The Mysterious Mr. Miller

by William Le Queux

stayed at the Grand, theydon't know where the young ladies were living, probably at some smallpension. They are now doing all they can to find out, but it isdifficult, as most of the pensions are closed just now. They've,however, discovered the name of the dead girl's friend--through somedressmaker, I think. It was Mille--Milla--or some name like that. TheEnglish names are always so puzzling."

  "Miller!" I gasped, staring at the old fellow, as all that Lucie hadadmitted to me regarding her visit to the villa at Tivoli flashedthrough my bewildered brain. "And she was the intimate friend of thisunknown girl who has been found dead in the empty house and whose tragicend has been officially hushed up!"

  CHAPTER THIRTY.

  SOME DISCOVERIES IN ROME.

  The mysterious flight of Nardini, the prominent politician and Ministerfor Justice, was, it seemed, still the one topic of conversation in the"Eternal City", Only that morning I had read a paragraph in the_Tribuna_ that the fugitive was believed to have reached Buenos Ayres.The Embassy in London had evidently kept the secret I had divulged, andeven the Italian police were in ignorance that the man wanted for thatgigantic embezzlement--for the sum stated to have disappeared was nowknown to be a very large one--was already in his grave.

  The mysterious discovery at the dead man's villa out at Tivoli, thatpleasant little town with the wonderful cascade twenty miles outsideRome, greatly complicated the problem. And the girl who had been foundin such strange circumstances was actually an intimate friend of LucieMiller! The whole thing was assuming a shape entirely beyond mycomprehension.

  I presently thanked the old porter for his information, slipped anothertip into his hand, and walked back to the Corso, hugging the shade, andreflecting deeply upon what the old fellow had told me.

  Two or three facts were quite plain. The first was that Miller wouldmost certainly not be in Rome if he had the slightest suspicion that thepolice were in search of Lucie. Therefore, although the doctor hadacted as the fugitive's secretary, he was in ignorance of the discoverymade at the Villa Verde. Again, had not Nardini himself for some reasonabstracted from the archives of the Questura the official record ofMiller, his description and the suspicions against him?

  Therefore I saw that the police were hampered in their inquiries,because they were without information. Again, the name of GennaroGavazzi, though not an uncommon one in Italy, struck me as familiar fromthe first moment that Lucie had uttered it in Leghorn.

  Now, as I walked the streets of Rome, I remembered. It came upon melike a flash. It had been written in that confidential police recordthat the doctor was a Milanese, and that he was suspected of being anaccomplice of the Englishman.

  And yet Nardini, being aware of this, had actually appointed him one ofhis private secretaries!

  That latter fact was one that showed either conspiracy or that Nardini,crafty and far-seeing, employed the doctor with some ulterior motive.

  I was anxious to see what sort of person this Gavazzi might be.

  I begrudged every moment I spent in Rome, anxious as I was to be backnear my well-beloved and shield her from the blackguard who held her inhis power. Yet this new development of the mystery held me anxious andeager.

  Already I was in possession of greater knowledge of the affair than thepolice themselves; therefore I hoped that I might, by careful action andwatching, learn the truth.

  Somehow, by instinct it might have been, I felt that if I could butelucidate the mystery of the Villa Verde I should gain some knowledgethat would release my love from her hideous bondage. I don't know why,but it became a fixed idea with me. Therefore I resolved to remain inRome at least a few days and carefully watch Miller and his friend.

  Every moment, every hour, I thought of my sweet one who I knew loved meas passionately as I loved her, and yet who was now separated from me bya gulf which I was determined to bridge. She was ever in my thoughts,her beautiful face with those dear sad eyes ever before me, the music ofher voice ever ringing in my ears. Yes. She should be mine--mine if Idied myself in order to save her!

  Towards evening I loitered up and down the Via del Tritone hoping tocatch sight of the doctor and his English visitor, for I calculated thattheir probable habit was to dine at a restaurant. From the porter I hadlearnt that Gavazzi was a bachelor, therefore he probably hadarrangements _en pension_ at one or other of the restaurants, in themanner of most single men in Rome.

  Though I waited nearly two hours, from half-past six to half-past eight,I saw nothing of Miller or of his host. The old porter noticed me,therefore having gauged his character pretty accurately I crossed to himand explained that I was waiting to see the doctor come out, as I wasnot certain whether he was the Dr Gavazzi whom I had known in Venicesome years ago. This little fiction, combined with another small tip,satisfied the old man, and I went forth into the street again, fearingthat if I remained in the entrance Miller, in passing, might recogniseme.

  It was a weary vigil, and one that required constant attention, for on asummer's evening the streets of Rome are crowded by the populace whocome out to enjoy the cool air after the blazing heat of the day.Another hour passed without sign of them. In any case they must havedined in their rooms--perhaps sent a servant out to a neighbouringcook-shop.

  Therefore I went round to the Piccolo Borsa, the small restaurant in theVia della Mercede, at which I always ate when in Rome, and theresnatched a hasty meal.

  Shortly before ten I returned to my vigil and learnt from my friend theporter that the doctor was still _in casa_. Therefore I idled inpatience, glancing from time to time up at the windows of the apartmentin question. There were lights there, but the green _persiennes_ werestill closed, as they had been all day.

  As the night wore on the street became extra full of idling promenaders,for it was _festa_ and all Rome was out to gossip, to lounge and toobtain a breath of the _bel fresco_. Men were crying the eveningnewspaper in loud strident tones, and here and there walked the policein couples, with their epaulettes and _festa_ plumes. Before every cafethe chairs overflowed into the roadway, and every table was occupied bymen and women, mostly in white cotton clothes, sipping sirops. Rome iscosmopolitan only in winter. Rome is the Roman's Rome in summer,bright, merry and light-hearted by night; silent and lethargic by day--acity indicative of the Italian temperament and the Italian character.

  I was just about to relinquish my watch, believing that the doctor andhis English friend did not intend to come forth that evening, when Isuddenly saw Miller in a white linen suit and straw hat emerge from thebig doorway into the street, accompanied by a short, black-bearded,dark-faced Italian of about thirty-five, who also wore a straw hat,fashionably-cut suit of dark cloth, and a drab cotton waistcoat acrosswhich was a thick gold albert.

  They turned towards the Piazza Colonna, and I at once followed, keepingthem well in sight. The doctor appeared to be something of a dandy, forhe carried yellow gloves, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, and thecrook of his walking-stick was silver gilt. He wore a red cravat, ahigh collar, and his jacket was cut narrow at the waist with ampleskirts, slit up at the back, and turned-over cuffs.

  He was a typical Roman elegant, but his face had craft and cunningplainly written upon it. Those dark searching eyes were set too closelytogether, and although there was a careless, easy-going expression uponhis countenance I could see that it was only feigned.

  What, I wondered, was the urgent business which had brought Mr Millerpost-haste from England?

  Deep in conversation they passed up the Corso for a little distance,then turning at the Puspoli Palace they traversed the small streetsleading to the Tiber until they reached the Via di Repetta, up whichthey continued until they suddenly turned into a narrow, ill-lit, dirtystreet to the right and disappeared into an uninviting wine-shop, one ofthose low little drinking-houses which abound in the poorer quarters ofRome.

  That it was a low neighbourhood I could see at a glance. I had neverexplored that part of the "Eternal City" before, and had not had time tono
tice the name of the street.

  A few moments after the two men had disappeared I sauntered past andglanced inside. The ceiling was low, and blackened by the lampsuspended in the centre. Upon shelves around were many rush-coveredflasks of wine, while at the end was a pewter counter where a coarsetousled-haired woman was standing washing glasses.

  At the table three forbidding-looking men, with their felt hats drawnover their eyes, were drinking and throwing dice, shouting excitedly ateach throw, while one man rather better dressed was sitting apartwriting a letter, with a long cigar between his lips.

  There was, however, no sign of the doctor and his companion who, itseemed, had passed straight into the room beyond. It was hardly theplace in which one would have expected to find the owner of thatDorsetshire manor, and I now saw the reason why the doctor had, ever andanon, looked round as though in suspicion that they might be followed.

  They had an important appointment there, without a doubt. And,moreover, they were