The Mysterious Mr. Miller

by William Le Queux

could notreturn.

  "Then--then why should we part?" I asked, as all my love for her welledup in my faint heart. "Why should we not defy this man and let him dohis worst? At least we should be united in one sweet, sacred andperfect faith--our love."

  For a few moments she made no reply, but looked at me very long--verywistfully, with no passion in those dear eyes, only a despair that wasso great that it chilled me into speechless terror.

  "No, no," she cried at last, covering her face with her white hands, asthough in shame, and bursting into a flood of tears. "You do not knowall--I pray that you, the man I love so fondly, may never know! If youknew you would hate me and curse my memory. Therefore take back thosewords, and forget me--yes, forget--for I am not fit to be your wife!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

  BY THE TYRRHENIAN WATERS.

  Ella was all mine--all mine! Mine all the glad fearless freedom of herlife; mine all the sweet kisses, the rapturous tenderness, the pricelesspassion of her love; mine all! And I had lost them.

  The grave had given her back for those brief hours, but she was, alas!dead to me.

  I stood there as a man in a dream.

  I, athirst for the sound of her sweet voice as dying men in deserts forthe fountains of lost lands.

  But all was silence, save the lark trilling his song high above me inthe morning air.

  I turned upon my heel, and went forward a changed man.

  At the inn I made further inquiries regarding the tenant of the "Glen."

  The stout yellow-haired maid-of-all-work who brought me in my breakfastwas a native of the village and inclined to be talkative. From her Ilearned that Mr Gordon-Wright had had the place about four years. Hespent only about three months or so each summer there, going abroad eachyear for the winter. To the poor he was always very good; he waschairman of the Flower Show Committee, chairman of the Parish Council,and one of the school managers as well as a church-warden.

  I smiled within myself at what the girl told me. He was evidently apopular man in Upper Wooton.

  He had friends to stay with him sometimes, mostly men. Once or twice hehad had foreign gentlemen among his visitors--gentlemen who had been inthe post-office and could not speak English.

  "My sister was 'ousemaid there till last Michaelmas," she added. "SoI've often been up to the `Glen'. When old Mrs Auker had it she usedto 'ave us girls of the Friendly Society there to tea on the lawn."

  "I think that a friend of mine comes to visit Mr Gordon-Wrightsometimes. His name is Miller. Do you remember him?"

  "Mr Miller--a tall middle-aged gentleman. Of course, sir. 'E was herein the spring. I remember the name because 'e and Mr Wright gave atreat to the school children."

  "Was a lady with him--a young lady?"

  "Yes, sir. His daughter, Miss Lucie."

  The girl knew little else, except, as she declared, Mr Gordon-Wrightwas a rich man and "a thorough gentleman."

  An hour later, while I was out in the yard of the inn watching Gibbsgoing round the car, we suddenly heard the whirr of an approachingmotor, and down the street flashed the blue car which we had pursued sohotly on the previous day. It carried the same occupants, with theaddition of one person--Mr Gordon-Wright.

  The latter, in peaked cap and motor-coat, was driving, while behind werethe two strangers, with Mr Murray and Ella.

  The latter caught sight of me as she flashed past. Our eyes met for aninstant, and then she was lost to me in a cloud of dust--lost for ever.

  "They're going back again, it seems," I remarked to Gibbs.

  "No, sir. I saw their man this morning. They're going to Bristol.He's heard from 'is master that it's all right. The young gentleman andthe lady are his master's friends, after all--even though they're such aqueer pair," and then he added: "Did you think of startin' this morning,sir?"

  "Yes. As soon as you are ready."

  "Where to, sir?"

  "Back to Swanage."

  We ran across Devon and Dorset at a somewhat lower speed to what we hadtravelled when overtaking the 40 "Mercedes." Gibbs had no desire to putin an appearance before any local bench. Indeed nowadays lit is uselessto make an appearance. So prejudiced are magistrates, and such hardswearing is there on the part of the police, that motorists must pay upcheerfully. There is no justice for the pioneers of locomotion.

  We returned by another road, which proved better than that by which wehad come, and just before eleven at night I descended from the car atthe "Lion," and after some supper with the fat genial landlord, who tooka deep interest in my journey and hardly credited that I had been intoCornwall and back, I went up to the room I had previously occupied.

  Tired after the heat and dust of the road I slept well, but was upbetimes, and at half-past nine walked out to the Manor House.

  A maid-servant came to the door in response to my ring. "Mr Miller andthe young lady have gone away, sir," the girl replied to my inquiry."They went up to London yesterday."

  "Are they staying in London?" I asked eagerly. "I'm sure I don't know,sir."

  "Is Miss Miller at home? If so, I'd like to see her." And I handed hermy card.

  I was shown into the morning-room, and in a few minutes Miller's sisterappeared.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr Leaf," she said, in her thin, weak voice, "but mybrother and his daughter left quite suddenly yesterday. He received atelegram recalling him."

  "Where?"

  "To Italy. He left by the mail from Charing Cross last night--directfor Leghorn, I believe."

  "Is he likely to be away long?"

  "He won't be back, I suppose, before the spring."

  "And Miss Lucie has gone with him?"

  "Of course. She is always with him."

  It was upon my tongue to ask her brother's address in Leghorn, but Ihesitated, for I recollected that, being an Englishman, he could beeasily found.

  The receipt of that telegram was suspicious. What new conspiracy was inprogress, I wondered? Evidently something had occurred. Either he hadbeen warned that the police were in search of him, and had escaped backto the Continent, or else certain of his plans had been matured earlierthan he anticipated.

  As I sat there in the old-fashioned room, with its punch-bowls full ofsweet-smelling roses, I resolved to travel south to the Mediterranean,see Lucie, and endeavour to find some way in which to rescue my lovefrom her father's accomplice.

  From that Dorsetshire village to the old sun-blanched port of Leghorn isa far cry--thirty-six hours in the express from Calais on the road toRome--yet that night I was back in Granville Gardens; and hastilypacking up my traps, chatting with Sammy the while, I next morning leftLondon for Italy.

  I told my friend but little. The circumstances were too complicated andpuzzling, and the tragedy of it all was so complete that I preferred toremain silent.

  I was going south, upon one of those erratic journeys I so very oftentook. I might return in a fortnight, or in six months. All dependedupon the mood in which I found myself.

  Therefore he accepted my explanation, knowing well as a constanttraveller and thoroughgoing cosmopolitan himself, and he saw me off fromCharing Cross, wishing me _bon voyage_.

  The journey by way of Calais, Paris, Modane and Turin you yourself havedone often, so why need I describe it? You have lunched between Calaisand Paris, dined at the Gare de Lyon, turned into your narrow sleepingberth between Paris and the frontier, lunched in the _wagon-restaurant_between Modane and Busseleno, scrambled through your dinner in the bigbuffet at Genoa, and cursed those stifling tunnels between Genoa andSpezia, where between them you get your first glimpses of the moonlitMediterranean, and you have alighted at old marble-built Pisa, thequaint dead city that contains one of the wonders of the world--theLeaning Tower.

  From Pisa you have gone on to Rome, or to Florence, but I question ifyou have ever travelled over that ten-mile branch line down to theancient seaport of the Medici, Leghorn. The English, save themercantile marine and a stray traveller or two, ne
ver go to Livorno, asit is called in Italian, and yet it is in summer the Brighton of Italy,and one of the gayest places in Europe during the bathing season.

  It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when I alighted at the"Palace," that great white hotel on the sea-front, and went to the roomallotted to me--one with an inviting balcony overlooking the promenadeand the fashionable bathing establishment of Pancaldi.

  Livorno was full, the night-porter informed me. It was the height ofthe season, and there was not another vacant bed in any hotel in thetown that night.

  I knew the place well, therefore early next morning I went forth, andtook a turn across at Pancaldi's, which is a kind of stone pier builtout upon the rocks into the clear sunlit waters. Though so early therewere already quite a number of