The Count's Chauffeur

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER IX

  CONCERNING THE OTHER FELLOW

  Last spring Count Bindo again renewed his lease of the furnished villaon the Viale dei Colli, that beautiful drive that winds up behind theArno from the Porta Romana, in Florence, past San Miniato. It was a fineold place, standing in its own grounds, and was the German Embassy inthe days when the Lily City was the Italian capital.

  There were reasons for this. Sir Charles Blythe was living at the Grand,and Henderson was at the Hotel de la Ville. A _coup_ was intended at oneof the jewellers on the Ponte Vecchio--a place where it was known thatthere were a quantity of valuable pearls.

  It was not, however, successful; for certain difficulties arose thatwere insurmountable.

  The trio left Florence at the beginning of May, but I was left alonewith the car and with the Italian servants to idle away the days as bestI could. They had all three gone to Aix, I think.

  The only other Englishman left in Florence appeared to be a man I hadrecently re-encountered, named Charlie Whitaker. He and I had becomegreat friends, as we had been several years before. I often took him fora run on the car, to Bologna, Livorno, or Siena, and we used to meetnearly every evening.

  One stifling August night Florence lay gasping.

  Above the clatter of the cafe, the music, the laughter of women and theloud chatter in Italian, the strident cries of the newsvendors rose inthe great moonlit Piazza, with its huge equestrian statue of the belovedVittorio looming dark against the steely sky.

  Only the _popolo_, the merry, brown-faced, easy-going Florentines, werestill in the sun-baked city. All Society, even the richer tradesmen, andcertainly all the foreign residents, had fled--all of the latter savetwo, Charlie and myself.

  You, who know the quaint old mediaeval city in the winter "season," whenthe smart balls are given at the Corsini or the Strozzi, when theCascine is filled with pretty women at four o'clock, and the jewellerson the Ponte Vecchio put forth their imitation cinquecento wares, wouldnot know it in August, when beneath that fiery Tuscan sun it is as acity of the dead by day, while at night the lower classes come forthfrom their slums to idle, to gossip, and to enjoy the _bel fresco_ afterthe heat and burden of the day.

  On an August night the little dark-eyed seamstress sits and enjoys herice at the same tin-topped table at the Gambrinus where the foreignPrincess has sat in April. In winter Florence is a city of the wealthy;in summer it is given over entirely to the populace. So great is thesweltering, breathless heat, that everyone who can leave Florence inAugust leaves it. The great villas and palaces are closed; the FlorenceClub, that most exclusive institution in Europe, is shut up; the hotelsmove up to Camaldoli, to Pracchia, or to Abetone; and to be seen inFlorence in those blazing days causes wonder and comment.

  Charlie and I were the only two foreigners in Florence. I had remainedon at the orders of Bindo, and Charlie--well, he remained for the bestof reasons, because he hadn't the money with which to go up into themountains, or down to the sea.

  Charlie Whitaker was an "outsider," I knew, but not by any fault of hisown. He lived in Florence mostly on the charity of his friends. A tall,lithe, good-looking fellow of thirty-two, he came of a Yorkshire stock,and for seven or eight years had lived the gay life of town, and been amember of the Stock Exchange. Left very well off, he had developed keenbusiness instincts, and had been so successful that in three years hehad gained a comfortable fortune by speculation. He bought a bijou housein Deanery Street, off Park Lane, turned it inside out, and made apretty bachelor residence of it.

  Half London knew Charlie Whitaker. I first met him when he was about topurchase a new "Napier." He gave smart luncheon-parties at theBachelors, dinners at the Savoy, and was the pet of certain countessesof the smart set. Indeed, he led the London life of a man of ample meansuntrammelled with a woman, until, of a sudden, he failed. Why, nobodyknew; even to his most intimate friends the crisis was a completemystery.

  I only know that I met him in the Strand one night. He seemed sad andpensive. Then, when he grasped my hand in farewell, he said--

  "Well, Ewart, good-night. I may see you again some day."

  That "some day" came very soon. Two months later he was living _enpension_ at twenty-five lire a week in the attic of a great old mediaevalpalace close to the Piazza Santa Trinita. Florence, the greatest cityfor gossip in the whole world, quickly knew his past, and nobody wouldreceive him. Snubbed everywhere, jeered at by the stuck-up foreigncolony of successful English shopkeepers, he received no invitations,and I believe I was his only friend.

  Even my friendship with him brought criticism upon me--modest chauffeurthat I was. Why did I make an intimate of such a man? Some declared himto be an absconding bankrupt; others cast suspicion that he had fledfrom England because of some grave scandal; while others made opencharges against him in the Club that were cruel to a degree.

  Up at the villa, however, he was always welcome. I alone knew that hewas a man of sterling worth, that his misfortunes were none of his ownseeking, and that the charges against him were all false. He had made abig speculation and had unfortunately burnt his fingers--that was all.

  And on this hot, feverish night, with the clear white moon shining downupon the Piazza, we sat to gossip, to drink our iced bock, and to smokeour long Toscano cigars, which, to the resident in Italy, become sopalatable.

  I knew that Charlie had had his romance, one of the strangest of allthat I had known. Crushed, hipped, bankrupt, almost penniless, he hadnever mentioned it to me. It was his own private affair, and I, as hisfriend, never referred to so painful a subject.

  It is strange how one takes to some men. All my friends looked askancewhen I walked about Florence with Charlie Whitaker. Some insinuated thathis past was a very black one, and others openly declared that he neverdare face the Consul, or go back to England, because a warrant was outfor him. Truly he was under a cloud, poor fellow, and I often felt sorryfor all the open snubs he received.

  As we sat that night smoking outside on the pavement, with the merry,careless populace idling to and fro, he seemed a trifle more pensivethan usual, and I inquired the reason.

  "Nothing, Ewart," he declared, with a faint smile; "nothing veryparticular. Thoughts--only thoughts of----"

  "Of what?"

  "Of town--of our dear old London that I suppose I shall never seeagain," and his mouth hardened. "Do you remember Pall Mall, the Park,the Devonshire--and Vivi?"

  I nodded, and pulled at my cheap cigar.

  Vivi! Did I remember her? Why, I had often driven the HonourableVictoria Violet Finlay, the girl--for she was only eighteen--who hadonce flirted with me when I was in her father's service. Why, Iwondered, did he mention her? Could he know the truth? Could he know thegalling bitterness of my own heart? I think not. Through the many monthsI had been the Count's chauffeur I had held my secret, though my heartwas full of bitterness.

  Mention of her name recalled, under that white Italian moonlight, avision of her--the tall, slim, graceful girlish figure, the ovaldelicate face with clear blue eyes, and the wealth of red-gold hairbeneath her motor-cap. She rose before me with that sad, bitter smile offarewell that she had given me when, as she was seated beside me in thecar, on our way from Guildford to London, I bent over her small whitehand for the last time.

  Whew! Why are we men given memories? Half one's life seems to be made upof vain regrets. Since that day I had, it was true, never ceased tothink of her, yet I had lived a lonely, melancholy life, even though itwere fraught with such constant excitement.

  "You knew Vivi, of course?" I remarked, after a long silence, looking myfellow-exile straight in the face.

  "I met her once or twice at the house of my aunt, Lady Ailesworth," washis reply. "I wonder where she is now? There was some talk of hermarrying Baron de Boek, the Belgian banker. Did you hear it?"

  I nodded. The rumour was, alas! too well known to me. How is it that thememory of one woman clings to a man above all others? Why does onewoman's face haunt every man, whatever a
ge he may be, or whether he behonest or a thief?

  Whitaker was watching my countenance so intently that I was filled withsurprise. I had never told a soul of my flirtation.

  Three youths passed along the pavement playing upon their mandolines anair from the latest opera at the Arena, laughing at two hatless girls ofthe people who were drinking coffee at the table next to us, and nextmoment the _al fresco_ orchestra in the balcony above struck up a waltz.

  "Faugh!" cried my companion, starting up. "Let's go. This music isintolerable! Let's walk along the Lung Arno, by the river."

  I rose, and together we strolled to the river-side along thatembankment, the favourite walk of Dante and of Petrarch, of Raphael andof Michelangelo. All was silent, for the great ponderous palaces liningthe river were closed till winter, and there were no shops or cafes.

  For a long time we walked in the brilliant night without uttering aword. At last he said in a strange, hard voice--

  "I've received news to-day which every other man beside myself wouldregard as the very worst information possible, and yet, to me, it is themost welcome."

  "What's that?" I inquired.

  "I saw two doctors, Pellegrini and Gori, to-day, and both have said thesame thing--I am dying. In a few weeks I shall have ceased to troubleanybody."

  "Dying!" I gasped, halting and staring at him. "Why, my dear fellow, youare the very picture of health."

  "I know," he smiled. "But I have for a long time suspected myselfdoomed. I have a complaint that is incurable. Therefore I wonder if youwould do me one small favour. Will you keep this letter until I am dead,and afterwards open it and act upon its instructions? They may seemstrange to you, but you will ascertain the truth. When you do know thetruth, recollect that though dead I beg of you one thing--yourforgiveness."

  "Forgiveness? For what? I don't understand you."

  "No," he said bitterly. "Of course you don't. And I have no wish thatyou should--until after I am dead. You are my only friend, and yet Ihave to ask you to forgive. Here is the letter," he added, drawing anenvelope from his pocket and handing it to me. "Take it to-night, for Inever know if I may live to see another day."

  I took it, and noting its big black seal, placed it carefully in myinner pocket. Two loafers were standing in the shadow in front of us,and their presence reminded me that that end of the Lung Arno is notvery safe at night. Therefore we turned, slowly retracing our steps backto the quaint old bridge with the houses upon it--the Ponte Vecchio.

  Just before we reached it my companion stopped, and grasping my handsuddenly, said in a choking voice--

  "You have been my only friend since my downfall, Ewart. Without you, Ishould have starved. These very clothes I wear were bought with moneyyou have so generously given me. I can never thank you sufficiently. Youhave prolonged a useless and broken life, but it will soon be at an end,and I shall no longer be a burden to you."

  "A burden? What rubbish! You're not yourself to-night, Whitaker. Cheerup, for Heaven's sake."

  "Can a condemned man laugh? Well," he added, with a mocking smile, "I'lltry. Come, old fellow, let's go back to the Gambrinus and have anotherbock--before we part. I've got a franc--one of yours--so I'll stand it!"

  And we walked on to the big Piazza, with its music and its garish cafes,the customers of which overflowed into the square, where they sat ingreat groups.

  Italy is indeed a complex country, and contains more of the flotsam andjetsam of English derelicts than any other country in all Europe. EveryItalian town has its own _coterie_ of broken-down Englishmen andEnglishwomen, the first-mentioned mostly sharks, and the latter mostlydrunkards. Truly the shifty existence led by these exiles presents astrange phrase of life, so essentially cosmopolitan and yet soessentially tragic.

  It was half-past one when I left my friend to walk home out of the townthrough the narrow Via Romana. The ill-lit neighbourhood through which Ihad to pass was somewhat unsafe late at night, but being well known inFlorence I never feared, and was walking briskly, full of thought of myown love-romance, when, of a sudden, two rough-looking men coming out ofa side street collided with me, apologised, and went off hurriedly.

  At first I felt bewildered, so sudden was the encounter. My thoughts hadbeen very far away from that dark ancient street. But next moment I feltin my pocket. My wallet--in which one carries the paper currency ofItaly--was gone, and with it Whitaker's precious letter!

  Those men had evidently watched me take out my wallet when on the LungArno, and waited for me as I walked home.

  I turned to look after them, but they had already disappeared intothat maze of crooked, squalid streets around the Pitti. Fortunately,there was not more than a sovereign in it. I was filled with regret,however, on account of my friend's letter. He had trusted me with somesecret. I had accepted the confidence he reposed in me, and yet, by mycarelessness, the secret, whatever it was, had passed into other hands.Should I tell him? I hesitated. What would you have done in suchcircumstances?

  Well, I decided to say nothing. If the thief knew me, as he mostprobably did, he might return the letter anonymously when he discoveredthat it was of no value. And that there was anything of value within wasentirely out of the question.

  So months went by. I was ordered to take the car back to England, andthen went to Germany and to France. Only once Whitaker wrote to me.Florence, he declared, was very dull now I had left.

  A _coup_ had been made in Biarritz,--a little matter of a fewsparklers,--and Bindo and I found ourselves living, early in January,at the Villa Igiea, at Palermo.

  As I sat alone, smoking and gazing out upon the blue bay, with thedistant mountains purple in the calm sundown, the quick _frou-frou_of silken skirts passed close by me, and a tall, slender girl, veryelegantly dressed, went forth alone into the beautiful gardens thatslope down to the sea. I noted her neat figure, her gait, the red-goldtint of her hair, and the peculiar manner in which she carried her lefthand when walking.

  Could it be Vivi? I sat up, staring after her in wonder. Her figure wasperfect, her elegant cream gown was evidently the "creation" of one ofthe man-milliners of the Rue de la Paix, and I noticed that the womensitting around had turned and were admiring her for her general _chic_.

  She turned into the gardens ere I could catch a glimpse of her face, andI sat back again, laughing at my own foolishness. Somehow, during thepast three years, I had fancied I saw her a dozen times--in London,in Rome, in Paris, in Nice, and elsewhere. But I had always, alas!discovered it to be an illusion. The figure of this girl in cream merelyresembled hers, that was all. I tried to convince myself of it, and yetI was unable to do so. Why, I cannot tell, but I had been seized with akeen desire to see her face. I half rose, but sat back again, ridiculingmy own thoughts. And so five minutes passed, until, unable to resistlonger, I rose, went forth into the gardens, and wandered among thepalms in search of her.

  At last I found her standing by a low wall, her face turned towards thesea. Alone, she had paused in her walk, and with her eyes turned acrossthe bay she was in a deep reverie. Then, as she heard my footstep, sheturned and faced me.

  "Vivi!" I cried, rushing toward her.

  "You!--George!" she gasped, starting back in sudden amazement.

  "Yes," I said madly. "At last, after all this long time, I have foundyou!"

  She held her breath. Her beautiful countenance changed, her sweet mouthhardened; I fancied I saw tears welling in her great blue eyes that wereso fathomless.

  "I--I did not dream that you were here, or I would never have come," shefaltered. "Never!"

  "Because you still wish to avoid me--eh? Your memory still remains tome--but, alas! only a memory," I said sadly, taking her hand again andholding it firmly within my own. "I am only a chauffeur."

  Our eyes met. She looked at me long and steadily. Her chest rose andfell, and she turned her gaze from me, away to the purple mountainsacross the bay.

  "Let me still remain only a memory," she answered in a low, strainedvoice. "It is as painful to
me to meet you--as to you."

  "But why? Tell me why?" I demanded, raising her soft hand again to mylips. "Do you remember that day on the Ripley road--the day when weparted?"

  She nodded, and her chest rose and fell again, stirred by her own deepemotions.

  "You would give me no reason for your sudden decision."

  "And I still can give you none."

  "But why?"

  She was silent, standing there with the brilliant Southern afterglowfalling full upon her beautiful face. Behind her was a background offeathery palms, and we were alone.

  I still held her hand, though she endeavoured to withdraw it.

  "Ah!" I cried, "you always withhold your reason from me. I am not richlike other men who admire and flatter you, yet I tell you--ah yes, Iswear to you--that only you do I love. Ever since you came fresh fromyour school in Germany I admired you. Do you remember how many times yousat at my side on the old Panhard? Surely you must have known that?Surely you must have guessed the reason why I always preferred you inthe front seat?"

  "Yes--yes!" she faltered, interrupting me. "I know. I loved you, but Iwas foolish--very foolish."

  "Why foolish?"

  She made no reply, but burst suddenly into tears.

  Tenderly I placed my arm about her waist. What could I do, save to tryand comfort her? In the three years that had passed she had grown intowomanhood, and yet she still preserved that sweet girlishness that, inthese go-ahead days, is so refreshing and attractive in a woman in herearly twenties.

  In those calm moments in the glorious Sicilian sundown I recollectedthose days when at seventeen she had admitted her love for me, and wewere happy. Visions of that blissful past arose before me--and then thecrushing blow I had received prior to our parting.

  "Vivi, tell me," I whispered at last, "why do you still hold aloof fromme?"

  "Because I--I must."

  "But why? You surely are now your own mistress?"

  Her eyes were fixed upon me again very gravely for some moments insilence. Then she answered in a low voice--

  "But I can never marry you. It is impossible."

  "No, I know. There is such a wide difference in our stations," I saidregretfully.

  "No, it is not that. The reason is one that is my own secret," was heranswer, as she drew her breath and her little hands clenched themselves.

  "May I not know it?"

  "No--never. It--well, it concerns myself alone."

  "But you still love me, Vivi? You still think of me?" I cried.

  "Occasionally."

  And then she turned away in the direction of the hotel.

  I followed, and grasping her by the hand, repeated my question.

  "My secret is my own," was all the satisfaction she would give me.

  And I was forced at last to allow her to walk back to the hotel, and tofollow her alone.

  What was the nature of her secret?

  If ever a man's heart sank to the depths of despair mine sank at thatmoment. She had been all the world to me, and, cosmopolitan adventurerthat I had now become, I met a thousand bright-eyed _chic_ andattractive women, yet I revered her memory as the one woman who was pureand perfect.

  I watched her disappear into the green-carpeted hotel-lounge, where anorchestra of mandolinists were playing an air from _La Boheme_. Then Iturned away, full of my own sad thoughts, and strolled in the fallingtwilight beside the grey sea.

  Just before dinner, after re-entering the hotel, I wrote a note and gaveit to the hall-porter to send to the Signorina.

  "The Signorina and the Signora have left, Signore. They went down to theboat for Naples half an hour ago."

  I tore up the note, and next day left Palermo.

  Next night I was in Naples, but could find no trace of them. So I wenton to Rome, where I was equally unsuccessful. From the Eternal City Itook the express to Calais, and on to London, where I learnt that theViscount her father had died six months before, and that she wastravelling on the Continent with her aunt.

  Nearly a year passed without any news of my love.

  I spent the spring at Monte Carlo, and in May, the month of flowers,found myself back at Bindo's old villa in Florence, gloomy to me onaccount of my own loneliness. The two English dogs barked me welcome,and Charlie Whitaker that night came and dined; for Bindo was away.

  After dinner we sat in the long wicker chairs out in the garden beneaththe palms, taking our coffee in the flower-scented air, with the myriadfire-flies dancing about us.

  At table Charlie had been in his best mood, telling me all the gossip ofFlorence, but out in the garden, with his face in the shadow, he seemedto become morose and uncommunicative. I asked how he had got on duringmy absence, for I knew he was friendless.

  "Oh, fairly well," was his answer. "A bit lonely, you know. But I usedto come up here every day and take the dogs out for a run. An outsiderlike I am can't expect invitations to dinners and dances, you know;" andhe sighed, and drew vigorously at his cigar.

  "By the way," I said presently, "you remember you once mentioned thatyou knew Vivi Finlay in the old days in town. I met her in Palermo inthe winter."

  He started from his chair, and leaning towards me, echoed--

  "You met her!--you? Tell me about her. How did she look? What is shedoing?" he asked, with an earnest eagerness that surprised me.

  Briefly I explained how I had walked and chatted with her in the gardensof the Igiea at Palermo, though I did not tell him the subject of ourconversation. I tried, too, to induce him to tell me what he knew ofher, but he would say nothing beyond what I already knew.

  "I wonder she don't marry," I remarked at last; but to this he made noresponse, though I fancied that in the half light I detected a curioussmile upon his face, as though he was aware that we had been lovers.

  He deftly turned the conversation, though he became more bitter, as ifhis life was now even more soured than formerly. Then, at midnight, hetook his hat and stick, and I opened the gate of the drive and let himout upon the road.

  As he left, he grasped my hand warmly, and in a voice full of emotionsaid--

  "Good-night, Ewart. May you be rewarded one day for keeping fromstarvation a good-for-nothing devil like myself!"

  And he passed on into the darkness beneath the trees, on his way back tohis high-up humble room down in the heart of the town.

  At eight o'clock next morning, when I met Pietro, Bindo's man, I noticedan unusual expression upon his face, and asked him what had happened.

  "I have bad news for you, Signor Ewart," he answered with hesitation."At four o'clock this morning the Signor Whitaker was found by thepolice lying upon the pavement of the Lung Arno, close to the Porta SanFrediano. He was dead--struck down with a knife from behind."

  "Murdered!" I gasped.

  "Yes, Signore. It is already in the papers;" and he handed me a copy ofthe _Nazione_.

  Dumbfounded, unnerved, I dressed myself quickly, and driving down to thepolice-office, saw the head of the detective department, a man namedBianchi.

  The sharp-featured little man sitting at the table, after taking downa summary of all I knew regarding my poor friend, explained how thediscovery had been made. The body was quite cold when found, and thedeep wound between the shoulders showed most conclusively that he hadfallen by the hand of an assassin. I was then shown the body, and lookedupon the face of poor Charlie, the "outsider," for the last time.

  "He had no money upon him," I told Bianchi. "Indeed, before leaving mehe had remarked that he was almost without a soldo."

  "Yes. It is that very fact which puzzles us. The motive of the crime wasevidently not robbery."

  In the days that succeeded the police made most searching inquiries, butdiscovered nothing. My only regret--and it was indeed a deep one--wasthat I had lost the letter he had given me with injunctions to open itafter his death. Did he fear assassination? I wondered. Did that lettergive any clue to the assassin?

  But the precious document, whatever it might be, was now irret
rievablylost, and the death of "Mr. Charles Whitaker, late of the StockExchange," as the papers put it, remained one of the manymurder-mysteries of the city of Florence.

  * * * * *

  Months had gone by--months of constant travel and loneliness, grief anddespair.

  I was in my room at the Hotel Bonne Femme in Turin, having a wash aftera dusty run with the "forty," when the waiter announced Mr. Bianchi, andthe sharp-featured, black-haired little man, recently promoted fromFlorence to watch the Anarchists in Milan.

  "I am very glad, Signor Ewart, that I have been able to catch you here;you are such a bird of passage, you know," he said in Italian. "But insearching the house of a thief in Florence the other day our men foundthis letter, addressed to you;" and he produced from his pocket themissive that Charlie had on that hot night entrusted to my care.

  I broke the black seal and read it eagerly. Its contents held mespeechless in amazement.

  "Do you know anything of a young man named Giovanni Murri, aFlorentine?" I inquired quickly.

  "Murri?" he repeated, knitting his brows. "Why, if I remember aright,a young man of that name was found drowned in the Arno on the same daythat your friend the Signor Whitaker was discovered dead. He had beena waiter in London, it was said."

  "That was the man. He killed my poor friend, and then committedsuicide;" and I briefly explained how Whitaker had given me the letterwhich two hours afterwards had been stolen from me.

  "The thief was the son of Count di Ferraris' gardener--a bad character.Finding that it was addressed to you, he evidently intended to return itunopened, and forgot to do so," Bianchi said. "But may I not read theletter?"

  "No," I replied firmly. "It concerns a purely private affair. All that Ican tell you is that Murri killed my friend. It explains the mystery."

  Three nights later, I stood with my well-beloved in the elegantdrawing-room of a house just off Park Lane, where she was living withher aunt.

  I had placed the dead man's letter in her hand, and she was reading itbreathlessly, her sweet face blanched, her tiny hands trembling.

  "Mr. Ewart," she faltered hoarsely, her eyes downcast as she stoodbefore me, "it is the truth. I ought to have told you long ago. Forgiveme."

  "I have already forgiven you. You must have suffered just as bitterly asI have done," I said, taking her hand.

  "Ah yes. God alone knows the wretched life I have led, loving you andyet not daring to tell you my secret. As Charlie has written here, theyoung Italian, my father's valet, fell in love with me when I came homefrom school in Germany, and once I foolishly allowed him to kiss me.From that moment he became filled with a mad passion for me, and thoughI induced my father to dismiss him, he haunted me. Then I met CharlieWhitaker, and fancied that I loved him. Every girl is anxious to securea husband. He was rich, kind, good-looking, and all that was eligible,save that he was not of the nobility, and for that reason he knew thatmy father would discountenance him. He, however, induced me to take astep that I afterwards bitterly regretted. I met him one morning at theregistry office at Kensington, and we were married. We lunched togetherat the Savoy, and then I drove home again. That very afternoon the crashcame, and on that same night he was compelled to leave England for theContinent, a ruined man."

  "He must have known of the impending crisis," I remarked simply.

  "I fear he did," was her reply. "But it was only a week later that you,who had known me so long, spoke to me. You told me of your love, alas!too late. What could I reply? What irony of Fate!"

  "Yes, yes. I see. You could not tell me the truth."

  "No. For several reasons. I loved you, yet I knew that if you were inignorance you would remain Charlie's friend. Ah! you cannot know theawful suspense, and the thousand and one subterfuges I had to adopt.Murri, who was still in London, employed at the Carlton Club, continuedto pester me with his passionate letters--the letters of an imbecile.Somehow, a year later, he discovered our marriage, by the officialrecord, I think, and then he met me in secret one day and vowed aterrible vengeance."

  "His threat he carried out," I said; "and you, my darling, are at lastfree."

  Her head fell upon my shoulder, her chiffons rose and fell again, andour lips met in a long, hot, passionate caress, by which I knew that shewas still mine--still my own sweet love.

  But I was merely a chauffeur--and an adventurer.

  That is why I have not married.