The Mysterious Mr. Miller

“I’m glad of that, for there’s evidently some fresh conspiracy in progress.”

“Probably there is. He’s a shrewd fellow without a doubt.”

“An outsider, my dear Sammy,” I declared. “That fellow’s a thief – a friend of Miller’s.”

“Of Miller’s!” he cried, in his turn surprised. “Is he really one of the gang?”

“Certainly he is. Moreover, I happened to be present when he robbed an American in a hotel at Nervi, near Genoa, and if I said a word to the police he’d ‘do time,’ depend upon it.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because just at the present time it doesn’t suit my purpose,” was my reply. “I want first to find out the reason of his visit here.”

“Wants to establish the death of the fugitive, I suppose. He certainly, however, got nothing out of me. You know me too well, and can trust me not to give away anything that’s a secret.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. He came here alone, but Miss Gilbert says that a lady was waiting for him in a hansom a few doors along the road – a young lady, she thinks.”

Was it my Ella, I wondered? If so, she might be in London staying with her aunt, as she so frequently did in the old days.

“How long ago did all this occur?” I asked.

“On Saturday – that would be four days ago. He came about five in the afternoon. When Miss Gilbert referred him to me he apparently resented it, believing that he could induce her to tell him all he wanted.”

“But even she doesn’t know that it was the notorious Nardini who died up stairs.”

“No, but I don’t fancy she’s such a ready liar as I am, old chap,” laughed Sammy. “He started the haw-haw attitude, and with me that don’t pay – as you know. I did the haw-haw likewise, and led him to believe that I was most delighted to be of any assistance to him in helping him to trace his friend.”

“His friend! Did he say that Nardini was his friend?”

“He didn’t mention his name. He only said that an intimate friend of his, an Italian from Rome, had, he knew, arrived in London and suddenly disappeared. He had prosecuted most diligent search, and having ascertained from the registrar of deaths that an Italian had died there he wondered whether it might not be his friend. Whereupon I at once described a man something like Father Christmas without his muff and holly, and at length he went away quite satisfied that the man who died upstairs was not the person he was in search of.”

“He didn’t say where he was living, or leave any address?”

“He wasn’t likely to if he’s one of Miller’s crowd,” my friend exclaimed. “But I wonder what’s in the wind? He has some distinct object in establishing Nardini’s death.”

“Probably fears some revelation which the fugitive might make if he had fallen into the hands of the police,” I suggested. “The ex-Minister wasn’t a very bright specimen himself from all accounts and from those papers we discovered. He was a blackmailer and a brute, as well as an embezzler.”

“Well,” declared Sammy, “if you really have direct evidence against this fellow Gordon-Wright, I should just tell the truth at Scotland Yard. I’d dearly love to see Miller in the dock, too, for if any one deserves to pick oakum for a few years, he does. But he’s such a cunning knave, and passes so well as a gentleman, that nobody ever suspects.”

“They say he’s dined and slept at half the best country-houses in Dorsetshire and Devonshire, and I believe he’s going to hunt from Market Harborough this coming season.”

“The deuce he is! What infernal audacity! I feel myself like denouncing him.”

“Better not – at least at present, my dear fellow. Besides – for his daughter’s sake.”

“Daughter be hanged! She’s as bad as her father, every bit.”

“No, I disagree with you there,” I protested. “The girl is innocent of it all. She believes implicitly in her father, but beyond that she is in some deadly fear – of what I can’t yet make out.”

“Then you’ve seen her lately, eh?”

“Quite recently,” I replied, though I told him nothing of the exciting events of the past seven or eight days. The knowledge I had gathered I intended to keep to myself, at least for the present.

About four o’clock that afternoon I called upon Ella’s aunt, a widow named Tremayne, who lived in a comfortable house in Porchester Terrace. I was ceremoniously shown into the drawing-room by the grey-headed old butler, and presently Mrs Tremayne, an angular old person in a cap with yellow ribbons, appeared, staring at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles and carrying my card in her hand.

I had met her on one occasion only, in the days when Ella and I used to meet in secret in those squares about Bayswater, and I saw that she did not recollect me.

“I have called,” I said, “to ask if you can tell me whether your brother, Mr Murray, is in London. I heard that he and Miss Ella have gone back to Wichenford, but I think that they may possibly be in town just now. I have only to-day returned from abroad, and do not want to journey down to Worcestershire if they are in London.”

She regarded me for a few moments with a puzzled air, then said in a hard, haughty voice: “Your name is somehow familiar to me. Am I right in thinking that you were the Mr Leaf whom my niece knew two or three years ago?”

“I am,” I replied. “I have met Miss Murray again, and our friendship has been resumed.”

“Then if that is so, sir,” replied the old lady, glaring at me, “I have no information whatever to give you concerning her. I wish you good-afternoon.” And the sour old lady touched the bell.

“Well, madam,” I said, in rising anger, “I believed that I was calling upon a lady, but it seems that I am mistaken. I fail to see any reason for this treatment. You surely can tell me if your brother is in town?”

“I refuse to say anything. My brother’s affairs are no concern of mine, neither are yours. There was quite sufficient unpleasantness on the last occasion when you were running after Ella. It seems you intend to resume your tactics.”

“On the contrary, I hear that your niece is engaged to be married to a gentleman named Gordon-Wright.”

“That is so,” she answered, thawing slightly and readjusting her glasses. “They are to be married very soon, I believe. The wedding was fixed for Thursday week, but it has been postponed for a short time. My brother is much gratified at the engagement. Mr Gordon-Wright is such a nice gentleman, and just fitted to be her husband. He dined here a week ago, but has now gone abroad.”

“And you found him charming?” I asked, though I fear that my voice betrayed my sarcasm.

“Most charming. They appear to be an extremely happy couple.”

“And because you think I have an intention to come between them, Mrs Tremayne, you refuse to answer a simple question!”

“I am not bound to answer any question put to me by a stranger,” was her haughty reply.

“Neither am I bound to return civility for incivility,” I said. “I congratulate this Mr Gordon-Wright upon his choice, and at the same time will say that when we meet again, madam, you will perhaps be a trifle less insulting.”

“Perhaps,” she said; and as the butler was standing at the open door I was compelled to bow coldly and follow him out.

As he opened the front door I halted a moment and said, as though I had forgotten to make inquiry of his mistress: —

“Miss Ella is staying here – is she not?”

“Yes, sir,” was the man’s prompt reply. “She came up from the country yesterday.”

I thanked the man, descended the steps, and walked along Porchester Terrace wondering how best to act. Of love there is very little in the world, but many things take its likeness.

I must see my love at all costs. She had continued to postpone her marriage so as to allow me time to unmask her enemy and free her from the peril which threatened.

Gordon-Wright was abroad. Therefore a secret meeting with Ella was all the easier. Yes, I would keep watch upon that house, as I had done in the days long ago, and see if I could not meet her and make an appointment. To write to her would be unwise. It was best that I should see her and reassure her.