The Mysterious Mr. Miller

by William Le Queux

my little Ella preferred money to a man's love, and shebecame engaged to a stout, grey-haired fellow old enough to be herfather. Six months later she sickened, and then I heard that she wasdead. Ah! the blow was to me terrible! I became from that day achanged man.

  Since my little Ella preferred money to my love, I had again beenwandering hither and thither, a careless, aimless man, just as I hadwandered before meeting her. If I had had a profession it would havebeen different, but my father committed the unpardonable folly ofleaving me comfortably off, therefore I simply developed into an idler,preferring life at the gay continental resorts--now in Monte Carlo, nowin Paris, now in Rome, or elsewhere, just as my inclinations led me--tothe dull humdrum existence of chambers in London. Ella--Ella! Ithought of none save of my sweet dead love, now lost to me for ever.

  Therefore, when Sammy hinted that I had become bewitched by Lucie MillerI firmly and frankly denied such assertion. Four years is a breach in aman's life, but even four years had not caused me to forget my first andonly true passion--the passion that had ended so tragically. Sometimeslife does not count by years. Some suffer a lifetime in a day, and sogrow old between the rising and the setting of the sun.

  When Price had concluded the inventory of the dead man's papers, Isorted out all those which had any official bearing. Perhaps I ought tohave communicated at once with the Italian Consulate, seeing that thedead man was an Italian subject, but at the time it never occurred tome. The papers which had so evidently been abstracted from the archivesof the Ministry of Justice in Rome I tied up in a bundle and placed themapart. The others, with the exception of the yellow folio and theletter of appeal, we replaced in the portmanteaux.

  Later that afternoon, when alone, I drew out the letter again andre-read it. Translated into English it was as follows:--

  "Your Excellency Signor Nardini--For the last time I throw myself upon your charity and ask you to speak and clear me of this disgraceful allegation they have made against me. You alone know that I am entirely innocent. You alone know that on the evening of the affair I was at the Villa Verde. Therefore, how could I have been in Rome? How can I be culpable? A single word from you will vanquish these lying, unscrupulous enemies of mine who have thus attacked my honour and seek to connect me with an affair of which I swear I am in utter ignorance.

  "Surely you will not refuse to make this one single declaration to save me! Reflect well all that it means to me--this disgraceful accusation against my honour. I know your reluctance. You fear that your own admission that I was at your villa out at Tivoli on that night may give rise to some scandalous gossip. But will you not risk it in order to save a woman's life? Shall I not suffer more than you--a man? Yet I am quite ready to face the scandal of our names being connected in order to free myself from this most disgraceful charge. Say what you wish concerning me--tell all you know, if it suits your purpose--only I pray of you to shield me from these fierce, relentless enemies of mine.

  "I, a defenceless and desperate woman, beg of you to speak the truth and clear me. Will you not hear my appeal?

  "To-morrow, at noon, I shall call upon you personally for a reply.

  "Speak--speak, I beg of you most humbly and with all my heart. You are the only person who can save me, and I pray that God in His justice may direct your action of mercy. Lucie."

  Was not the truth plainly written there? Surely she had not misled mein her motive in coming to England, to make one final appeal to the manwhose lips had, alas! been closed by death!

  I re-read the piteous letter, sighing the while. Every word of itshowed her mad desperation at being unable to prove her innocence ofthis mysterious allegation. The reason of the man's silence was nowobvious. If he had spoken he would have had to tell the truth--whichfrom her letter appeared to be an unpleasant one and likely to causescandal. Yet she asserted that she was fearless of anything the worldmight say; therefore did not that very fact suggest that there was noground for any scandal?

  Then I opened the yellow official paper which had been preserved withthe letter of appeal.

  Headed "_Amministrazione di Pubblica Sicurezza_" and bearing the number28,280, it was, I saw, the Italian police record regarding an Englishmannamed James Harding Miller, son of William Miller, born at Studland, inDorsetshire, widower, and resident in Rome. After the name and thestatement that he was sometimes known as Milner, a minute descriptionwas given of the person whom the record concerned, and in that columnheaded "Connotati," or personal appearance, was the following:--

  Statura: alto. Corporature: secco. Colorito: bruno. Capelli: castagna. Barba: c. Occhi: c. Naso: greco. Bocca: reg. Fronte: guista. Segni: porta lenti.

  The meaning of this was that Mr Milner, or Miller, was tall of stature,dark complexion, chestnut beard, hair and eyes, Greek nose, and that hehabitually wore pince-nez. In fact upon the back of the document werepasted four photographs, taken in different positions, and probably bydifferent photographers.

  The information contained in the record was, however, of more interestto me, and I read it through very carefully from end to end.

  Briefly, what was chronicled there was to the effect that the EnglishmanMiller had on several occasions been suspected of being implicated invarious schemes of fraud in association with certain persons againstwhom were previous convictions. It appeared that so strong were thesuspicions concerning him in the case of an extensive fraud uponFrench's bank in Florence by means of forged securities two years beforethat Miller was arrested, but after exhaustive inquiries was allowed hisfreedom as there was insufficient evidence.

  The lines of even writing went on to state: "The man's daughter, LucieLilian Miller, is constantly with him, and may participate in hisschemes. There is, however, no direct allegation against her." Miller,it continued, evidently possessed a secret source of income which wasbelieved to be derived from dishonest sources, though the actual truthhad not yet been discovered. The record ended with the words added as apostscript in another handwriting: "After exhaustive inquiries made bythe Questura in Rome, in Florence and in Leghorn, it is now establishedbeyond doubt that the Englishman is in active communication with aclever international association of `sharpers'."

  After reading that I was compelled to accept the truth of Sammy'sstatement. The man Miller had evidently plotted and obtained thesecurities in the young Chilian's despatch-box.

  Yet had Lucie, I wondered, any knowledge of that dastardly conspiracywhich had ended in a tragedy?

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  "THE MYSTERIOUS MR MILLER."

  On the following day, about noon, I took a cab to the Italian Embassy,that fine stone-built mansion in Grosvenor Square.

  A tall footman with powdered hair asked me into the great reception-roomwhere, at one end, hung a great portrait of the late King Humbert, theother end of the room opening upon a large conservatory where stood agrand piano. It was a sombre apartment, furnished with solid,old-fashioned taste and embellished with a number of photographs ofnoteworthy persons presented to the popular Ambassador and his wife inthe various cities wherein His Excellency had represented his sovereign.

  Like most London reception-rooms, it looked its best at night under themyriad electric lamps. At noon, as I sat there, it looked a trifle toodull and gloomy. Presently one of the staff of the Embassy, a short,pleasant-faced, elderly Italian of charming manner, and speaking perfectEnglish, greeted me courteously and inquired the object of my request tosee His Excellency.

  "I have called," I said, "in order to give some confidential informationwhich may be of interest to His Excellency. The fact is I have beenpresent at the death of the ex-Minister for Justice Nardini."

  "His death!" exclaimed the pleasant official. "What do you mean? Is hedead?"

  "He died here, in London, and unrecognised. It was only on searchinghis papers that I discovered his identity. He came to an obscureboarding-house in Shepherd's Bush, giving the name of Massari, but onthe followi
ng day he died. He had for a long time been suffering froman internal complaint and suddenly collapsed. The effort of the rapidjourney from Rome and the anxiety were evidently too great for him."

  "This is astounding! We had no idea he was here! There were ordersgiven for his arrest, you know," remarked the Embassy archivist, forsuch I afterwards found him to be--a trusted official who for many yearshas held that position, and is well-known and popular in the diplomaticcircle in London. "But," he added suddenly, "how were you enabled toestablish his identity?"

  "By these," I answered, drawing out a packet of official papers from mypocket, opening them and handing him one of them to read.

  The instant his eyes fell upon it he started, turned it over, and lookedup at me amazed.

  "I presume you know Italian?" he asked quickly.

  I nodded in the affirmative.

  "Then you are aware what these papers are--most important Governmentdocuments, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice inRome?"

  "I know," I replied briefly. "That is why I secured them, and why Ihave brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not beallowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain muchconfidential information regarding certain well-known persons."

  "Of course," he said. "His Excellency will, I'm sure, be extremelyindebted to you for acting with such discretion. Had they fallen intothe hands of the London police they might have been copied, and thesecret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would bemost detrimental to our prestige, if the public knew that confidentialreports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to handfor any one to read."

  "I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint," I said. "My ownopinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levyblackmail by their means."

  But the official only shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. It was notlikely that he would condemn his own compatriot, even though at heart hedespised both the man and his dishonest methods.

  Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent toejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain personsin high positions in Rome which amazed him.

  "At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, MrLeaf, you will leave these with me," he suggested. "We shall send themback under seal to Rome."

  "Of course, that was my intention," I said. And then, in reply to somefurther questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardinihad died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of herstrange story of the dead man's mysterious hatred of myself. I onlyapologised that I had not thought of communicating with the ItalianConsulate, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documentsmight partly atone for my remissness.

  "There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead man's belongings tointerest us?" he asked seriously. "You have, of course, made carefulsearch?"

  "Yes. I have had an inventory made by a solicitor. There is nothingelse," I answered; and after giving my courteous friend my club address,and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks,and departed.

  My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appealto the fugitive had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and heldme mystified.

  Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther.Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasn'tgoing to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead andburied, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me thetruth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.

  But it did not suffice me.

  That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her futurein his hands showed me that she was in dire straits. What could be theallegation against her?

  As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that itwas not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an officialletter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evidentthat they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspaperswere still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding ex-Minister.

  I recollected that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt"living in the country," but she had not told me in what locality, and"the country" was a big place in which to search, more especially as Idid not know the lady's name. She had told me also that she lived inLeghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehowI held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.

  The police record gave Miller's place of birth as Studland, inDorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, Ishould be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody wouldknow some facts concerning the family. From the _Gazetteer_ Idiscovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far fromSwanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy,I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotelwhich faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, andan hour later I descended at the inn in Studland village.

  It was a quiet, quaint old-world place, I found, with a queer ancientlittle church hidden away among the trees at the back. In thebar-parlour of the "Lion" I ordered some tea, and then, in the course ofa chat with the stout, cheery old publican I casually inquired aftersome friends of mine named Miller.

  "Oh! yes," he said. "Old Miss Miller lives 'ere still--at the Manor'Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came downthe hill from Swanage way. They're one of the oldest families 'ere inStudland. One of the Millers--Sir Roger 'e was called--was governor ofCorfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so I've 'eard say."

  "Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor?" I remarked.

  "Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but 'e's alwaysabroad, so 'is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the 'ouse and looksafter it."

  "Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller?" I asked.

  "Yes. That's 'im. They calls 'im the mysterious Mr Miller. 'E alwayswas a wild rascal when 'e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman coulddo nothing with him, so 'e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostlyever since."

  "Has he any children?"

  "A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about 'er, and say she'svery nice. She's often 'ere."

  "He's well off, I suppose?"

  "Oh, dear no, sir," declared the innkeeper. "The Millers are as poor aschurch mice. The value of land's gone down so of late years. The oldplace is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an' it's apity--a thousand pities."

  All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous oldfellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulatedmyself upon the success of my first investigation.

  "When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?"

  "Oh! It's a long time now 'e 'aven't been in Studland. Once, aboutthree years ago, 'e came without any luggage they say--and stayed over atwelvemonth. 'E's a queer man. 'E never speaks to the likes of us."

  I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire afterher niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshineuntil I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge gate, and then,after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of alarge old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling and time-mellowed--atypical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a smallpark.

  A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered into a quaintold oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which wasundoubtedly Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces withage. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deepdiamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring thedelightful vista when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, andturning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, withbony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brownbeard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats overhis boots.


  "Mr Leaf?" he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. "I am MissMiller's brother," he explained. "My name is James Harding Miller. Doyou wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and hassent me to make her apologies."

  I started when he introduced himself.

  I was actually face to face with the ingenious scoundrel whom Sammy haddenounced, and whom the Italian police so strongly suspected to be theleader of one of the cleverest gangs of malefactors in Europe.

  CHAPTER NINE.

  CONTAINS A SURPRISE.

  James Harding Miller was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan of mostgentlemanly exterior. His grey face was deeply lined and bore thatcurious washed-out look of a man who had lived many years in a hotclimate. After ten years or so the fiery Italian sun no longer tans theface of the northerner, but on the contrary his hair goes prematurelygrey, and each year as the burning summer comes he is less able towithstand the heat of the "lion" days. His leanness, his foreign-cutclothes, and the slight gesticulation as he spoke all showed him to be aman more at home in the bright Italian land of song and sunlight thanthere, in an English village, the proprietor of that charming old homeof his honourable ancestors.

  In reply to his question I was rather evasive, saying that I happened tobe in Swanage, and had driven out to pay a complimentary call upon hissister. She was not to put herself out of the way in the least, Iurged. I should remain in Swanage for some days and hoped to have thepleasure of calling