The Mysterious Mr. Miller

I wondered whether she had seen in any of the Italian papers an account of the second discovery – the man who had been so brutally done to death.

“Well, from what I gather the police found a dead woman locked in Nardini’s study.”

“And has she been identified?” she asked eagerly.

“I believe not. All that is known about her is that she was your friend.”

“Ah, yes!” she sighed, as though she had previous knowledge of the tragedy. “And they know that – do they? Then they will probably endeavour to find me, eh?”

“Most probably.”

“Perhaps it is best that I should return to England, then,” she remarked, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder if they will discover me here?”

“I understand that they know your name, but are ignorant of where you reside. Besides, in England your name is not an uncommon one.”

“I hope they’ll never find me, for I have no desire to answer their inquiries. The affair is an unpleasant one, to say the least.”

“The police have some ulterior object in view by hushing it up,” I remarked.

“Yes. But how did you know?”

“A friend told me,” was my vague reply. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been in Rome.

“He told you my name?”

“He was an Italian, therefore could not pronounce it properly. The police evidently do not know, even now, that Nardini is dead.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said. “But – well, what you’ve told me is utterly staggering.”

“Then you were not aware of the mysterious affair?”

“Aware of it! How should I be?”

“Well, you were Nardini’s friend. You were a frequent visitor at the Villa Verde. You told me so yourself, remember.”

She did not reply, but sat staring straight before her at the stream of moonlight upon the rolling waters.

Whether she were really acquainted with the details of the tragic affair or not, I was unable to decide. She, however, offered me no explanation as to who the unknown woman was, and from her attitude I saw that she did not intend to reveal to me anything. Perhaps the mere fact that I had gained secret knowledge caused her to hold me in fear lest I should betray her whereabouts.

The situation was hourly becoming more complicated, but upon one point I felt confident, namely, that she held no knowledge of the second tragedy at the villa – a tragedy in which her father was most certainly implicated.

The tall grey-faced man in the long overcoat – the mysterious Mr Miller who was carrying thousands of pounds in stolen notes upon him – returned to us, and a few minutes later we had landed at Dover and were seated in the train for Charing Cross.

I got my pretty travelling companion a cup of tea, and soon after we had started she closed her eyes, and, tired out, dropped off to sleep. Miller, however, as full of good-humour as ever, kept up a continual chatter. Little did he dream that I had been an eye-witness of that wild scene of excitement when the dead man’s hoard had been discovered, or that I knew the truth concerning the unfortunate guard who had been struck down by a cowardly but unerring hand.

“Oh!” he sighed. “After all, it’s good to be back again in England. A spell at home will do Lucie good. She’s growing far too foreign in her ways and ideas. For a long time she’s wanted to spend a year or so in England, and now I’m going to indulge her.”

“Then you won’t be returning abroad for some time?”

“Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough. Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight of the pink always sends a thrill through me.”

“Does Lucie ride?”

“Ride, of course. She’s ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her first pony when she was eight.”

“Then she’ll enjoy it. There’s very good society about Market Harborough, I’ve heard.”

“Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd they are. The Continent’s all very well for many things, but for real good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!” he laughed.

And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush.

When I walked into Sammy’s room at seven o’clock he sat up in bed and stared at me.

“Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, got a bit sick of travelling, you know,” I laughed, “so I simply came back, that’s all. They can give me a room here, I hear, so I’ll stay.”

“You’ll stay here till you go away again, eh?” my friend laughed, for he knew what an erratic wanderer I was.

I sat on the edge of the bed and chatted to him while he shaved and dressed.

While we breakfasted together in his sitting-room he suddenly said: —

“There was a fellow here the other day making inquiries regarding our dead Italian friend.”

“Oh, what was he? A detective?”

“No. I don’t think so. Miss Gilbert referred him to me. He was a thin-faced, clean-shaven chap, and gave his name as Gordon-Wright.”

“Gordon-Wright!” I gasped, starting to my feet. “Has that fellow been here? What did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him nothing that he wanted to know. I didn’t care about him, somehow, so I treated him to a few picturesque fictions,” Sammy laughed.

“You didn’t tell him that the dead man was Nardini?”

“Not likely. You recollect that you urged me to say nothing, as the Italian Embassy did not wish the fact revealed.”

“Ah! That’s fortunate!” I cried, much relieved. “What did you tell him?”

“I said that it was true an Italian gentleman did die here, but he was a very old man named Massari. Before he died his son joined him, and after his death took all his belongings away. Was that right?”

“Excellent.”

“The stranger made very careful inquiries as to the appearance of the man who died, and I gave an entirely wrong description of him. I said that he had white hair and a long white beard, and that he walked rather lame, with the help of a stick. In fact I showed him a stick in the hall which I said belonged to the dead man. He was also very inquisitive regarding the man’s son who I said had taken away all his belongings. I described him as having a short reddish beard, but a man of rather gentlemanly bearing. The fellow Gordon-Wright struck me as an awful bounder, and that’s why I filled him up with lies. Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?”

“Friend!” I echoed. “No, the reverse. I wonder what he wanted to discover. You didn’t mention me, I suppose?”

“No. Why should I?”