The Day of Temptation

“I hope your sojourn among us will be pleasant. You have lots to see. How long shall you remain?”

“Ah! I do not know,” she answered. “A week – a month – a year – if need be.”

The two men exchanged glances. The last words she uttered were spoken hoarsely, with strange intonation. They had not failed to notice a curious look in her eyes, a look of fierce determination.

“Terribly hot in Leghorn,” observed Tristram, turning the conversation after an awkward pause of a few moments. Vittorina held her breath. She saw how nearly she had betrayed herself.

“It has been infernally hot here in London these past few days. I think I shall go abroad to-morrow. I feel like the last man in town.”

“Go to Wiesbaden,” Tristram said. “I was at the Rose ten days ago, and the season is in full swing. Not too hot, good casino, excellent cooking, and plenty of amusement. Try it.”

“No, I think I’ll take a run through the Dolomites,” he said. “But why have you been down to Leghorn? Surely it’s off your usual track.”

“Yes, a little. The Ambassador is staying a few weeks for the sea-bathing at Ardenza, close to Leghorn, and I had important despatches.”

“She’s exceedingly good-looking,” the Major said in English, with a smiling glance at the cab. “I envy you your travelling companion. You must have had quite an enjoyable time.”

“Forty hours in a sleeping-car is scarcely to be envied this weather,” he answered, as a porter, recognising him in passing, wished him a polite “Good journey, I hope, sir?”

Continuing, Tristram said, “But we must be off. I’m going to see her safe through to her friends before going to the office, and I’m already nearly three hours late in London. So good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” the other said. “Shall I see you at the club to-night?”

“Perhaps. I’m a bit done up by the heat, but I want my letters, so probably I’ll look in.”

“Buona sera, signorina,” Maitland exclaimed, bending towards the cab, shaking her hand and raising his hat politely.

She smiled, returning his salute in her own sweet, musical Tuscan, and then her companion, shouting an address in Hammersmith, sprang in beside her, and they drove off.

“You must be very tired,” he said, turning to her as they emerged from the station-yard into the busy Strand.

“No, not so fatigued as I was when we arrived in Paris this morning,” she answered, gazing wonderingly at the long line of omnibuses and cabs slowly filing down the brightly lit thoroughfare. “But what confusion! I thought the Via Calzaiuoli in Florence noisy, but this – !” and she waved her small hand with a gesture far more expressive than any words.

Frank Tristram, remarking that she would find London very different to Florence, raised his hand to his throat to loosen his collar, and in doing so displayed something which had until that moment remained concealed. A narrow ribbon was hidden beneath his large French cravat of black silk tied in a bow. The colour was royal blue, and from it was suspended the British royal arms, surmounted by the crown, with a silver greyhound pendant, the badge known on every railway from Calais to Ekaterinbourg, and from Stockholm to Reggio, as that of a King’s Foreign Service Messenger. Captain Frank Tristram was one of the dozen wanderers on the face of the earth whose swift journeys and promptness in delivering despatches have earned for them the title of “The Greyhounds of Europe.”

So engrossed was the dark-haired girl in contemplating her strange surroundings that she scarcely uttered a word as the cab sped on swiftly through the deepening twilight across Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall, and up the Haymarket. Suddenly, however, the blaze of electricity outside the Criterion brought to Frank Tristram’s mind cherished recollections of whisky and soda, and, being thirsty after the journey, he shouted to the man to pull up there.

“You, too, must be thirsty,” he said, turning to her. “At this café, I think, they keep some of your Italian drinks – vermouth, menthe, or muscato.”

“Thank you – no,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “The cup of English tea I had at Dover did me good, and I’m really not thirsty. You go and get something. I’ll remain here.”

“Very well,” he said. “I won’t be more than a minute;” and as the cab drew up close to the door of the bar, he sprang out and entered the long saloon.

His subsequent movements were, however, somewhat curious.

After walking to the further end of the bar, he ordered a drink, idled over it for some minutes, his eyes glancing furtively at the lights of the cab outside. Suddenly, when he had uttered a few words to a passing acquaintance, he saw the vehicle move slowly on, probably under orders from the police; and the instant he had satisfied himself that neither Vittorina nor the cabman could observe him, he drained his glass, threw down a shilling, and without waiting for the change turned and continued through the bar, making a rapid exit by the rear door leading into Jermyn Street.

As he emerged, a hansom was passing, and, hailing it, he sprang in, shouted an address, and drove rapidly away.

Meanwhile the cabman who had driven him from Charing Cross sat upon his box patiently awaiting his return, now and then hailing the plethoric drivers of passing vehicles with sarcasm, as cab and ’bus drivers are wont to do, until fully twenty minutes had elapsed. Then, there being no sign of the reappearance of his fare, he opened the trap-door in the roof, exclaiming —

“Nice evenin’ miss.”

There was no response. The man peered down eagerly for a moment in surprise then cried aloud —

“By Jove! She’s fainted!”

Unloosing the strap which held him to his seat, he sprang down and entered the vehicle.

The young girl was lying back in the corner inert and helpless, her hat awry, her pointed chin upon her chest. He pressed his hand to her breast, but there was no movement of the heart. He touched her ungloved hand. It was chilly, and the fingers were already stiffening. Her large black eyes were still open, glaring wildly into space, but her face was blanched to the lips.

“Good heavens!” the cabman cried, stupefied, as in turning he saw a policeman standing on the kerb. “Quick, constable!” he shouted, beckoning the officer. “Quick! Look here!”

“Well, what’s the matter now?” the other inquired, approaching leisurely, his thumbs hitched in his belt.

“The matter!” cried the cabman. “Why, this lady I drove from Charin’ Cross is dead?”

Chapter Three

One of a Crowd

Within half a minute a crowd had gathered around the cab.

The instant the cabman raised the alarm the constable was joined by the burly door-opener of the Criterion in gaoler-like uniform and the round-faced fireman, who, lounging together outside, were ever on the look-out for some diversion. But when the constable agreed with the cab-driver that the lady was dead, their ready chaff died from their lips.

“What do you know of her?” asked the officer of the cab-driver.

“Nothing, beyond the fact that I drove ’er from Charin’ Cross with a gentleman. She’s a foreigner, but he was English.”

“Where is he?” demanded the constable anxiously, at that moment being joined by two colleagues, to whom the fireman in a few breathless words explained the affair.

“He went into the bar there ’arf an hour ago, but he ain’t come out.”

“Quick. Come with me, and let’s find him,” the officer said.

Leaving the other policemen in charge of the cab, they entered, and walked down, the long, garish bar, scrutinising each of the hundred or so men lounging there. The cabman, however, saw nothing of his fare.

“He must have escaped by the back way,” observed the officer disappointedly. “It’s a strange business, this.”

“Extremely,” said the cab-driver. “The fellow must have murdered her, and then entered the place in order to get away. He’s a pretty cute ’un.”

“It seems a clear case of murder,” exclaimed the other in a sharp, precise, business-like tone. “We’ll take her to the hospital first; then you must come with me to Vine Street at once.”

When they emerged, they found that the crowd had already assumed enormous proportions. The news that a woman had been murdered spread instantly throughout the whole neighbourhood, and the surging crowd of idlers, all curiosity, pressed around the vehicle to obtain a glimpse of the dead woman’s face. Amid the crowd, elbowing his way fiercely and determinedly, was a man whose presence there was a somewhat curious coincidence, having regard to what had previously transpired that evening. He wore a silk hat, his frock-coat was tightly buttoned and he carried in his gloved hand a silver-mounted cane. After considerable difficulty, he obtained a footing in front of the crowd immediately behind the cordon the police had formed around the vehicle, and in a few moments, by craning his neck forward, obtained nil uninterrupted view of the lady’s face.

His teeth were firmly set, but his calm countenance betrayed no sign of astonishment. For an instant he regarded the woman with a cold, impassive look, then quickly he turned away, glancing furtively right and left, and an instant later was lost in the surging, struggling multitude which a body of police were striving in vain to “move on.”

The man who had thus gazed into the dead woman’s face was the man to whom she had been introduced at the station. Major Gordon Maitland.