italian Consulate22, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documents might partly atone23 for my remissness24.
“There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead man’s belongings25 to interest us?” he asked seriously. “You have, of course, made careful search?”
“Yes. I have had an inventory26 made by a solicitor27. There is nothing else,” I answered; and after giving my courteous7 friend my club address, and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks, and departed.
My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appeal to the fugitive28 had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and held me mystified.
Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther. Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasn’t going to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead and buried, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me the truth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.
But it did not suffice me.
That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her future in his hands showed me that she was in dire29 straits. What could be the allegation against her?
As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that it was not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an official letter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evident that they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspapers were still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding30 ex-Minister.
I recollected31 that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt “living in the country,” but she had not told me in what locality, and “the country” was a big place in which to search, more especially as I did not know the lady’s name. She had told me also that she lived in Leghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehow I held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.
The police record gave Miller’s place of birth as Studland, in Dorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, I should be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody would know some facts concerning the family. From the Gazetteer32 I discovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far from Swanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy, I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotel which faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, and an hour later I descended33 at the inn in Studland village.
It was a quiet, quaint34 old-world place, I found, with a queer ancient little church hidden away among the trees at the back. In the bar-parlour of the “Lion” I ordered some tea, and then, in the course of a chat with the stout35, cheery old publican I casually36 inquired after some friends of mine named Miller.
“Oh! yes,” he said. “Old Miss Miller lives ’ere still—at the Manor37 ’Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came down the hill from Swanage way. They’re one of the oldest families ’ere in Studland. One of the Millers38—Sir Roger ’e was called—was governor of Corfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so I’ve ’eard say.”
“Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor?” I remarked.
“Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but ’e’s always abroad, so ’is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the ’ouse and looks after it.”
“Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s ’im. They calls ’im the mysterious Mr Miller. ’E always was a wild rascal39 when ’e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman could do nothing with him, so ’e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostly ever since.”
“Has he any children?”
“A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about ’er, and say she’s very nice. She’s often ’ere.”
“He’s well off, I suppose?”
“Oh, dear no, sir,” declared the innkeeper. “The Millers are as poor as church mice. The value of land’s gone down so of late years. The old place is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an’ it’s a pity—a thousand pities.”
All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous40 old fellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulated myself upon the success of my first investigation41.
“When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?”
“Oh! It’s a long time now ’e ’aven’t been in Studland. Once, about three years ago, ’e came without any luggage they say—and stayed over a twelvemonth. ’E’s a queer man. ’E never speaks to the likes of us.”
I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire after her niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshine until I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge42 gate, and then, after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of a large old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling43 and time-mellowed—a typical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a small park.
A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered44 into a quaint old oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which was undoubtedly45 Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces with age. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deep diamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring the delightful46 vista47 when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, and turning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, with bony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brown beard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats48 over his boots.
“Mr Leaf?” he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. “I am Miss Miller’s brother,” he explained. “My name is James Harding Miller. Do you wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and has sent me to make her apologies.”
I started when he introduced himself.
I was actually face to face with the ingenious scoundrel whom Sammy had denounced, and whom the Italian police so strongly suspected to be the leader of one of the cleverest gangs of malefactors in Europe.
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1
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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8
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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28
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
gazetteer
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| n.地名索引 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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42
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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43
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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44
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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48
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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