The Mysterious Mr. Miller

I dressed hurriedly, and, ascending to the stranger’s room, asked, in Italian, permission to enter.

A faint voice responded, and a moment later I was at the stranger’s bedside. The feeble light of the single candle showed a great change in his countenance, and I saw that he was suffering severely and seemed to be choking.

“I – I thank you very much, signore, for coming to me,” he said, with considerable difficulty. “I am having one of my bad attacks – I – I – ”

“Had you not better see a doctor? I’ll call a friend of mine, if you’ll allow me.”

“Yes. Perhaps it would really be best,” was his reply, and I saw that his hands were clenched in sudden pain.

Therefore, after telling Sammy of the foreigner’s illness, I put on my hat and went round into the Holland Road for my friend Tulloch.

The latter came with me at once, and as soon as I had interpreted the stranger’s symptoms, and he had made a careful examination, he turned to me and said in English: —

“The man’s very bad – cancer in the stomach. He’s evidently been near death half a dozen times, and this will probably prove fatal. Don’t frighten him, Godfrey, but just put it to him as quietly as you can. Tell him that he’s really very much worse than he thinks.”

“Is it worth while to tell the poor fellow the truth?” I argued. “It may only have a bad effect upon him.”

“His other doctors have, no doubt, already warned him. Besides it’s only fair that he should know his danger. I never keep the truth from a patient when things are desperate, like this.”

“Then you hold out but little hope of him?”

Bob Tulloch, who had been with me at Charterhouse, stroked his dark beard and replied in the negative, while the stranger, who had been watching us very closely, said in Italian in a low faint voice: —

“I know! I know! I’m dying – dying!” and he laughed curiously, almost triumphantly. “I’m dying – and I shall escape them. Ah! signore,” he added, with his bright black eyes fixed upon mine, “if you only knew the truth – the terrible, awful truth – you would pity me – you would, I am convinced, stand my friend. You would not believe the evil that men say of me.”

“Then tell me the truth,” I urged quickly, bending down to him in eagerness.

But he only shook his head and clenched his even white teeth.

“No,” he said, with a fierce imprecation in Italian. “Mine is a secret – her secret – a secret that I have kept until now – a secret that none shall know!”

Chapter Two

Touches a Woman’s Honour

Tulloch left half an hour later, and Sammy, whose curiosity had been aroused concerning the foreigner, entered the room and inquired after the patient.

But hoping to learn more from the stricken man, I sent my friend back to bed and remained there through the night, administering to the patient what my friend Tulloch had ordered.

The long hours dragged on in silence. Only the ticking of the cheap American clock broke the quiet. Lying upon his back the stranger fixed his dark eyes upon me, until his hard gaze caused me quite an uncomfortable feeling. It is unpleasant to have a dying man’s eyes fixed so attentively upon one. Therefore I shifted my chair, but even then I could not escape that intent penetrating gaze. He seemed as if he were reading my very soul.

If I spoke he answered only in low monosyllables. Whenever I attempted to put a question he made a quick gesticulation, indicating his impossibility to reply. And so passed the whole long vigil until day broke in brightening grey, and the sun shone forth again.

Yet the man’s hard stony stare was horrifying. Somehow it utterly unnerved me.

Had Tulloch not declared that the fellow was dying, I should certainly have left him; yet I felt it was my duty as a man to remain there, for was I not the only person in that household acquainted with the Italian tongue?

Ever and anon he clenched his teeth tightly and drew a long hard breath, as though bitterly vengeful at thought of some incident of the past.

“Accidenti!” was an ejaculation that escaped his lips now and then, and by it I knew that he was praying that an accident might befall his enemies – whoever they were. He uttered the most bitter curse that an Italian could utter.

Presently, about five o’clock, just as the sun’s rays entering through the opening between the dingy old rep curtains fell across the threadbare carpet in a golden bar, he became quiet again.

“Ah, signore,” he said gratefully, “it is really extremely good of you to put yourself out on my account – a perfect stranger.”

“Nothing, nothing,” I assured him. “It is only what you would do for me if I were ill in a foreign country where I could not speak the language.”

“Ay, that I would,” he declared. And after a pause he added: “Nearness to death causes us to make strange friendships – doesn’t it?”

“Why?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.

“Well – in me, for instance, you are making a strange friend,” he said, with a queer, harsh laugh.

“Why strange?”

“Because you are utterly unaware of who or what I am.”

“I know your name – that is all,” I responded quietly. “You know the name by which I choose to be known here. It is not likely that I should disclose my real identity.”

“Why not?”

“Because – well, there are strong reasons,” was his vague answer, and his mouth shut with a snap, as though he discerned that he had already said too much. Then a moment later he added: “As I’ve already told you, you have made a strange acquaintance in me. You will probably be surprised if ever you really do ascertain the truth, which is, however, not very likely, I think. At least I hope not.”

I recollected that he had spoken of a secret – some woman’s secret – which he intended, at all hazards, to preserve. What was it, I wondered?

The thin drawn face upon the white pillow wore a wild, desperate expression. The stranger had actually laughed in triumph at the suggestion of death. A man must be desperate ere he can face the open grave with a smile upon his lips.

After a few minutes he raised his thin yellow finger beckoning me closer, and in a fainter voice said: —

“You are the only friend I have in this great capital, Signor Leaf,” – for at table I had told him my name and something about my wandering life on the Continent – “you will not allow them to bury me as a pauper? There is money – see, in that left-hand top drawer – over there. Will you get my purse?”

I rose, opened the drawer he indicated, and handed him a bulky red morocco wallet, one of those in which Italians carry their paper currency.

He opened it and I saw that it was crammed with hundred-franc and even thousand-franc notes. In the wallet there was probably over a thousand pounds.

“Will you take charge of it?” he asked, handing it back. “I shall never want it again. Pay all the expenses, and I would ask of you one favour. Upon the stone over my grave put no name – only the words: ‘In Memory of one who was Unfortunate’ – that is all.”

“And the balance of the money – to whom shall I hand that?”

He thought a few moments, his eyes fixed upon the low, smoke-blackened ceiling.

“If there is no just claimant within one year take five thousand francs as a souvenir of me, and present the remainder to a hospital – whatever hospital in London you think the most deserving. You will also find the directions for obtaining certain securities deposited in Italy. Obtain them and deal with them as you deem advisable.”

“But have you no relations?” I inquired, foreseeing a great difficulty in carrying out these verbal instructions.

“Relations! Bah! what are relations?” he cried excitedly. “Only an infernal encumbrance. I suppose I have some somewhere – everybody has more or less.”

“And don’t you know where yours are?”