The Red Room

by William Le Queux

further declarations onmy part, he handed me the message, and I found, as I had expected, itwas my own, which, unfortunately, had never reached her to reassure her.

  Of course, I was not certain that Mabel's companion was actually Kirk.Indeed, as I reflected, I grew to doubt whether she would accept anyword he told her as the truth. Yet whatever the story related aboutmyself to her it must be a strange and dramatic one, that it shouldinduce her to travel across Europe in company with a stranger.

  I had never had the slightest reason to doubt Mabel's fidelity. She hadalways been a good, honest and true wife to me, and our strong affectionwas mutual. Indeed, few men and women led more blissful, even livesthan we had done. Thoroughly understanding each other's temperaments,we were content in each other's affection.

  No, even though this man might tell me this astounding story, I refusedto give it credence. The grey-moustached stranger, whoever he might be,was a scoundrel bent upon entrapping my wife, and had done so byrelating some fictitious story about myself.

  This theory I expounded to her young sister Gwen as we sat at our coffeehalf an hour later. We had resolved to rest until eleven, when anexpress left for Rome. I intended to follow her and rescue her from thehands of those who were most certainly conspirators.

  More mystified than ever, we therefore travelled south to the EternalCity, arriving there in the early hours of the next morning, and goingto the Grand Hotel, which was full to overflowing, the Roman seasonhaving already commenced.

  To find my beloved wife was now my sole aim. I thought naught of thestartling mystery of Sussex Place, or of the strange identity of thefalse Professor. I had abandoned the inquiry in order to recover fromperil the woman I loved so dearly.

  The young girl, my companion, was; beside herself with fear, dreadingwhat had occurred; while I myself became more and more puzzled as to themotive for inveigling Mabel abroad. She had not the slightestconnection with the secret tragedy; she was, indeed, in ignorance of itall. For what reason, therefore, was she being misled, and why, oh,why, did she allow this perfect stranger to pose as myself?

  I hardly slept at all that night, having searched all the publishedvisitors' lists in vain, and as early as seven o'clock next morning Istarted upon a tour of the hotels to make personal inquiry. At theRussia, the Modern, the Continental, the Milan, and other well-knownhouses of that class I conned the names of the visitors for my own, butthough I was occupied the whole day upon the task, snatching a hastyluncheon at a little _trattoria_ I knew just behind the Ministry ofPosts and Telegraphs, all was, alas! in vain.

  Part of the time Mabel's sister was with me, until she grew tired, andreturned alone to the hotel in a cab.

  Earlier in the day I had telegraphed to Pelham to inquire whether Mabelhad sent me any message at home, but the reply came that neithertelegram nor letter had been received.

  Though there seemed no connection whatever between the tragedy in SussexPlace and my wife's flight, yet I could not help suspecting that therewas, and that my apparent abandonment was due to the subtle, satanicinfluence of my mysterious neighbour. I was now all the more anxious tocondemn him to the police. The remains of the poor Professor had beencremated in his own furnace, and by the blackguardly hands of theassassin.

  Yet, before I could raise the finger of denunciation, I had to discoverthe fellow's whereabouts, and this seemed a task impossible toaccomplish. I had kept my eye upon the _Times_ daily in the course ofmy quick journeys during that most eventful week, but no advertisementhad appeared.

  Next day, and the next, I spent alternately searching the hotels andidling in the Corso, on the Pincian, among the tourists in the Forum, orin the broad Piazza Colonna, the hub of Roman life. Among the hosts offoreigners who walked and drove in the Corso at the hour of the_passeggiata_, my eyes, and those of my bright little companion, wereever eager to find my dear wife's handsome face.

  But we saw her not. She and the man posing as myself had entirely andcompletely disappeared.

  I sought counsel of the Questore, or chief of police, who, on hearingthat I was in search of my wife, ordered the register of foreigners inRome to be searched. But two days later he informed me with regret thatthe name of Holford did not appear.

  In face of that my only conclusion was that, after leaving Florence,they had suddenly changed the course of their flight.

  Their flight! Why had Mabel fled from me, after speeding so swiftly tomeet me? Ay, that was the crucial question.

  Late one afternoon I was standing upon the Pincian, leaning upon thebalustrade of that popular promenade of the Romans, and watching thecrowd of winter idlers who, in carriage and afoot, were taking thefresh, bright air. I had been there every day, hoping against hopeeither to recognise Mabel or the man Kirk among the crowd of wealthycosmopolitans who thronged the hillside.

  Before me moved the slow procession of all sorts and conditions ofcarriages, from the gaudily-coloured, smart motor-car of the youngItalian elegant to the funereal carozza of the seedy marchesa, or thehumble vettura of the tweed-skirted "Cookite." Behind showed the softgrey rose of the glorious afterglow with the red roofs, tall towers anddomes of the Eternal City lying deep below. Against the sky stood thetall cypresses--high, gloomy, sombre--and over all spread that lightfilm of mist that rises from old Tiber when the dusk is gathering.

  The scene was, perhaps, one of the most picturesque in all Italy, evensurpassing that from the Piazza Michelangelo in Firenze, but to me,hipped and bewildered as I was, the chatter in a dozen tongues about mewas irritating; and I turned my back upon the crowd, leaning my elbowsupon the stone parapet, and gazing over the gay, light-hearted capitalwhence at that moment came up the jangling of bells started by the greatbell at St. Peter's and echoing from every church tower, the solemn callto evening prayer that is, alas! ever unheeded. In modern Italy onlythe peasant is pious; in the _alto mondo_ religion is unfashionable.

  Perhaps you have driven in the Corso, that narrow and most disappointingof thoroughfares, gossiped in the English tea-shop at five o'clock,taken your vermouth and bitters in the Aregno, and climbed the Pincianto see the sunset. If you have, then you know that life, you recogniseamid that crowd faces of both sexes that you have seen at Aix, at Vichy,at Carlsbad, at Ostend, or in the rooms at Monte Carlo, many of themvicious, sin-hardened faces, careless, indolent, blase; few, alas! withthe freshness of youth or the open look indicated by pure-mindedness.

  On the Pincian you have the light-hearted thoughtless world which existsonly to be amused, the world which laughs at grim poverty because itobtains its wherewithal from the labours of those poor, underpaid andsweated millions in other countries who must work in order that thesefew favoured ones may indulge in their extravagances.

  Sick to death, disappointed, worn out by a continual vigilance and witha deep anxiety gnawing ever at my heart-strings, I had turned from thescene, and was gazing across into the rose-tinted mists, when of asudden I heard a voice at my elbow, exclaiming in broken English:

  "Why, surely it's the Signor Holford!"

  I turned quickly, and to my amazement found myself confronted by thethin, sinister face of the dead Professor's servant, Antonio Merli.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  ANTONIO SPEAKS PLAINLY.

  "You, Antonio!" I gasped, staring at the fellow who, dressed in a darkgrey suit and soft black felt hat, presented an appearance ofultra-respectability.

  "Yes, signore, I am very surprised to find you here--in Rome," hereplied.

  "Come," I said abruptly, "tell me what has occurred. Why did you leaveLondon so hurriedly?"

  "I had some family affairs to attend to," he answered. "I had to go tomy home at Lucca to arrange for the future of my two nephews whosefather is just dead. Pietro joined me there."

  "And you were joined also by Mr. Kirk?" I said.

  "Ah, no, signore!" protested the thin-faced Italian with an emphaticgesture. "I have not seen him since I left London."

  "Are you quite certain of that, Ant
onio?" I asked slowly, in disbelief,as I looked straight into his face.

  "Quite. I know that he came abroad, but have no idea of his presentwhereabouts."

  "Now tell me, Antonio," I urged, "who and what is Mr. Kirk?"

  The Italian shrugged his shoulders, answering:

  "Ah, signore, you had better not ask. He is a mystery to me--as to you,and as he was to my poor master."

  "He killed your master--eh?" I suggested. "Now tell me the truth--onceand for all."

  "I do not know," was his quick reply, with a strange flash in his darkeyes. "If he did, then I have no knowledge of it. I slept on the topfloor, and heard nothing."

  "Who was the man who went to Edinburgh on the night of the tragedy?"

  "Ah! _Dio mio_! Do not reopen all that puzzle!" he protested. "I amjust as mystified as you yourself,