Chapter Twenty Nine. Some Explanations.

My first thought, of course, was that the woman was a thief, for it was she who had so cleverly stolen The Closed Book from my study at Antignano and carried it to Paris, there transferring it to the hands of old Mrs Pickard, of Harpur Street.

My first impulse was to tax her with the theft; but fortunately I saw a necessity for careful tact, and therefore responded pleasantly in the same language, “Yes, signorina. It was one afternoon not long ago in Florence, if I remember aright.”

“It was,” she said quickly. “I wish to speak with you in private. Where can we go that we are not observed? I know so very little of London.”

For a moment I reflected. If she really wished to give me any information I ought to secure it at all hazards. Her manner was that of one who feared recognition in that public thoroughfare, and wished to speak with me in private; therefore I hailed a passing hansom, and as we were getting in I recollected that, it being dinner-time, we might secure a quiet table in the upstairs room at Scott’s at the top of the Haymarket. Therefore, to that famed restaurant I gave the cabman directions.

Her manner was as though haunted by a grave suspicion that she was being followed, and during our drive along to Piccadilly Circus she scarcely uttered a single word save to express satisfaction at finding me in a giant city like London, and to drop the remark that she had been following me for an hour past—the latter proving that she had seen me with Judith, and had undoubtedly noted my tenderness towards her.

My wooing in those crowded London streets that evening had certainly been strange, but really not extraordinary when one considers how many declarations of love are made among London’s millions amid the roar of traffic and the hurry and scurry of outdoor life. There exist few places in the heart of London that are adapted for lovers’ walks and lovers’ talks, and those few spots are so well patronised that the majority of lovers carefully avoid them. Romance is enacted among the smoke-blackened bricks and mortar of London just as often as in the briar-scented country lane or on the shingly beach of the popular seaside resort. The quiet thoroughfares of London, where one knows not his neighbour, are always more private than any country lane, with its sneaking yokels and the local gossip of its nearest village.

Still, the mystery with which this handsome, dark-eyed woman had accosted me, and the rapidity with which we had driven away, caused me to reflect. She was either my enemy or my friend—which, I intended to discover.

In the upstairs room of the restaurant we found a quiet corner safe from intrusion or observation, and when I had ordered a light dinner I asked for her explanation.

“I arrived in London three days ago,” she explained in Italian, “and have been in search of you ever since. I saw you leave that house in Bloomsbury together with the signorina, and have been following you ever since—oh! so far that I am very tired. But I kept on, because I desired to speak to you. The risk I have run is very great,” and she glanced around apprehensively at the half-dozen diners scattered about the room. “If I am discovered then the worst must come.”

“Why?”

“Because they do not know that I am in London, or that I am determined to warn you.”

“Of what?” I asked eagerly.

“Of this plot against you.”

“By whom?”

“By the persons you believe are your best friends,” she answered, bending across the small table towards me, and speaking in a low half-whisper.

“And why do you wish to give me this warning?” I inquired suspiciously, recollecting that this fine, handsome woman had acted as a thief, and had evidently herself participated in the plot—whatever it might have been.

“Because I am ordered to do so by one who is your real friend.”

“And what’s his name, pray?”

“Padre Bernardo of Florence. It is at his orders that I have sought you tonight.”

Her reply surprised me. The fat, good-humoured prior of San Sisto had certainly been very friendly towards me; but I had never believed, after what had occurred, that he was actually my friend. Had he not, by means of a ruse, endeavoured to induce me to withdraw from my bargain over my precious Arnoldus? Was he not an exceedingly clever and ingenious person, this Bernardo Landini? His actions had been puzzling from first to last, rendered, indeed, doubly mysterious when viewed in the light of my discovery at the end of that rare volume, and by recent events in London and at Crowland.

It was surely curious that he should send this woman to me, of all other persons. Yet somehow she seemed to be in his confidence. If not, why had they talked in his study with closed doors?

Suspicious that this woman had approached me with evil object, I nevertheless allowed her to explain. She was attired very much in the same manner as when I had first encountered her—namely, in plain black, a gown of apparent Parisian make, and a stylish hat that suited her dark beauty admirably, yet not at all loud in design.

She leaned her elbows on the table, and bending forward, with her gloved hands held together, thus explained her object in seeking me:

“I have been sent to warn you,” she said with a strange look in her dark eyes—those eyes that had once haunted me in that sun-blanched city by the sea.

“But you called at my house at Antignano and obtained possession of the manuscript which I had bought of Father Bernardo,” I said. “Why?”

“Because its possession constituted a danger to you,” was her answer, still speaking in Italian.

And I wondered whether she were aware that its vellum leaves were impregnated with a deadly venom that had not yet lost its potency.

“But that was no reason why you should steal the manuscript,” I said, in Italian, rather bluntly.

She raised her wine-glass to her lips and drank slowly in order to reflect. Then, setting her claret down, exclaimed:

“Ah! my action was under compulsion. You should have been warned by the prior of the evil that possession of the book would bring upon you.”

“Well, now tell me, signorina—for I haven’t the pleasure of your real name—”

“Anita Bardi,” she interrupted.

“Well,” I said, “I wish to inquire one thing—namely, whether our friend the prior has any idea of what the Arnoldus contains?”

“No. He is entirely in ignorance of it. If he had, he certainly would never have been a party to this dastardly plot against you.”

“But what is the motive of this conspiracy?” I inquired, much puzzled.

“Your death,” she answered without hesitation. “Your enemies intend that you shall die.”

“Very charming of them,” I laughed, pretending not to take her words seriously. “But why, I wonder, are they so anxious for my decease?”

“Because you have gained their secret—you are believed to have read and understood what is contained in that newly discovered manuscript.”

“And if I have, I surely purchased the book at the price asked for it?”

“Ah! you see the prior had no right to sell it to you. A mistake was committed from the very first. How did you first know of its existence?”

“Through a dealer in antiques in Leghorn, named Francesco Graniani, an old hunchback.”

“I thought so!” she exclaimed. “I hear that he is in London. All this goes to show that you should be warned.”

“Of Graniani?”

“And of others also. I saw you with Lady Judith Gordon, and—if you will pardon me—you seemed attracted towards her.”

She spoke frankly and looked me steadily in the face with those great dark eyes of hers.

“And if I am?”

“I presume you have not been long acquainted with her?”

“Not very long.”

“Then, before you allow yourself to fall beneath her spell, as you seem to be doing, just make a few inquiries. It will not be difficult, and may be the means of saving you from dire misfortune—perhaps even saving your life.”

“How? I don’t understand.”

“Possibly not. I only ask you to heed my warning. I am not here to explain the motives of others.”

“But you can surely tell me why I should hold aloof from Lady Judith?” I demanded.

“No, I cannot,” she responded, speaking in broken English for the first time, and apparently forgetting herself in her excitement. “If you are not warned it is your own fault.”

“You say you know her,” I observed. “Where did you meet her?”

“In Italy—under strange circumstances.”

“With her father?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation, and across her countenance there spread a strange look of mystery. “But we need not discuss that subject further,” she added, lapsing again into Italian, which she spoke with a Florentine accent. “I wish to ask your forgiveness for stealing your book. I can only urge leniency on the ground that I acted at the instigation and under compulsion of others.”

“I forgive you if you will tell me who instigated you to commit the theft,” I said.

“No, I cannot do that. I ask your forgiveness, and in order to atone for what I have done I came here to warn you of the great peril which threatens you. Beware of your association with Judith Gordon!”

“What?” I cried. “Do you mean to insinuate that she is my bitter enemy?”

“Beware of her is all I say.”

“And how do you suggest I should act?” I demanded, much surprised at this strange woman’s allegations against my love.

“You should again obtain possession of the Arnoldus. It may help you,” was her curious recommendation.

It was on the point of my tongue to say that it was already in my possession; but my natural caution again asserted itself. The woman was one whom I should deal with diplomatically in order to learn her motive.

“Perhaps you can tell me where it is?” I suggested.

“In the hands of an Englishman named Selby, who lives in that house in Harpur Street which you quitted this evening.”

Then she was evidently unaware that Selby had suffered its loss, and as far as I could judge she seemed dealing honestly with me. This fact puzzled me more than ever. Suddenly I recollected that mysterious sign in the window, and I asked her the meaning of the bear cub.

“Yes,” she answered with a sudden gravity that had not hitherto fallen upon her. “I saw it there today,” she added slowly. “It has a signification, as you suspect.”

“An evil one?”

“Yes, an evil one—stranger than you could ever guess.”

“Will you not tell me?”

But again she shook her head, and declared that a silence was imposed upon her regarding it, as upon other matters. She had merely sought me in order to warn me, an innocent and unsuspecting man, against falling into the cunningly prepared trap laid for me.

She was quite calm, determined, unemotional. Once or twice, as newcomers entered the dining-room, she betrayed fear of recognition, but beyond that seemed absolutely cool and unruffled.

From her I had gathered two facts—namely, that Graniani was somehow at the bottom of the whole of the strange affair, as I had all along suspected, and that the woman I had grown to love was carefully plotting my ruin. This I refused to believe, and frankly told her so.

She allowed me to go on without a word of contradiction. Her manner was that of a well-bred woman, about thirty I judged her to be, her gesture and speech betraying refinement, and her eyes large, expressive, and sparkling. Indeed, she was a woman who might attract any man, and I daresay I should have found myself lost in admiration had it not been for my passionate love for Judith.

“I have only told you the truth, Signor Kennedy,” she answered quietly in Italian. “I would, however, ask you to promise me to tell no one of our meeting. Remember that if you wish for advice in the future you have only to write to me poste restante at Charing Cross, and I shall duly receive your letter.”

The Charing Cross post office is the usual address of foreigners when travelling in England, therefore I knew not whether she suggested that place because of secrecy or convenience. She made no mention of Lord Glenelg or of his search after the treasure; and, thinking that discretion were best, I did not refer to it, for I intended to keep my own counsel even though her allegations and the fact that she had so boldly accosted me formed in themselves an additional mystery.

So we finished our meal, and after some further desultory conversation which showed that she, on her part, was somewhat disappointed at the manner in which I had treated her confidences, I gave her my club address, saw her into a cab, and then we parted.