The Mysterious Mr. Miller Part 39

"We can never tell a man by his dress. Besides, how are we to know who you are--that you are really the person you say?"

I was silent. His question was an awkward one. But suddenly I recollected.

"Well, perhaps this will convince you that I'm a respectable person, eh?" And taking from my pocket-book my Italian revolver licence I handed it to him. He opened it suspiciously, then said; "Come farther down with us, to that light, and let's have a good look at you."

Now an Italian licence to carry a revolver is a very different doc.u.ment from that in England. It is issued only in very rare cases by the police themselves to responsible persons who first have to show that they are in danger of their lives from _vendetta_ or some other cause, and that to carry a weapon is for them personal defence. Upon the licence is the minute police description of the person to whom it is issued, as well as his signature, while the doc.u.ment is also countersigned by the Prefect of the city whence it is issued. It is therefore the best of all identification papers.

Obeying the guards, I walked with them down to the light at the town gateway where they read the official permit, closely scrutinising me as they reached each individual description, colour of hair and eyes, shape of nose, forehead and head, and the dozen other small details, all of which they found tallied with the licence.

"Born in London and domiciled in Milan, I see," remarked the carabineer.

"I was living in Milan when I applied to the Public Security Department for the permit."

"Well," he said, "it's lucky for you you had it upon you, otherwise you might have spent a day or two in prison for the untruth you told us."

And he handed back the licence to me with a grim smile. "Perhaps you'll tell me now where you really have been?"

I saw it necessary to alter my tactics, therefore I answered with a laugh:--

"To tell the truth I came out from Rome last night to keep an appointment--a secret one--with a lady--if you really must know."

"Then you'd better go back again to Rome," was his answer, apparently well satisfied, and believing that story more probable. "There's a train in twenty minutes or so, and we'll see you into it. We are on our way to the station."

From that moment we grew friendly, for the carabineers are a splendid body of picked men, and are always polite to the foreigner.

"You were coming down from the villa yonder," explained the man who had interrogated me half apologetically. "Therefore we had to ascertain who you were."

"What villa do you mean?"

"The Onorovele Nardini's. He's absconded, as I daresay you've heard."

"Ah?" I said, "I did read in the English journals something about it.

And did he live up there?"

"Yes. At the big villa. You must have pa.s.sed it. He used to live here a great deal, and every one believed him to be an honest man."

"Wasn't he?"

"_Dio_ no! He got a million francs of the public money, and no one knows what has become of it." Was either of these men the son of the old concierge in the Via del Tritone, I wondered? I longed to ask them, but dare not. They, of course, told me nothing regarding the mysterious discovery of a woman's body in the ex-Minister's study. Perhaps, indeed, they, like all others outside the confidential branch of the police service, were ignorant of it.

"And doesn't any one know where he is?" I asked, as we strolled at length upon the dark platform of the railway station.

"Oh! He's _in estero_ somewhere. We shall never get him, you may be sure. When once a man like that gets over the frontier he's gone for ever."

What, I wondered, would these two men think when, on the morrow, the truth of what had occurred at the Villa Verde became revealed! The body of the detective would be found, and another mystery would succeed the one which was being so carefully suppressed.

Both men accepted cigarettes from my case as we idled up and down the platform awaiting the train for Rome. It was their duty to meet all the night trains and note all arrivals and departures, therefore we pa.s.sed an idle half-hour gossiping pleasantly until the train drew up, and entering a first-cla.s.s compartment I bade them farewell and breathed freely again as we moved off towards the "Eternal City."

The instant the train was clear of the station I saw my imminent peril.

By ill-fortune these guards had met me, they had read my name, seen my description, and knew me well. As soon as the discovery was made in the Villa Verde--indeed, at any moment--they would telegraph those details all over the country and eagerly seek to arrest me as an accomplice.

Whether Miller and his friends were arrested or not, they would naturally connect me with the affair. That was but natural.

Fortunately I had succeeded in impressing upon them that I was a respectable person, but I recognised that if I desired to retain my liberty--my liberty to free my love from that mysterious bond which held her to a scoundrel--I must escape from Italy both immediately and secretly.

Before arrival in Rome I took off the gold pince-nez I habitually wore, discarded my collar and cravat, tied my handkerchief around my neck in attempt at disguise, and so pa.s.sed the barrier. Afterwards I walked some distance, and then took a cab to the hotel.

At eight o'clock, with a ticket for Florence by way of Pisa, I was in the express for the frontier at Modane. I purposely took a ticket for Florence, and then from Pisa, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I took another ticket to Turin. If my departure had been noted, they would search for me in Florence.

That journey was, perhaps, one of the most exciting in all my life. I travelled third-cla.s.s, attired in an old suit, old boots, and a handkerchief tied about my neck. In Turin I had four hours to wait, as the express to Paris did not convey third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers, and those four hours pa.s.sed slowly, for being a constant traveller I was known by sight by the waiters in the buffet and many officials. Therefore I was compelled to avoid them. Besides, was I not still in Italy? The police had no doubt already discovered what had occurred at the Villa Verde, and from Rome my description had probably been telegraphed along every line of railway.

Next morning, however, before it was light, I descended from the omnibus-train that had crawled up the Alpine slopes and through the Mont Cenis tunnel, and found myself upon the long dreary platform at the French frontier, Modane.

I had now to face the pair of scrutinising Italian detectives who I knew stood at the door of the Custom House watching every one who leaves the country.

It was a breathless moment. If I pa.s.sed them without recognition I should be free. If not--well it would mean disaster, terrible and complete, both for me and to the woman I so dearly loved.

I was risking all, for her sake, because she was mine. I was striving to solve the mystery, and to gain knowledge that would place her beyond the reach of that blackguard who held her so irrevocably in his power.

Summoning all my courage I gripped the bundle which contained a few necessaries--for the remainder of my luggage I had sent direct to Charing Cross and posted the receipt for it to my club--and went forward into the Custom House, displaying my belongings to the French _douanier_.

They had been vised, I had tied them up again in the big handkerchief, and was pa.s.sing out.

Another moment and I should be upon French territory.

Suddenly, however, a heavy hand was placed upon my shoulder, and a voice exclaimed in Italian:--

"One moment! Excuse me. I have a word to say to you!"

Turning with a start I faced a short man in a light tweed suit, while behind him stood the two detectives.

My heart sank within me. I knew that the affair at the Villa Verde had been discovered, and that I was lost!

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

LOVE IN FETTERS.

"Just step in here one moment," said the man in the grey suit. "I want to ask you a question." And he conducted me to a small office at the farther end of the platform, the bureau of the Italian police.

"Now who are you?" he asked, fixing me with his keen dark eyes, while the two detectives, who had evidently been expecting my arrival and identified me from the telegraphed description, stood by watching.

"My name is Sampson--Samuel Sampson," was my prompt reply, for during the whole of the previous day I had gradually concocted a story in readiness for any emergency.

"Oh!" exclaimed the _delegato_ in disbelief. "And what are you?"

"Under-steward on board the _Italia_ of the Anchor Line between Naples and New York. I landed yesterday morning at Leghorn, and am going home on a holiday to London. Why?" I asked, with feigned surprise.

"You left Rome yesterday," he said, "and your name is G.o.dfrey Leaf,"--he p.r.o.nounced it "Lif."

"Oh!" I laughed, "that's something new. What else? If you doubt me here's my pa.s.sport. It's an English pa.s.sport with the Italian vise, and I fancy it ought to be good enough for you."