laughed, saying, "Ah, _caro mio_, you don't know him. Heis my very best friend." The Italian grunted, replying, "He has beenputting leading questions to me all the evening, and I have had to lieto him." Again Blair laughed. "It is not the first time you'vecommitted that sin," was his answer. "No," the other responded in a lowvoice, intending that I should not overhear him, "but if you introduceme to your friends be careful that they are not quite so astute or soinquisitive as this man Greenwood. He may be a good fellow, but even ifhe is he surely must not know our secret, if he did, it might mean ruinto us, remember!"
And then, before Blair could make response, he mounted into a hansomwhich at that moment had pulled up at the kerb.
From that moment I had entertained a distinct dislike of the man who hadbeen introduced to me as Salvi, not that I hold every foreigner insuspicion as some insular Englishmen so foolishly do, but because he hadendeavoured to poison Blair's mind against me. Yet after a week theincident had entirely slipped my memory and I had never recollected ituntil that strange and unexpected re-encounter.
Was it possible that this monk with the sun-bronzed, bearded face wasthe same man who rented that apartment in the Florence slum, and whosevisits there were so surreptitious and mysterious? Perhaps so, becauseall the secrecy of his habitation would be accounted for by the factthat a Capuchin is not allowed to possess any property outside hismonastery. Those infrequent visits to Florence might be made at timeswhen, being a lay brother, he would no doubt be sent out into thecountry to collect from the _contadini_ alms and presents in kind forthe poor in the city. Everywhere throughout Tuscany, in peasant's hutas in prince's palace, the humble, patient and charitable Capuchin iswelcomed; a flask of wine and a crust is ready for him at the house ofevery _contadino_, and in the villas and palaces of the rich there isalways a place for him in the servants' hall. How many of the Italianpoor are saved annually from sheer starvation by the soup and breaddispensed daily at the door of every Capuchin monastery, it would beimpossible to estimate. Suffice it to say that the Order in theirsnuff-coloured habits and their black skull-caps is the greatest andtruest friend the starving poor possesses.
Babbo Carlini was no doubt idling outside upon the steps of the churchawaiting my reappearance. Would he, I wondered, recognise in this monkthe description he had obtained of Paolo Melandrini, the unknown man whowas to be Mabel Blair's secretary and adviser?
The last loiterers in the antique Chapel of the Holy Sacrament had left,their footsteps echoing away across the flags to the exit, and I foundmyself alone with the silent, almost statuesque, man beside whom I had,only one year before stood in the Grand Circle at the Empire watchingand criticising a ballet.
Should I address him and claim acquaintance? His openly-expresseddisapproval of myself caused me to hesitate. It was quite apparent thathe had held me in apprehension on that night at Grosvenor Square,therefore in the present circumstances his suspicion would undoubtedlybecome increased. Should I boldly address him and thus show myfearlessness, as well as my acquaintance with his subterfuges? or shouldI withdraw and watch his subsequent movements?
I at length decided on the former course--for two reasons. The firstwas that I felt confident he had recognised me as Burton's friend; andthe second because in dealing with such a man the open declaration ofknowledge is always the more advantageous in the end than the carefulconcealment of such facts as I already knew. If I set a watch upon himhis suspicions would become heightened, whereas if I acted openly Imight succeed in disarming him.
Therefore, turning upon my heel, I strolled straight towards where hehad halted as though he were patiently awaiting Blair's arrival.
"Pardon me, signore," I exclaimed in Italian, "but if I mistake not wehave met before--in London, a year ago--was it not?"
"Ah," he exclaimed, his face relaxing into a pleasant smile as heextended his big, hard hand, "I have been wondering all this time,Signor Greenwood, if you would recognise me is this dress. I am verypleased to resume our acquaintance--very." And he emphasised his words,meant or feigned, by a strong, close grip.
I expressed surprise at finding the erratic traveller andman-of-the-world to be, in reality, an inhabitant of the cloister, towhich in a low voice, in reverence that we were within that sacredplace, he responded--
"I will tell you all about it later. It is not so remarkable as it nodoubt strikes you. As a Capuchin I assure you my quiet, reflective lifeis far preferable to that of the man who, like yourself, mixes with theworld and is compelled to live the fevered life of to-day, whereinfortunate unscrupulousness is accounted meritorious and the greatest ofsins is that of one's evil living being found out."
"Yes, I quite understand," I replied, surprised nevertheless at hisassertion and wondering whether, after all, he was merely attempting tomislead me. "The life of the cloister must be one of a sweet andinfinite calm. But if I mistake not," I added, "you are here byappointment to meet our mutual friend, Burton Blair."
He raised his dark eyebrows slightly, and I could have sworn that mywords caused him to start. Yet so cleverly did he conceal any surpriseI had caused him that he replied in a quiet, natural tone--
"That is so. I am here to see him."
"Then I regret to tell you that you will never see him again," I said ina low, earnest voice.
"Why?" he gasped, his black eyes wide open in surprise.
"Because," I answered, "because poor Burton Blair is dead--and hissecret has been stolen."
"What!" he cried, with a look of abject terror and in a voice so loudthat his exclamation echoed along the high, vaulted roof. "Blair dead--and the secret stolen! _Dio_! impossible--impossible!"
CHAPTER NINE.
THE HOUSE OF SILENCE.
The effect of my words upon the burly Capuchin, whose form seemed almostgigantic on account of the thickness of his inartistic habit, was ascurious as it was unexpected.
My announcement of Blair's death seemed to completely unnerve him.Apparently he had been waiting there, keeping the appointment, allunconscious of the untimely end of the man with whom he had been onterms of such secret and intimate friendship.
"Tell me--tell me how it happened," he gasped in Italian in a low,hushed voice, as though he feared that some eavesdropper might belurking in those dark recesses.
In a few brief words I explained the truth, to which he listened insilence. Then, when I had finished, he muttered something, crossedhimself, and, as the approaching footsteps of the sacristan aroused usboth, we walked forward and out into the dusk of the broad piazza.
Old Carlini, was was lounging upon a bench smoking the end of a cigar,noticed us in an instant and I saw him open his eyes in wonderment,although further than that he betrayed no sign.
"Poverino! Poverino!" repeated the monk as we strolled together slowlybeside the old red walls of the once-proud city. "To think that ourpoor friend Burton died so suddenly--and without a word!"
"Not exactly without a word," I said. "He gave several directions, oneof which was that he placed his daughter Mabel beneath my care."
"Ah, the little Mabel," he sighed. "Surely it is ten years since I sawher in Manchester. She was then about eleven, a tall, dark-haired,rather pretty child, a striking likeness of her mother--poor woman."
"You knew her mother, then?" I asked in some surprise.
He nodded in the affirmative, but gave no further information.
Suddenly turning to me as we walked towards the city gate, the PontoSanta Maria, where the uniformed officers of the _dazio_ were loungingready to tax every pennyworth of food-stuff entering there, hedemanded--
"How did you know that I had an appointment with our friend to-night?"
"By the letter which you wrote him, and which was found in his bag afterhis decease," I responded frankly.
He grunted with distinct satisfaction. It struck me indeed as though hewere apprehensive that Burton had before his death told me some detailsregarding his life. I recollected that curious cipher upon theplayin
g-card, although I made no reference to it.
"Ah! I see!" he exclaimed presently. "But if that little wallet, orwhatever it was, that he always wore either concealed within his clothesor suspended around his neck, is missing, does not it point to atragedy--theft and murder?"
"There are distinct suspicions," was my reply. "Although, according tothe doctors, he died from a purely natural cause."
"Ah! I don't believe it!" cried the monk, fiercely clenching his fist."One of them has succeeded at last in stealing that sachet of which hewas always so very careful, and I'm positive that murder has beencommitted in order to conceal the theft."
"One of whom?" I inquired anxiously.
"One of his