ruinthem from the sheer love of cruelty and oppression. Those papersthere," and she pointed to the securities she had scattered upon thedingy carpet, "and every franc he possessed are accursed."
And he had given me the sum of two hundred pounds for accepting theresponsibility of his funeral and of the sealed packet.
"You mean that he was, by profession, a moneylender?"
"Oh, dear no. He lent money merely for the purpose of ruining people.He was heartless and cruel by nature, and if a man committed suicide--asmany did because he had ruined them--he would laugh at the poor fellowas a fool, and take the very bread from the mouths of the widow andfamily."
"The brute! A Jew, I suppose?"
"No. The people believed him to be one, but he was not. In his methodshe was more fiendish than any Hebrew. He did not lend money for profit,but in order to bring misery to others. The one kind, generous actionhe might have performed towards me, the giving back to me my honour, herefused. To him, it was nothing; to me, everything. It meant my life."
And I saw in her eyes a desperate look that deeply impressed me.
"I wish you would be more explicit, Miss Miller. If I can be of anyservice to you or assist you in any way, I shall be delighted. Really Idon't like to hear you talk as you do. If you are in a quandary theremust be some way out of it, and two heads, you know, are always betterthan one."
She sighed, and raising her fine eyes to mine, replied:--
"Ah! I fear, Mr Leaf, that your kind assistance would be unavailing,although I thank you all the same. That man yonder held my life in hishand. One word from him would have saved me. But he refused, andbefore I could overtake him Death had claimed him."
"He told me that he felt no regret in having to die," I said.
"Of course not. Had he lived the truth would have been revealed, and hewould have dragged out his remaining days in a convict prison. I knowthat truth--a strange and startling one--a truth which would assuredlyamaze and astound you. But he is dead," she added, "and though herefused to give me back my honour and my life I will never seek avendetta upon one whom the Avenger has already claimed--one whom GodHimself has justly judged."
And together we turned, and left the silent chamber wherein lay theremains of the man who was a mystery.
CHAPTER FOUR.
AROUSES CERTAIN SUSPICIONS.
Sammy chanced to be out, therefore I conducted her to our cosy littlesitting-room at the back of the house on the first floor, and after afew minutes she had so far recovered from the shock of seeing her deadenemy that she seated herself and allowed me to talk further to her.
I told her of the request which Massari had made respecting his epitaph,and of his fearless encounter with death.
"Naturally. He was unfortunate, and he wished to die," she said, quitecoolly. "Had he lived he would only have fallen into disgrace and beenplaced in the criminal dock."
"Towards me he was very pleasant, though not very talkative."
"Ah! you have had a narrow escape," she said, with her dark eyes fixedupon me mysteriously.
"A narrow escape? What of, pray? I don't understand you."
"Of course not," she answered, smiling strangely.
"Tell me more," I said eagerly. "This statement of yours is verypuzzling, and has aroused my curiosity. Do you mean that Massari hadsome sinister design upon me?"
She fixed her dark eyes upon me for a few moments, then said:--
"You were once, about three years ago, in Pisa--at the Minerva, Ithink?"
I stood before her open-mouthed. What did this sweet-faced woman knowregarding that closed page of my life's history?
Mention of that hotel in the quiet old marble-built city where standsthe wonderful Leaning Tower recalled to me a certain unsavoury incidentthat I would fain have forgotten, yet could never put from me itsremembrance.
"Well?" I asked at last, summoning all my strength to remain calm."What of it?"
She was silent for a moment, gazing straight into my eyes.
"Something occurred there, did it not?" she said slowly.
"And he knew of that?"
Then I recollected how the dying man had fixed his eyes upon me withthat hard, intense look; how his gaze had followed me about the room,and I saw his fierce hatred and deep regret that while he himself wasdying I still lived.
Perhaps he had intended that our positions should be reversed, but Godhad willed it otherwise.
Did Lucie Miller herself know what had taken place in Pisa?
I asked her point-blank, but from her replies I became reassured thatshe was entirely ignorant of the real facts. She knew that someextraordinary incident that concerned me had taken place there--that wasall.
By what means had the stranger obtained knowledge of my secret? To me,her allegation that I had had some narrow escape seemed incredible. Icould not discern sufficient motive. Yet she repeated her allegation,adding:--
"His motives were always hidden ones."
"Well," I declared, "to me the thing is really beyond credence. I can'tsee what I can have done to injure him. Was it in connection with theaffair in Pisa, do you think?"
"I believe it was, but of course I'm not quite certain," was hersomewhat vague reply. Perhaps she desired to mislead me.
The position was certainly a strange one. Had the dead man been asecret enemy of both of us?
The sweet face had changed as she sat with her neat patent-leather shoestretched forth upon the shabby hearth-rug. It was even paler and moreserious, while her eyes were fixed upon mine with a curious, intensegaze that caused me surprise.
"You have fortunately escaped," she said mechanically, after a briefpause. "I am, however, a victim, and doomed."
And sighing her eyes fell upon the carpet.
"But you will be able to clear yourself of this charge against you, MissMiller--you must--you will. If the brute refused to clear you, then youmust find other means. Why did he refuse? What had he to gain byrefusing?"
"Everything," was her low, hoarse answer. "If he had spoken the truthand cleared me then a terrible vengeance would have fallen upon him.But death overtook him instead."
I wondered whether I should tell her of the commission he had entrustedto me, but decided that, for the present, I would say nothing.
"Are you returning at once to Italy?" I inquired presently, for ourmutual connection with the dead man had aroused my curiosity concerningher. I longed to know who she was, and who was the man who lay in thatdarkened upstairs room.
"I hardly know what my future movements are to be," she replied. "Icame post-haste to London to face him and to compel him to speak andclear me of the foul imputation against me. Now that all is in vain--now that the future holds no hope for me--I don't know what I shall do."
"You have friends in England, of course?"
"I have an aunt living in the country. Perhaps I shall go to her. Imust first hear what my father counsels, now that our enemy is dead."Then after a pause she raised her eyes to mine and added: "I think youare acquainted with a certain lady named Hardwick, are you not?"
I started. She seemed to be aware of all my private affairs. It wasextraordinary. Surely these people had not spied upon me?
"I knew a lady of that name some time ago."
She smiled mysteriously, for she had watched my face and seen myexpression of surprise.
"And the recollection of her is not a very pleasant one, eh?"
"How did you know that?" I asked quickly.
She shrugged her shoulders with that foreign air which showed her to bea born cosmopolitan and laughed, but made no reply. That she knew moreconcerning me than she admitted was quite plain.
"And what has the woman Hardwick to do with the affair?" I asked insurprise.
"She is not your friend," she answered, in a low, serious voice. "Youhave seen her lately, I presume."
"I met her last while at supper at the Savoy about a fortnight ago," Isaid. "She then pressed me to go and di
ne with her."
"Of course. Hitherto you had not seen her for several months."
"No. She has been abroad, I understand."
"Yes. In Italy."
"And she invited me with some sinister motive?" I exclaimed insurprise.
"She wishes to resume your acquaintance, and to regain your confidence.It was, I think, part of an intrigue."
"I refused her invitation," I said. "I had long ago discovered that shewas not my friend."
"That is fortunate. Otherwise you might have cause to deeply regret it.The woman is an adventuress of the worst type--a fact which I daresayyou are already aware of."
"I discovered it by mere accident, and for that reason I dropped heracquaintance.
The Mysterious Mr. Miller Page 5