The Fourth Plague Page 10

  “One he gave to his patron, Il Moro, the usurper of the Duchy, and the other he gave a year or two subsequently to Caesar Borgia. They were both commemorations of his patron’s escape from the plague. You will observe on the back”—he turned the jewel over gently—“there is an allegorical representation. You see the picture of the little fiend?”—he pointed it oat with his little finger—“that represents the sickness which visited the whole of Italy. You see the angel?—that must represent his ‘unconquerable patrons.’ What the other signs are—” he smiled, and this cheerless room saw all the smiles that Sir Ralph was prepared to bestow upon the world—“are incomprehensible to me. Probably Leonardo was a Futurist.”

  He chuckled at his own harmless jest, and the girl listened to him wonderingly, for he was a different man in this atmosphere. She had never seen him so before; he was human, and tender and keen.

  “The other medallion,” Sir Ralph went on, “was stolen from the Dublin museum. The thief was traced, after a great deal of trouble, to a cross-Channel boat; he was seen to go on the boat to cross from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. There must have been some of his confederates on board, for in the night a great outcry was heard in one of the cabins, and the detective who watched him saw him fleeing along the deck pursued by two foreigners. Before they could either arrest the men who were following or capture the man himself, he had leapt overboard, and with him, it was presumed, had passed the second medallion.”

  “What was the meaning of it all?” asked Frank.

  Sir Ralph shook his head.

  “We don’t know. It was supposed at the time that he was endeavouring to give the jewel to some of his confederates, and that in the act of doing so he was seen. The men who were chasing him that night on the ship gave a plausible explanation; they said they thought he was mad and endeavouring to commit suicide, and they were trying to prevent him.”

  He turned the jewel over again, and looked at it lovingly before he replaced it in its case.

  “Whatever it was your unfortunate man had,” he said, “it was not the fellow to this.” Outside, he was himself again, cold, hard, commonplace, but that little glimpse of his true character revealed much to Marjorie.

  She understood now the ferocity of the sentence he had passed upon Mansingham. His collection was more than wife or child, more precious than ambition; his passion was strong enough to override his sense of justice.

  He looked at his watch with a frown. He had remembered one of the unpleasant facts of life.

  “Vera has not returned. I thought she would have come down by the same train as you.”

  “I was the only passenger for Burboro’, as far as I can remember,” said Frank.

  Sir Ralph looked at his watch again.

  “There’s another train in by now,” he said, “she ought to be here.”

  He had hardly spoken the words when Vera’s voice was heard in the hall below, making inquiries of the servants.

  “Oh, there you are,” she cried.

  She looked up as the party descended the broad stairway into the hall. For a moment a look of wonder came into her eyes at the sight of Frank.

  “You have never met Mr. Gallinford, have you?” asked Marjorie, as she introduced them.

  “I am very glad to meet you now, at any rate,” said Vera, cheerfully.

  She was glad, too, that there was some other interest to temper her husband’s annoyance. That he should be annoyed she took for granted. It was the atmosphere which invariably met her on her return from town.

  He looked again at his watch and then at her, and she understood the significance of the examination.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, carelessly. “I lost the fast train and had to take the slow one. It was very annoying. I think my watch must have been wrong.”

  Vera had a very beautiful voice, low and rich, and full of beautiful qualities.

  “You’ve been seeing our wonderful collection?” she said.

  Sir Ralph snorted. He hated any claim to partnership in respect to his medallions, and Vera knew it. It was her oblique reply to his unspoken attack.

  “You haven’t seen the best of them; you ought to see the belts,” she said.

  “That is a collection which is not sufficiently complete,” interrupted Sir Ralph stiffly, “to be examined. Really, Vera, I wish you would not embarrass me by these references.”

  He strode off to the library, leaving them alone.

  She laughed softly.

  “He’s a great trial sometimes,” she said, half to herself.

  Then she turned to the girl, and Marjorie noticed with pleasure that the moodiness and depression of yesterday was entirely dissipated. She was at her brightest, her ready smile came and went.

  In a few moments she was chatting with Frank Gallinford about Italy as though she had known him all her life.

  “It must be a quaint country,” she said. “You know, I’ve a peculiar affection for the land, I am half Italian myself.”

  “Are you really?”

  It was Marjorie who asked the question with girlish delight. “Oh, I say, how romantic! Don’t you ever want to stab uncle with a stiletto or something?”

  She laughed, but Frank’s smile was a trifle grim. He had too vivid a recollection of somebody striking at him with a stiletto to derive the full amount of amusement out of the question. That was part of the story which he had not deemed it necessary to tell.

  “Oh, no,” drawled Vera, “I never feel sufficiently bloodthirsty.”

  Suddenly Frank’s face went drawn and grey. He stepped back with a little cry.

  “What is the matter?” asked Marjorie, in alarm.

  He passed his hand over his eyes.

  “But really—aren’t you ill?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, it’s a little passing giddiness,” he muttered. He was seized with an over-powering anxiety to get away.

  “I forgot,” said the girl, sympathetically, “you’ve had such a trying night. I’ll see if your room is ready; perhaps if you were to lie down for an hour or two you would be better.”

  He nodded, and, raising his head, met Vera’s curious eyes.

  “If you will forgive the impertinence,” he said, slowly, “that is a curious ring of yours.”

  She turned white and put her hands quickly behind her back; but too late—he had seen the square black opal—for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  IX. —COUNT FESTINI

  “WHY, MISS MEAGH, HOW perfectly delightful!”

  Marjorie turned with a start. She was leaving Victoria Station, and had stopped at a bookstall to buy a few magazines.

  She had been visiting Ida Mansingham, the wife of the convict, who was in a nursing home. She had had a bad nervous breakdown, and it was due to the generosity of George Hilary and Tillizini that she had been placed in comfort.

  A young man was standing before her, his white teeth showing in a smile of sheer delight.

  “How extraordinary! I have not seen you for two months. Where have you been hiding?”

  She offered her hand with some embarrassment. Her last parting with Count Festini had been such that it seemed that they could never meet again on terms of commonplace friendship. His passionate declaration still rang in her ears. He had come to Ireland for the hunting, had fallen—so he declared—hopelessly in love with her, and had declared his passion.

  He had stormed and raved when she had gently refused him; yes, this well-bred and perfectly-mannered young man had behaved more like a madman than a sane product of twentieth century civilization.

  And here he was as though nothing had happened.

  “I tried to find where you were,” he said.

  His eyes had the tender softness of the South. His voice was without any trace of foreign accent. He was, as usual, she observed, fault
lessly dressed, with none of the ostentation or errors in taste which so often in the foreigner mar the good tailor’s best efforts.

  “I have been away in the country,” she said, a little hurriedly.

  She was expecting Frank at the station. He might come up at any moment. She wondered what would be the effect on this volcanic young man if she introduced the big Englishman as her fiancé.

  “And I have been tied to town,” he said. “Oh, what a deplorable place London is for those whose business keeps them there! It is delightful to the visitor, to the dilettante, but for the unfortunate dweller by compulsion, terrible.”

  He threw out his hands in mock despair.

  “London is a bad habit,” he went on, “and the ideal one, for it is a bad habit one can get away from when one likes.”

  “Few bad habits are like that,” she smiled.

  He had apparently completely recovered from his infatuation and was genial only to a point of correctness.

  Some thought occurred to her, and she smiled.

  “Do I amuse you?” he said, with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “how curious it is that I seem to have met nothing but Italians—to have lived almost in an atmosphere of Renaissance the last few days.”

  His eyes steadied.

  “That is very curious,” he said, quietly. “I could have almost said the same. And who are the Italians who have been favoured by association with the most lovely lady in England?”

  She raised her hand.

  “Please,” she said, softly, “let us forget.”

  “I could never forget,” he said.

  He spoke calmly enough for her ease and comfort.

  “But I have agreed myself to forego hope. After all,” his shoulders rose imperceptibly, “one cannot have all the things one wants in this world. I have most of them, yet one which is more than all the others together, is denied me. That is my punishment.”

  He smiled again. “But you did not answer me.”

  She hesitated. She had no wish to talk of Tillizini. He was one of those mysterious individuals engaged in a business of such a character that it seemed that any reference to him would be a betrayal. She saw the absurdity of this view almost as quickly as she formulated the idea.

  “One of them,” she said, “was Professor Tillizini.”

  His cigarette was half way to his mouth. He checked its course for the fraction of a second.

  “Signor Tillizini,” he drawled. “How very interesting. And what had the great Antonio to tell you? Did he ask for your finger-prints, or take a sample of your blood, or express any desire to measure your head?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, with a laugh. “He didn’t do anything so dreadful. Do you know him?”

  “Slightly,” he said, carelessly. “Everybody in Italy, of course, knows Tillizini, and I should imagine almost everybody in England is similarly informed. And where did you meet this great man?” he bantered.

  “At Burboro’,” she said. “He came to visit my uncle.”

  “At Burboro’?”

  Again she noticed the slight emphasis to his words.

  He was looking at her steadily, speculatively, she thought. He was quick to realize that his attitude was a little more than disinterested, for he gave a short laugh.

  “You think I am inquisitive, do you not?” he said. “But don’t you know that everything associated with you has immense interest for me? You see,” he said, apologetically, “I have never met your uncle. I didn’t know that you had such a relative—though most people have. At any rate, I have discovered where you are staying,” he said, with laughing menace. “I have only to run to ground this uncle of yours, and the rest will be easy. I shall come to Burboro’,” he threatened, with one slim finger raised in mock earnestness, and go round asking ‘Has anybody seen Miss Marjorie’s uncle?’ It will create a little sensation, will it not?”

  “I will save you that trouble,” she smiled. “My uncle is Sir Ralph Morte-Mannery.”

  “Oh, indeed,” he nodded his head. “I thought it might be.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, he is a great man; one hears of him. He is a judge; and something of a collector, too.”

  She had seen a tall form walking towards them, and went pink again.

  “I want to introduce you, Count Festini,” she said, “to my fiancé, Mr. Frank Gallinford.”

  She averted her eyes from his face, and did not see the sudden tightening of his lips, nor the curious, quick droop of his eyelids.

  “This is Count Festini,” she said.

  The big Englishman put out his hand, and grasped the other’s heartily. He was almost head and shoulders above the dapper young man, but, to Frank’s surprise, it was no soft, effeminate grasp which was returned. It was a grip which reminded him of the vice-like grip of Tillizini’s.

  Frank was a typical Englishman—tall, broad-shouldered, lean of face and limb; grey, honest eyes shone with pleasure to meet a friend of his beloved.

  “I wish you would bring us just a handful of your beautiful Italian sunshine, Count,” he said. “In this city of gloom, and depression, and inquests—”

  “Inquests?” interrupted Marjorie.

  Frank nodded.

  “Yes, on that unfortunate man who was murdered. I have got to give evidence to-day.”

  “Which man is this?” asked the Count, interested.

  “The man who was found in the Embankment Gardens.”

  “Oh!”

  It was only an ejaculation, but Frank looked at him in surprise.

  “Did you know him?” he asked.

  “I only know what I have read in the papers,” said the other, calmly. “May I ask, Mr. Gallinford, exactly what part you played in that tragedy?”

  “I was the man that was with him when he was kidnapped,” said he. “I have felt awful ever since. If I could only have kept with him I might have saved his life.”

  “Or lost your own,” said the Count. “These people are not particular to a life or two. You have lived long enough in my country to realize that we do not place the exaggerated value upon human life that you Northerners do.”

  “You cannot have an exaggerated value on human life,” said Frank, gravely. “It is the most precious thing in the world.”

  The Count shrugged his shoulders.

  “That is a point of view,” he said. “It is not mine. For my part I regard life as the least valuable of our possessions. It is a huge gramophone record on which all the strident and unpleasant sounds of life are received and held at one and the same time. And the whole makes a tremendous discord,” he said, speaking half to himself. “The music of life is drowned, overwhelmed, deadened by the harsher notes of strife and ambition. For me,” he smiled, “I think that the clean record is best.”

  “What is the ‘clean record’?” asked Frank.

  “Sleep,” said the other, a little bitterly, “or death. It is one and the same.”

  He offered his hand with a charming smile.

  “I am keeping you both,” he said. “Where may I have the pleasure of seeing you again, Miss Meagh?”

  “I shall be staying with my uncle for another month,” she said.

  He nodded pleasantly to Frank, and, turning, walked quickly away. He stopped at a little cigarette kiosk on the station, and watching them out of the corners of his eyes, he saw that they were passing slowly from the station. He turned, when they had disappeared through one of the exits. His face had no longer that pleasant, soft quality which had distinguished it a few minutes before. It was hard and set, and his eyes glowed angrily. He stood watching the exit through which they had disappeared, then he went to a telephone box. From this he emerged in five minutes, collected, suave and cheerful.

  It was Thursday, the night before the
attempt would be made. If the locket was not abstracted, he thought he knew a way by which it might be attained—and it was a pleasant way to him. The only fear he had in his mind was whether he would resist the temptation which would arise in the experiment. Whether his love of gain would over-master the growing passion which fired his breast for this cold, beautiful Englishwoman.

  He had learnt enough now to know that the second locket was in the possession of Tillizini. It was a house which, under ordinary circumstances, might be burgled; but now it was Tillizini’s. The name inspired awe amongst the lawless men who were working for their illicit profits.

  Before now the very sight of this professor’s thin, refined face had stayed the assassin’s dagger, from very fright. The very mention of Tillizini was sufficient to cause a stir of uneasiness amongst these villains, in whom the dictates of fear and pity were dead.

  But the name had no such effect upon Count Festini. He was superior to fear of any man. He came from a line of men who, for hundreds of years, had dominated one secret society or the other. The Festinis went back to the bad old days of Italian history, when assassination was a quick and easy method of ridding members of his family from embarrassment.

  It was in his blood. It was part of his composition. Young as he was, he had been the directing force of the terrorizing organization which had worked the Eastern States of America into a ferment of terror.

  Tillizini, swift and terrible in his working, wise in his judgment, had broken that organization.

  Festini was no fool. He had recognized that the game was up in America. There was no use in running his head against a brick wall. He had foreseen the possibility of transplanting the strength of his government to England. They were a soft people, used to crime of a certain type, crime which was generally without violence. It was the last stand of the “Red Hand.” Its members had been driven from every country in Europe. It was only a matter of time when lethargic England would drive and stamp the organization out of existence.

  But, in that short space of time, Festini was preparing his coup—the greatest and most terrible of his wicked plans. He would strike, not individuals, for that was too dangerous—he would blackmail the nation, but first he must obtain possession of those lockets.