A London je le confess' on admir' leur gentiless Quand ils march'nt entortillant, en entortillant leur... yes."

The grave-faced Jackson entered and with pompous ceremony served him with a whiskey and soda, as was usual; then, after she had sung to him another _chanson_, he rose to go. As it was already late, and as he was obliged to return to the House, he was compelled to take leave of her.

"You really love me, Dudley?" she asked in a low, intense voice, as they stood locked in each other's arms just before he left. "Tell me that you do. Somehow I am so apprehensive, foolishly so, perhaps; but your words always rea.s.sure me. I feel happier and a better woman after hearing them."

"Love you, Claudia?" he cried, his hand stroking her beautiful hair; "how can you ever doubt me? I swear by all I hold most sacred that no tender thought of any woman save yourself ever enters my heart. I am wholly and entirely yours." And he kissed her with all the fervent pa.s.sion of an ardent lover.

"And you will never desert me--never? Promise!" she said, in tones breathing anxiety and earnestness.

"I promise," he answered. His voice had lost a little of its resonance, but she did not notice the slight change. He made a promise which he himself knew to be incapable of fulfilment. Hers no longer, he was now helpless in the inexorable toils of that mysterious woman who alone held his secret.

She kissed him again in fond farewell. Outside in the great hall, which was famous for its fine marble columns and statuary, the man helped him on with his coat, while Claudia stood above upon the terrace of the upper hall, laughing gaily and wishing him "good-bye" as was her wont.

Then he went forth in a dazed condition, walking along Knightsbridge in search of a pa.s.sing hansom to take him down to the House.

As the door closed behind him when he emerged from the great portico into the foggy night, the short, dark figure of a rather thin man in a soft deer-stalker hat and dark overcoat slunk quickly out of the shadow of a doorway almost opposite, crossed the road, and hurried after him with laboured breath.

Of a sudden as Dudley, having gone a hundred yards or so, turned to glance behind him for an approaching cab, he came face to face with the fellow who, if the truth were told, had for nearly two hours been patiently awaiting his appearance.

"Pardon, signore!" exclaimed the black-haired, sharp-featured man, speaking with a decided Italian accent. He was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt termination of his rather clumsy efforts at espionage. "I beg the signore a thousand pardons, but may I be permitted to have a parolina [little word] with him?"

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

IN WHICH THE STRANGER STATES HIS MISSION.

"Well, what do you want?" Chisholm inquired sharply, glancing keenly at the foreigner, and not approving of his appearance.

"I want a word with the signore," the man who had accosted him answered, with an air almost of authority.

"I don't know you," replied the Under-Secretary, "and have no desire to hold intercourse with perfect strangers."

"It is true that I am unknown to the signore," said the man in very fair English, "but I am here, in London, on purpose to speak with you. I ascertained that you were visiting at yonder palazzo; therefore, I waited."

"And why do you wish to speak with me? Surely you might have found a more fitting opportunity than this--you could have waited until to-morrow."

"No. The signore is watched," said the man as he began to walk at Dudley's side among the throngs of people, for in Knightsbridge there is always considerable movement after the theatres have closed and the tide of pleasure-seekers is flowing westward. "I have waited for this opportunity to ask the signore to make an appointment with me."

"Can't you tell me your business now?" inquired Chisholm suspiciously, not half liking the fellow's look. He spoke English fairly well, but his rather narrow face was not a rea.s.suring one. An Englishman is always apt, however, to judge the Italian physiognomy unjustly, for those who look the fiercest and the most like brigands are, in the experience of those who live in Italy, generally the most harmless persons.

"To speak here is impossible," he declared, glancing about him. "I must not be seen with you. Even at this moment it is dangerous. Give me a rendezvous quickly, signore, and let me leave you. We may be seen. If so, my mission is futile."

"You have a mission, then. Of what character?"

"I will tell you everything, signore, when we meet. Where can I see you?"

"At my house in St. James's Street--in an hour's time."

"Not so. That is far too dangerous. Let us meet in some unfrequented cafe where we can talk without being overheard. I dare not, for certain reasons, be seen near the signore's abode."

The man's mysterious manner was anything but convincing, but Dudley, perceiving that he was determined to have speech with him, told him at last to follow him. The stranger instantly dropped behind among the crowd without another word, while the master of Wroxeter continued on his way past Hyde Park Corner and along Piccadilly, where gaiety and recklessness were as plentiful as ever, until making a quick turn, he entered a narrow court to the left, which led to Vine Street, the home of the notorious police-station of the West End. Half-way up the court was a wine-bar, a kind of Bodega, patronised mostly by shopmen from the various establishments in Regent Street. This he entered, looked round to see which of the upturned barrels that served as tables was vacant, and then seated himself in a corner some distance away from the men and women who were drinking port, munching biscuits, and laughing more and more merrily as closing time drew near. Then, about ten minutes later, the stranger slunk in, cast a quick suspicious glance in the direction of the merrymakers, walked across the sanded floor and joined him.

"I hope we have not been seen," were his opening words as he seated himself upon the stool opposite Chisholm.

"I hope not, if the danger you describe really exists," Dudley replied.

After he had ordered a gla.s.s of wine for his companion he scrutinised for a few seconds the narrow and rather sinister face in front of him.

With the full light upon him, the stranger looked weary and worn.

Chisholm judged him to be about fifty, a rather refined man with a grey, wiry moustache, well-bred manners, and a strange expression of superiority that struck Dudley as peculiar.

"You are Tuscan," he said, looking at the man with a smile.

The other returned his glance in undisguised wonderment.

"How did the signore know when I have only spoken in my faulty English?"

he asked in amazement.

Chisholm laughed, affecting an air of mysterious penetration, with a view to impressing his visitor. The man's rather faded clothes were of foreign cut, and his wide felt hat was un-English, but he did not explain to him that the unmistakable stamp of the Tuscan was upon him in the tiny object suspended from his watch-chain, a small piece of twisted and pointed coral set in gold, which every Tuscan in every walk of life carries with him, either openly, or concealed upon his person, to counteract the influence of the Evil Eye.

"It is true that I am Tuscan," the man said. "But I must confess that the signore surprises me by his quickness of perception."

"I have travelled, and know Italy well," was all the explanation Dudley vouchsafed.

"And I arrived from Italy this evening," said the stranger. "I have been sent to London expressly to see the signore."

"Sent by whom?"

"By the signore's friend--a signorina inglese."

"Her name?"

"The Signorina Mortimer."

Mention of that name caused Dudley to start and fix his eyes upon the stranger with the sallow face.

"She has sent you. Why?"

"To deliver to you an urgent message," was the man's response. "I have here a credential." And fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat he produced an envelope, open and without superscription, which he handed to Chisholm.

From it the latter drew forth a piece of folded white paper, which he opened carefully.

What he saw struck him aghast. Within the folds was concealed an object, simple, it is true, but of a nature to cause him to hold his breath in sheer astonishment.

The paper contained what Dudley had believed to be still reposing in the safe at Wroxeter. It was the revered relic of a day long past, the token of a love long dead--the little curl he had so faithfully treasured.

The woman into whose hands he had so irretrievably given himself had stolen it. She had secured it by stealth on that night when, conversing with him in the library, she had confessed her knowledge of his secret, so that he had been forced by overwhelming circ.u.mstances to make the unholy compact which was driving him to despair. Time after time he had risked his life against fearful odds, s.n.a.t.c.hed it from savage treachery, fought for it in open fight in wild regions where the foot of a white man had never before trod, plucked it from the heart of battle; but never had he cast it so recklessly upon the dice-board of Fate as on that night when she, the Devil's angel, had appeared to him in the guise of a saviour.

His mouth grew hard as he thought of it. What did it matter? Life was sweet after all, and she had rescued him from suicide. Impulse rode roughshod over reason, as it so often does with impetuous men of Dudley Chisholm's stamp; his inborn love of adventure, which had carried him far afield into remote corners of the earth, was up in arms against sober thought.

Upon the paper in which the lock of hair was wrapped were a few words, written in ink in a firm feminine hand.

He spread the paper out and read them. The message was very brief, but very pointed: