CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER"

The Mediterranean Squadron, that magnificent display of naval force that

is the guarantee of peace in Europe, after a week of gay festivities in

Leghorn, had sailed for Gaeta, while I, glad to escape from the glaring

heat, found myself back once more in dear old London.

One passes one's time in the south well enough in winter, but after a

year even the most ardent lover of Italy longs to return to his own

people, be it ever for so brief a space. Exile for a whole year in any

continental town is exile indeed; therefore, although I lived in Italy

for choice, I, like so many other Englishmen, always managed to spend a

month or two in summer in our temperate if much maligned climate.

London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and more

dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks in

it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the

seaside.

I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone

north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I

found myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the

Sports Club, where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had

just fallen, and there was that stifling oppression in the air that

fore-tokened a thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and

merriment as it is in the season, for everyone was away, many of the

rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed

in linen.

I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a

friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a

voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian--

"Ah, signore!--why, actually, my padrone!"

And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in

neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who

had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to

better himself.

"Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You--in London--eh?

Well, and how are you getting on?"

"Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling.

"But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What

fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"

"Where are you working?" I inquired.

"At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street--only a small place, but we

gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am

on my way home."

"I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?"

"Yes, signore. I married Armida, who was in your service when I first

entered it. You remember her? Ah, well!" he added, sighing. "Poor thing!

I regret to say she is very ill indeed. She cannot stand your English

climate. The doctor says she will die if she remains here. Yet what can

I do? If we go back to Italy we shall only starve." And I saw that he

was in deep distress, and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused

within him bitter thoughts.

Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar

Square, answering the questions I put to him. He had been a good,

hard-working servant, and I was glad to see him again. When he left me

he had gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples

and New York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him

there in London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.

When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it,

and with a merry laugh said--

"I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something

for which I had been longing and longing?"

"Not at all."

"Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars. I wonder if by chance you

have one? We cannot get them in London, you know."

I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of

those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which

are so dear to the Tuscan palate. These I handed him, and he took them

with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him. Poor

fellow! As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that

reminded him of his own beloved country.

When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some

further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking

housemaid whom he had married.

"Ah, signore!" he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping

into Italian. "It is the one great sorrow of my life. I work hard from

early morning until late at night, but what is the use when I see my

poor wife gradually fading away before my very eyes? The doctor says

that she cannot possibly live through the next winter. Ah! how delighted

the poor girl would be if she could see the padrone once again!"

I felt sorry for him. Armida had been a good servant, and had served me

well for nearly three years. Old Rosina, my housekeeper, had often

regretted that she had been compelled to leave to attend to her aged

mother. The latter, he told me, had died, and afterwards he had married

her. There is more romance and tragedy in the lives of the poor Italians

in London than London ever suspects. We are too apt to regard the

Italian as a bloodthirsty person given to the unlawful use of the knife,

whereas, as a whole, the Italian colony in London is a hard-working,

thrifty, and law-abiding one, very different, indeed, to those colonies

of aliens from Northern Europe, who are so continually bringing filth,

disease, and immorality into the East End, and are a useless incubus in

an already over-populated city.

He spoke so wistfully that his wife might see me once more that, having

nothing very particular to do that evening, and feeling a deep sympathy

for the poor fellow in his trouble, I resolved to accompany him to his

house and see whether I could not, in some slight manner, render him a

little help.

He thanked me profusely when I consented to go with him.

"Ah, signor padrone!" he said gratefully, "she will be so delighted. It

is so very good of you."

We hailed a hansom and drove across Westminster Bridge to the address he

gave--a gloomy back street off the York Road, one of those narrow, grimy

thoroughfares into which the sun never shines. Ah, how often do the poor

Italians, those children of the sun, pine and die when shut up in our

dismal, sordid streets! Dirt and squalor do not affect them; it is the

damp and cold and lack of sunshine that so very soon proves fatal.

A low-looking, evil-faced fellow opened the door to us and growled

acquaintance with Olinto, who, striking a match, ascended the worn,

carpetless stairs before me, apologizing for passing before me, and

saying in Italian--

"We live at the top, signore, because it is cheaper and the air is

better."

"Quite right," I said. "Quite right. Go on." And I thought I heard my

cab driving away.

It was a gloomy, forbidding, unlighted place into which I would

certainly have hesitated to enter had not my companion been my trusted

servant. I instinctively disliked the look of the fellow who had opened

the door. He was one of those hulking loafers of the peculiarly Lambeth

type. Yet the alien poor, I recollected, cannot choose where they shall

reside.

Contrary to my expectations, the sitting-room we entered on the top

floor was quite comfortably furnished, clean and respectable, even

though traces of poverty were apparent. A cheap lamp was burning upon

the table, but the apartment was unoccupied.

Olinto, in surprise, passed into the adjoining room, returning a moment

later, exclaiming--

"Armida must have gone out to get something. Or perhaps she is with the

people, a compositor and his wife, who live on the floor below. They are

very good to her. I'll go and find her. Accommodate yourself with a

chair, signore." And he drew the best chair forward for me, and dusted

it with his handkerchief.

I allowed him to go and fetch her, rather surprised that she should be

well enough to get about after all he had told me concerning her

illness. Yet consumption does not keep people in bed until its final

stages.

As I stood there, gazing round the room, I could not well distinguish

its furthermost corners, for the lamp bore a shade of green paste-board,

which threw a zone of light upon the table, and left the remainder of

the room in darkness. When, however, my eyes grew accustomed to the dim

light, I discerned that the place was dusty and somewhat disordered. The

sofa was, I saw, a folding iron bedstead with greasy old cushions, while

the carpet was threadbare and full of holes. When I drew the old rep

curtains to look out of the window, I found that the shutters were

closed, which I thought unusual for a room so high up as that was.

Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently

gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the

denizens of that locality to go "marketing" in the evening among the

costermongers' stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares. Perishable

commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night

than in the morning.

"I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?" he said apologetically.

"But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her.

She will surely not be long."

"Then I'll wait," I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had

brought forward for me.

"I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone," he said, with a laugh. "I

did not expect a visitor, you know."

"No, no, Olinto. I've only just had dinner. But tell me how you have

fared since you left me."

"Ah!" he laughed bitterly. "I had many ups and downs before I found

myself here in London. The sea did not suit me--neither did the work.

They put me in the emigrants' quarters, and consequently I could gain

nothing. The other stewards were Neapolitans, therefore, because I was a

Tuscan, they relegated me to the worst post. Ah, signore, you don't know

what it is to serve those emigrants! I made two trips, then returned and

married Armida. I called on you, but Tito said you were in London. At

first I got work at a café in Viareggio, but when the season ended, and

I was thrown out of employment, I managed to work my way from Genoa to

London. My first place was scullion in a restaurant in Tottenham Court

Road, and then I became waiter in the beer-hall at the Monico, and

managed to save sufficient to send Armida the money to join me here.

Afterwards I went to the Milano, and I hope to get into one of the big

hotels very soon--or perhaps the grill-room at the Carlton. I have a

friend who is there, and they make lots of money--four or five pounds

every week in tips, they say."

"I'll see what I can do for you," I said. "I know several hotel-managers

who might have a vacancy."

"Ah, signore!" he cried, filled with gratification. "If you only would!

A word from you would secure me a good position. I can work, that you

know--and I do work. I will work--for her sake."

"I have promised you," I said briefly.

"And how can I sufficiently thank you?" he cried, standing before me,

while in his eyes I thought I detected a strange wild look, such as I

had never seen there before.

"You served me well, Olinto," I replied, "and when I discover real

sterling honesty I endeavor to appreciate it. There is, alas! very

little of it in this world."

"Yes," he said in a hoarse voice, his manner suddenly changing. "You

have to-night shown me, signore, that you are my friend, and I will, in

return, show you that I am yours." And suddenly grasping both my hands,

he pulled me from the chair in which I was sitting, at the same time

asking in a low intense whisper: "Do you always carry a revolver here in

England, as you do in Italy?"

"Yes," I answered in surprise at his action and his question. "Why?"

"Because there is danger here," he answered in the same low earnest

tone. "Get your weapon ready. You may want it."

"I don't understand," I said, feeling my handy Colt in my back pocket to

make sure it was there.

"Forget what I have said--all--all that I have told you to-night, sir,"

he said. "I have not explained the whole truth. You are in peril--in

deadly peril!"

"How?" I exclaimed breathlessly, surprised at his extraordinary change

of manner and his evident apprehension lest something should befall me.

"Wait, and you shall see," he whispered. "But first tell me, signore,

that you will forgive me for the part I have played in this dastardly

affair. I, like yourself, fell innocently into the hands of your

enemies."

"My enemies! Who are they?"

"They are unknown, and for the present must remain so. But if you doubt

your peril, watch--" and taking the rusty fire-tongs from the grate he

carefully placed them on end in front of the deep old armchair in which

I had sat, and then allowed them to fall against the edge of the seat,

springing quickly back as he did so.

In an instant a bright blue flash shot through the place, and the irons

fell aside, fused and twisted out of all recognition.

I stood aghast, utterly unable for the moment to sufficiently realize

how narrowly I had escaped death.

"Look! See here, behind!" cried the Italian, directing my attention to

the back legs of the chair, where, on bending with the lamp, I saw, to

my surprise, that two wires were connected, and ran along the floor and

out of the window, while concealed beneath the ragged carpet, in front

of the chair, was a thin plate of steel, whereon my feet had rested.

Those who had so ingeniously enticed me to that gloomy house of death

had connected up the overhead electric light main with that

innocent-looking chair, and from some unseen point had been able to

switch on a current of sufficient voltage to kill fifty men.

I stood stock-still, not daring to move lest I might come into contact

with some hidden wire, the slightest touch of which must bring instant

death upon me.

"Your enemies prepared this terrible trap for you," declared the man who

was once my trusted servant. "When I entered into the affair I was not

aware that it was to be fatal. They gave me no inkling of their

dastardly intention. But there is no time to admit of explanations now,

signore," he added breathlessly, in a low desperate voice. "Say that you

will not prejudge me," he pleaded earnestly.

"I will not prejudge you until I've heard your explanation," I said. "I

certainly owe my life to you to-night."

"Then quick! Fly from this house this instant. If you are stopped, then

use your revolver. Don't hesitate. In a moment they will be here upon

you."

"But who are they, Olinto? You must tell me," I cried in desperation.

"_Dio!_ Go! Go!" he cried, pushing me violently towards the door. "Fly,

or we shall both die--both of us! Run downstairs. I must make feint of

dashing after you."

I turned, and seeing his desperate eagerness, precipitately fled, while

he ran down behind me, uttering fierce imprecations in Italian, as

though I had escaped him.

A man in the narrow dark passage attempted to trip me up as I ran, but I

fired point blank at him, and gaining the door unlocked it, and an

instant later found myself out in the street.

It was the narrowest escape from death that I had ever had in all my

life--surely the strangest and most remarkable adventure. What, I

wondered, did it mean?

Next morning I searched up and down Oxford Street for the Restaurant

Milano, but could not find it. I asked shopkeepers, postmen, and

policemen; I examined the London Directory at the bar of the Oxford

Music Hall, and made every inquiry possible. But all was to no purpose.

No one knew of such a place. There were restaurants in plenty in Oxford

Street, from the Frascati down to the humble coffeeshop, but nobody had

ever heard of the "Milano."

Even Olinto had played me false!

I was filled with chagrin, for I had trusted him as honest, upright, and

industrious; and was puzzled to know the reason he had deceived me, and

why he had enticed me to the very brink of the grave.

He had told me that he himself had fallen into the trap laid by my

enemies, and yet he had steadfastly refused to tell me who they were!

The whole thing was utterly inexplicable.

I drove over to Lambeth and wandered through the maze of mean streets

off the York Road, yet for the life of me I could not decide into which

house I had been taken. There were a dozen which seemed to me that they

might be the identical house from which I had so narrowly escaped with

my life.

Gradually it became impressed upon me that my ex-servant had somehow

gained knowledge that I was in London, that he had watched my exit from

the club, and that all his pitiful story regarding Armida was false. He

was the envoy of my unknown enemies, who had so ingeniously and so

relentlessly plotted my destruction.

That I had enemies I knew quite well. The man who believes he has not is

an arrant fool. There is no man breathing who has not an enemy, from the

pauper in the workhouse to the king in his automobile. But the unseen

enemy is always the more dangerous; hence my deep apprehensive

reflections that day as I walked those sordid back streets "over the

water," as the Cockney refers to the district between those two main

arteries of traffic, the Waterloo and Westminster Bridge Roads.

My unknown enemies had secured the services of Olinto in their dastardly

plot to kill me. With what motive?

I wondered as I crossed Waterloo Bridge to the Strand, whether Olinto

Santini would again approach me and make the promised explanation. I had

given my word not to prejudge him until he revealed to me the truth. Yet

I could not, in the circumstances, repose entire confidence in him.

When one's enemies are unknown, the feeling of apprehension is always

much greater, for in the imagination danger lurks in every corner, and

every action of a friend covers the ruse of a suspected enemy.

That day I did my business in the city with a distrust of everyone, not

knowing whether I was not followed or whether those who sought my life

were not plotting some other equally ingenious move whereby I might go

innocently to my death. I endeavored to discover Olinto by every

possible means during those stifling days that followed. The heat of

London was, to me, more oppressive than the fiery sunshine of the

old-world Tuscany, and everyone who could be out of town had left for

the country or the sea.

The only trace I found of the Italian was that he was registered at the

office of the International Society of Hotel Servants, in Shaftesbury

Avenue, as being employed at Gatti's Adelaide Gallery, but on inquiry

there I found he had left more than a year before, and none of his

fellow-waiters knew his whereabouts.

Thus being defeated in every inquiry, and my business at last concluded

in London, I went up to Dumfries on a duty visit which I paid annually

to my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest

boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many

friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in

the county and moved in the best set.

Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at

Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this

occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are

always gay in August in prospect of the shooting.

"Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem,"

remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after

my arrival. "Their name is Leithcourt, and they've asked me to drive you

over there to tennis this afternoon."

"I'm not much of a player, you know, aunt. In Italy we don't believe in

athletics. But if it's out of politeness, of course, I'll go."

"Very well," she said. "Then I'll order the victoria for three."

"There are several nice girls there, Gordon," remarked my uncle

mischievously. "You have a good time, so don't think you are going to be

bored."

"No fear of that," was my answer. And at three o'clock Sir George, his

wife, and myself set out for that fine old historic castle that stands

high on the Bognie, overlooking the Cairn waters beyond Dunscore, one of

the strongholds of the Black Douglas in those turbulent days of long

ago, and now a splendid old residence with a big shoot which was

sometimes let for the season at a very high rent by its aristocratic if

somewhat impecunious owner.

We could see its great round towers, standing grim and gray on the

hillside commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached

it, and when we drove into the grounds we found a gay party in summer

toilettes assembled on the ancient bowling-green, now transformed into a

modern tennis-lawn.

Mrs. Leithcourt and her husband, a tall, thin, gray-headed, well-dressed

man, both came forward to greet us, and after a few introductions I

joined a set at tennis. They were a merry crowd. The Leithcourts were

entertaining a large house-party, and their hospitality was on a scale

quite in keeping with the fine old place they rented.

Tea was served on the lawn by the footmen, and afterwards, being tired

of the game, I found myself strolling with Muriel Leithcourt, a bright,

dark-eyed girl with tightly-bound hair, and wearing a cotton blouse and

flannel tennis skirt.

I was apologizing for my terribly bad play, explaining that I had no

practice out in Italy, whereupon she said--

"I know Italy slightly. I was in Florence and Naples with mother last

season."

And then we began to discuss pictures and sculptures and the sights of

Italy generally. I discerned from her remarks that she had traveled

widely; indeed, she told me that both her father and mother were never

happier than when moving from place to place in search of variety and

distraction. We had entered the huge paneled hall of the Castle, and had

passed up the quaint old stone staircase to the long banqueting hall

with its paneled oak ceiling, which in these modern days had been

transformed into a bright, pleasant drawing-room, from the windows of

which was presented a marvelous view over the lovely Nithsdale and

across to the heather-clad hills beyond.

It was pleasant lounging there in the cool old room after the hot

sunshine outside, and as I gazed around the place I noted how much more

luxurious and tasteful it now was to what it had been in the days when I

had visited its owner several years before.

"We are awfully glad to be up here," my pretty companion was saying. "We

had such a busy season in London." And then she went on to describe the

Court ball, and two or three of the most notable functions about which I

had read in my English paper beside the Mediterranean.

She attracted me on account of her bright vivacity, quick wit and keen

sense of humor, therefore I sat listening to her pleasant chatter.

Exiled as I was in a foreign land, I seldom spoke English save with

Hutcheson, the Consul, and even then we generally spoke Italian if there

were others present, in order that our companions should understand.

Therefore her gossip interested me, and as the golden sunset flooded the

handsome old room I sat listening to her, inwardly admiring her innate

grace and handsome countenance.

I had no idea who or what her father was--whether a wealthy

manufacturer, like so many who take expensive shoots and give big

entertainments in order to edge their way into Society by its back door,

or whether he was a gentleman of means and of good family. I rather

guessed the latter, from his gentlemanly bearing and polished manner.

His appearance, tall and erect, was that of a retired officer, and his

clean-cut face was one of marked distinction.

I was telling my pretty companion something of my own life, how, because

I loved Italy so well, I lived in Tuscany in preference to living in

England, and how each year I came home for a month or two to visit my

relations and to keep in touch with things.

Suddenly she said--

"I was once in Leghorn for a few hours. We were yachting in the

Mediterranean. I love the sea--and yachting is such awfully good fun, if

you only get decent weather."

The mention of yachting brought back to my mind the visit of the _Lola_

and its mysterious sequel.

"Your father has a yacht, then?" I remarked, with as little concern as I

could.

"Yes. The _Iris_. My uncle is cruising on her up the Norwegian Fiords.

For us it is a change to be here, because we are so often afloat. We

went across to New York in her last year and had a most delightful

time--except for one bad squall which made us all a little bit nervous.

But Moyes is such an excellent captain that I never fear. The crew are

all North Sea fishermen--father will engage nobody else. I don't blame

him."

"So you must have made many long voyages, and seen many odd corners of

the world, Miss Leithcourt?" I remarked, my interest in her increasing,

for she seemed so extremely intelligent and well-informed.

"Oh, yes. We've been to Mexico, and to Panama, besides Morocco, Egypt,

and the West Coast of Africa."

"And you've actually landed at Leghorn!" I remarked.

"Yes, but we didn't stay there more than an hour--to send a telegram, I

think it was. Father said there was nothing to see there. He and I went

ashore, and I must say I was rather disappointed."

"You are quite right. The town itself is ugly and uninteresting. But the

outskirts--San Jacopo, Ardenza and Antigniano are all delightful. It was

unfortunate that you did not see them. Was it long ago when you put in

there?"

"Not very long. I really don't recollect the exact date," was her reply.

"We were on our way home from Alexandria."

"Have you ever, in any of the ports you've been, seen a yacht called the

_Lola_?" I asked eagerly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she might

be able to give me information.

"The _Lola_!" she gasped, and instantly her face changed. A flush

overspread her cheeks, succeeded next moment by a death-like pallor.

"The _Lola_!" she repeated in a strange, hoarse voice, at the same time

endeavoring strenuously not to exhibit any apprehension. "No. I have

never heard of any such a vessel. Is she a steam-yacht? Who's her

owner?"

I regarded her in amazement and suspicion, for I saw that mention of the

name had aroused within her some serious misgiving. That look in her

dark eyes as they fixed themselves upon me was one of distinct and

unspeakable terror.

What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft?

"I don't know the owner's name," I said, still affecting not to have

noticed her alarm and apprehension. "The vessel ran aground at the

Meloria, a dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of

her captain was very nearly lost."

"Yes?" she gasped, in a half-whisper, bending to me eagerly, unable to

sufficiently conceal the terrible anxiety consuming her. "And you--did

you go aboard her?"

"Yes," was the only word I uttered.

A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I

saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had

suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the

key to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me.

Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly--

"Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Muriel. Why are you hidden

here? Aren't you coming?"

We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay

involuntarily escaped her.

Next instant I sprang to my feet. The reason of her cry was apparent,

for there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the

long open windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis

flannels and a Panama hat--the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby!

I faced him, speechless.