The Mysterious Mr. Miller

It certainly seemed as though I was to be placed under arrest a second time. Formal application had been made to Scotland Yard, and the fact that I had admitted acquaintance with Miller, a known thief, did not allow them any alternative but to obey.

The detective told me that, whereupon I asked to speak with the Italian Agent.

“I’ll bring him to you in an hour’s time, or so,” was the inspector’s answer, and when he had gone Lucie returned to my side.

“You are upset, Mr Leaf. What has he discovered? Anything startling?”

“No,” was my response. “Only a fact that surprises me. Really nothing which has any important bearing upon the affair. Ah!” I sighed, “how I long to be strong enough to leave this place and to see Ella. Will you endeavour to see her? Tell her I am here. I must see her – must, you understand.”

“I’ll go straight to Porchester Terrace,” she promised. “But if you see that man Gordon-Wright say nothing. Do not mention me, remember.”

“I quite understand.” And as the nurse approached, Lucie took my hand, bending for a moment over my bed, and then left me.

An hour later my friend the detective was again at my bedside, accompanied by a short, thick-set, black-bearded little man, typically Italian.

“I hear you have been sent to England to effect my arrest,” I exclaimed in his own language.

“That is so, signore, though I much regret it.”

“You need not regret. You are only doing your duty,” I said. “But I merely wish to assure you that I have no intention of trying to escape you. In fact, I couldn’t walk the length of this room at present to save my life. I’m too weak. But before you place a constable on duty here, I would ask you one favour.”

“What is that?”

“To convey a letter for me to the secretary at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor Square. He will give you instructions regarding me.”

“Then you are known at the Embassy!” the police agent exclaimed, in surprise.

“I think you will find that I am.”

The nurse brought a pen, ink and a sheet of paper, upon which after great difficulty I wrote a note recalling my confidential visit regarding Nardini’s death, and explaining that the police were in error in thinking that I had any hand in the death of the guardian of the Villa Verde. I had been at the villa, I admitted, but out of curiosity, as I had watched the action of Miller and his companions. If any one were sent to me from the Embassy, I said, I would make a confidential statement.

When I had sealed the letter, the police agent took it, and next morning I received a call from the official with whom I had had a chat on the occasion of my visit to the Embassy. To him I explained the whole circumstances in strictest confidence, and described the secret hiding-place in the dead man’s library where were concealed a number of official papers that were evidently of great importance.

He heard me to the end, and afterwards reassured me by saying: —

“We have already given the police commissario instructions not to take any further steps against you, Mr Leaf. We quite accept your explanation, and at the same time thank you for this further information you are able to give us. A search shall be made at the spot you indicate.”

And then I took a piece of paper and pencil, and drew a plan of the concealed cupboard and how to open the panel.

Shortly after the Embassy official had left the police agent again visited me, presented his apologies for having disturbed me, and then throughout the day I remained alone with my own apprehensive thoughts regarding Ella.

She was prevented from coming to me on account of that man in whom she went in such deadly terror. Nothing had yet got into the papers concerning the dastardly attempt upon me, for the police had been very careful to keep it from those inquisitive gentlemen-of-the-press who called at the hospital every few hours to gather news of the latest accidents or tragedies. But if Lucie had told her I knew how alarmed and anxious she would be. She loved me – ah, yes, she loved me. Of that I felt confident.

Yet would she ever be mine? Was it the end – the end of all? Was the old sweet life of that summer beside the sea dead and gone for evermore? Should I never see a red rose, her favourite flower, bloom upon its bush without this sickness of soul upon me? Should I never smell the salt of the sea, or drink the cornfields’ breaths on a moonlit night without this madness of memory that is worse than all death?

Was she lost to me – lost to me for ever?

I forgot that the inquest upon Miller was to be held that afternoon, and that Lucie was the principal witness. The Coroner, a sharp-featured, grey-bearded man, came to my bedside, and with a clerk and the foreman of the jury, put me upon oath and took my evidence – evidence to the effect that I had dined in company with the deceased at the American’s flat. I explained how our host had mixed those final drinks – draughts that he intended should be fatal.

Then when I had concluded by declaring that I had no previous knowledge of Himes, the Coroner made me sign the statement, and returned to where the jury awaited him.

The Coroner’s officer, a police-sergeant in uniform, told me that they were taking precautions to keep the affair out of the papers, as they feared that the publication of the evidence might defeat their efforts to trace Himes.

Shortly after five o’clock Lucie came again, looking pale and agitated after the ordeal of giving evidence. A verdict of “death from poison wilfully administered” had been returned.

The Coroner and jury had questioned her closely regarding her father’s mode of life and his recent movements. Of the latter she was, of course, unaware. She only knew that he had been called unexpectedly to Rome, and had returned direct to England. Of the reason of his flying visit to Italy she was entirely unaware. He seldom, she said, ever told her about his own affairs, being naturally a close man regarding everything that concerned himself.

“They asked me about the man Himes,” she said, as she sat by my bedside, “and I was compelled to tell them how he had once been poor dad’s most intimate friend.”

“Did he ever meet Ella, do you think?” I asked suddenly.

“Never to my knowledge. Why?”

“I was only wondering – that’s all. Perhaps he knew Gordon-Wright.”

“I believe he did. They met one night when we were living in rooms at Fulham, if I recollect aright, and about six months later they went for a holiday together in Germany.”

“Did you ever meet that Italian doctor Gennaro Gavazzi who lived in Rome?”

She looked at me with a quick suspicion that she was unable to disguise.

“Why do you ask that?” she inquired, without reply to my question.

“Because he was a friend of your father’s. You told me so. I once knew him slightly,” I added, in order to reassure her.

“And you didn’t know much good concerning him, eh?” she asked, looking at me apprehensively.

“He was private secretary to Nardini, I believe, was he not?”

“Yes, and his factotum. He did all his dirty work – a scoundrel of the very first water.”

“And yet your father was very friendly with him. He has been staying in Rome with him.”

“I believe he did. But I could never discover why poor dad was so fond of that man’s society. To me, it was always a mystery.” And then she went on, in a low, broken voice, to describe to me all that had occurred at the inquest.

“There was a short, dark-bearded Italian present who asked me quite a number of questions regarding poor old dad. I wonder who he was.”

“One of your father’s Italian friends most probably,” I said, reassuring her, for I did not wish her to learn that the man was a police agent from Rome seeking to establish the dead man’s identity. “But,” I added, suddenly changing the subject because she had grown despairing, “you have told me nothing of Ella. Did you go to Porchester Terrace last night, as you promised?”

“I did, but she has left London with her father. She returned to Wichenford the day before yesterday.”

“Gone! And where is Gordon-Wright?”

“All I’ve been able to find out is that he is absent from London. I called myself at his rooms in Half Moon Street, and his man told me that he was out of town – on the Continent, he believes, but is not certain.”

“Or he may be with my love,” I remarked bitterly, clenching my hands in my fierce antagonism. For me nothing lived or breathed save one life, that of my love; for her alone the sun shone and set.

The days dragged wearily by, for I was still kept in the hospital. The shock my system had suffered had been a terrible one, and according to the doctors it had been little short of a miracle that my life had been saved.