enemies."
"But are you aware what that little bag contained?"
"He never would tell me," was the Capuchin's reply, looking me straightin the face. "He only said that his secret was concealed within--and Ihave reason to believe that such was a fact."
"But you knew his secret?" I said, my eyes full upon him.
I noted, by the change in his dark countenance, how my allegation causedhim quick apprehension. He could not totally deny it, yet he wascertainly seeking some means of misleading me.
"I only know what he explained to me," he responded. "And that was notmuch, for, as you are aware, he was a most reticent man. He has longago related to me, however, the somewhat romantic circumstances in whichyou met, what a good friend you were to him before his stroke offortune, and how you and your friend--I forget his name--put Mabel toschool at Bournemouth, and thus rescued her from that weary tramp whichBurton himself had undertaken."
"But why was he on tramp in that manner?" I asked. "To me it hasalways been an enigma."
"And also to me. He was, I believe, in search of the key to that secretwhich he carried with him--the secret which, you say, he has bequeathedto you."
"Did he reveal to you nothing more?" I inquired, recollecting that fromthis man's remarks regarding Mabel's youth, he and Blair must have beenold friends.
"Nothing. His secret remained his own, and he revealed it to nobodyalways fearing betrayal."
"But now that it is in other hands, what do you anticipate?" Iinquired, still walking at his side, for we had passed out of the cityand were out upon that wide, dirty road that led away to the MorianoBridge and then fifteen miles up into the mountains to that leafy andrather gay summer resort well known to all Italians and some English,the Baths of Lucca.
"Well," responded my companion, very gravely, "from what I learned inLondon on the occasion we met, I anticipate that poor Blair's secret hasbeen most ingeniously stolen, and will be put to good account by theperson into whose possession it has now passed."
"To the detriment of his daughter Mabel?"
"Most certainly. She must be the principal sufferer," he replied, withjust a suspicion of a sigh.
"Ah, if he had only confided his affairs in some one who, knowing thetruth, might have combated this cunning conspiracy! But, as it is, weseem all utterly in the dark. Even his lawyers know nothing!"
"And you, to whom the secret is left, have actually lost it!" he added."Yes, signore, the situation is indeed a most critical one."
"In this affair, Signor Salvi," I said, "being mutual friends of poorBlair, we must endeavour to do our best to discover and punish hisenemies. Tell me, therefore, if you are aware of the source of ourunfortunate friend's vast wealth?"
"I am not Signor Salvi here," was the monk's quiet reply. "I am knownas Fra Antonio of Arezzo, or Fra Antonio for short. The name of Salviwas given to me by poor Blair himself, who did not wish to introduce aCapuchin among his worldly friends as such. As to the source of hiswealth, I believe I am acquainted with the truth."
"Then tell me, tell me!" I cried anxiously.
"For it may give us the clue to these persons who had so successfullyconspired against him." Again the monk turned his dark, penetratingeyes upon me, those eyes that in the gloom of San Frediano had seemed sofull of fire and yet so full of mystery.
"No," he answered in a hard, decisive tone. "I am not permitted to tellanything. He is dead--let his memory rest."
"But why?" I demanded. "In these circumstances of grave suspicion, andof the theft of the secret which is my property by right, it is surelyyour duty to explain what you know, in order that we may gain a clue?Recollect, too, that the future of his daughter depends upon the truthbeing revealed."
"I can tell you nothing," he repeated. "Much as I regret it, my lipsare sealed."
"Why?"
"By an oath taken years ago--before I entered the Order of theCapuchins," he responded. Then after a pause, he added, with a sigh,"It is all strange--stranger perhaps than any man has dreamed--yet I cantell you nothing, Mr. Greenwood, absolutely nothing."
I was silent. His words were highly tantalising, as well asdisappointing. I had not yet made up my mind whether he was actually myenemy or my friend.
At one moment he seemed simple, honest and straightforward as are allmen of his religious order, yet at others there seemed within him thatcraft and cunning, that clever diplomacy and far-seeing acumen of theJesuit, traits of a character warped into ingenuity and double-dealing.
The very fact that Burton Blair had always hidden from me hisfriendship--if friendship it were--for this stalwart monk with thebronzed and furrowed face, caused me to entertain a kind of vaguedistrust in him. And yet, when I recollected the tone of the letter hehad written to Blair, how could I doubt but their friendship, if secret,was a real and genuine one? Nevertheless, I recollected those words Ihad overheard on the pavement of Leicester Square, and they caused me toponder and to doubt.
I walked on beside this man, heedless of our destination. We were quitein the country now. The immobility of everything, the luminousbrilliancy of the tints of that winter afterglow gave the grey,olive-clad Tuscan hills something of sadness. That great, calm silenceover everything, that unchanging stillness in the air, those motionlesslights and great shadows gave one the impression of a pause in the dizzymovement of centuries, of a reflectiveness, of an intense waiting, orrather a look of melancholy thrown back on a past anterior to suns andhuman beings, races and religions.
Before us, as we rounded a bend in the road, I saw a huge, white oldmonastery standing high upon the hillside half hidden by the grey-greentrees.
It was the Convent of the Cappuccini, he told me--his home.
I halted for a moment, gazing upon the white, almost windowlessbuilding, scorched by three hundred summers, standing like a stronghold,as once it was, against the background of the purple Apennines. Ilistened to the clanking of the old bell that sent out its summons withthe same note of age, the same old voice as in centuries gone. It wasthen, in that moment, that the charm of old-world Lucca and herbeautiful surroundings became impressed upon me. I felt, for the firsttime, stealing up from everywhere, an atmosphere of separateness, as itwere, from the rest of the world, of mystery--a living essence of whatthe place is--destructible, alas! but still impregnating all things,exhaling from all things--surely the dying soul of once-brilliantTuscany.
And there beside me, overwhelming all my thoughts, as the shadow of thegiant Sphinx falls lengthening upon the desert sands, stood that big,bronzed monk in the faded brown habit, his feet bare, his waist bound bya hempen cord, his countenance a mystery, yet within his heart the greatsecret which no power could induce him to divulge--the secret of wealththat had been bequeathed to me.
"Poor Blair is dead!" he repeated again and again in fairly goodEnglish, as though almost unable as yet to realise that his friend wasno more. Nevertheless, I was slow to become convinced that he spokeseriously. He might be misleading me, after all.
At his invitation I accompanied him up the steep, winding road until wecame to the ponderous gate of the monastery, at which he rang. A solemnbell clanged loudly, and a few moments later the little grille wasopened, revealing the white-bearded face of the janitor, who instantlyadmitted us.
He took me across the silent cloister, in the middle of which was awonderful mediaeval well of wrought ironwork, and then along endlessstone corridors, each lit by its single oil lamp, which rendered theplace only more gloomy and depressing.
From the chapel at the end of the great building came the low chantingof the monks, but beyond, the quiet was that of the grave. The dark,ghostly figures passed us noiselessly and seemed to draw aside into thedarkness; the door of the refectory stood open, showing by the two orthree dim lights magnificent carvings, wonderful frescoes and the twolong rows of time-blackened oak benches at which the Brothers sat atmeals.
Suddenly my conductor stopped before a small door, which he opened withhi
s key, and I found myself within a tiny, carpetless cubicle containinga truckle bed, a chair, a well-filled bookcase and a writing-table.Upon the wall was a large wooden crucifix before which he crossedhimself on entering.
"This is my home," he explained in English. "Not very luxurious, it istrue, but I would not exchange it for a palace in the world outside.Here we are all brothers, with the superior as our father to supply uswith all our worldly wants, even to our snuff. There are no jealousies,no bickerings, no backbitings or rivalry. All are equal, all perfectlycontented, for we have each one of us learnt the very difficult lessonof brotherly love." And he drew the single chair for me to seat myself,for I was hot and tired after that long, steep ascent from the town.
"It is surely a hard life," I observed.
"At first, yes. One must be strong in body and in mind to successfullypass the period of probation," he answered. "But afterwards theCapuchin's life is surely one of the pleasantest on earth, banded as weare to do good and to exercise charity in the name of Sant' Antonio.But," he added, with a smile, "I did not bring you here, signore, toendeavour to convert you from your Protestant faith. I asked you toaccompany me, because you have told me what is a profound and remarkablemystery. You have told me of the death of Burton Blair, the man who wasmy friend, and to whose advantage it was to meet me in San Fredianoto-night. There were reasons--the very strongest reasons a man couldhave--why he should have kept the appointment. But he has not done so.His enemies have willed it otherwise, and they have stolen his secret!"While he spoke he fumbled in a drawer of the little deal writing-table,and drew forth something, adding in deep earnestness--
"You knew poor Blair intimately--more intimately, perhaps, than I did oflater years. You knew his enemies as well as his friends. Tell me,have you ever met the original of either of these men?"
And he held before my gaze two cabinet photographs.
One of them was quite unfamiliar to me, but the other I recognised in aninstant.
"Why!" I said, "that's my old friend Reginald Seton--Blair's friend."
"No," the monk declared in a hard, meaning tone, "not his friend,signore--his bitterest enemy."
CHAPTER TEN.
THE MAN OF SECRETS.
"I don't understand you," I exclaimed, resenting this charge against theman who was my most intimate friend. "Seton has been even a betterfriend to poor Blair than myself."
Fra Antonio smiled strangely and mysteriously, as only the subtleItalian can. He seemed to pity my ignorance, and inclined to humour mein my belief in Seton's genuineness.
"I know," he laughed. "I know almost as much as you do upon the oneside, while upon the other my knowledge extends somewhat further. All Ican say is that I have watched, and have formed my own conclusions."
"That Seton was not his friend?"
"That Seton was not his friend," he repeated slowly and very distinctly.
"But surely you make no direct charge against him?" I cried. "Yousurely don't think he's responsible for this tragedy--if tragedy itreally is."
"I make no direct charge," was his ambiguous reply. "Time will revealthe truth--no doubt."
I longed to ask him straight out whether he did not sometimes go underthe name of Paolo Melandrini, yet I feared to do so lest I should arousehis suspicion unduly.
"Time can only reveal that Reginald Seton has been one of the dead man'sbest friends," I said reflectively.
"Outwardly, yes," was the Capuchin's dubious remark.
"An enemy as deadly as the Ceco?" I inquired, watching his face thewhile.
"The Ceco!" he gasped, instantly taken aback by my bold remark. "Whotold you of him? What do you know regarding him?"
The monk had evidently forgotten what he had written in that letter toBlair.
"I know that he is in London," I responded, taking my cue from his ownwords. "The girl is with him," I added, utterly unaware however of theidentity of the person referred to.
"Well?" he asked.
"And if they are in London it is surely for no good purpose?"
"Ah!" he said. "Blair has told you something--told you of hissuspicions?"
"Of late he has gone about in daily dread of secret assassination," Ireplied. "He was evidently afraid of the Ceco."
"And surely he had need to be," exclaimed Fra Antonio, his dark,brilliant eyes again turned upon mine in the semi-darkness. "The Cecois not an individual to be dealt with easily."
"But what took him to London?" I demanded. "Did he go with harmfulintentions?"
The burly monk shrugged his shoulders, answering--
"Dick Dawson was never of a very benevolent disposition. He evidentlydiscovered something, and swore to be avenged."
His remarks made plain one very important fact, namely, that the man whowent by the nickname of the "blind man" in Italy was really anEnglishman of the name of Dick Dawson--an adventurer most probably.
"Then you suspect him of complicity in the theft of the secret?" Isuggested.
"Well, as the little sachet of chamois leather is missing, I am inclinedto think that it must have passed into his hands."
"And the girl, what of her?"
"His daughter, Dolly, will assist him, that's plain. She's as shrewd asher father, and possesses a woman's cunning into the bargain--adangerous girl, to say the least. I warned poor Blair of them both," headded, suddenly, it seemed, recollecting his letter. "But I am glad youhave recognised one of these photographs. His name is Seton, you say.Well, if he is your friend, take my advice and beware. Are you certainyou have never seen this other man--a friend of Seton's?" he asked veryearnestly.
I carried the picture in my hand to where the dim oil lamp was burning,and examined it very closely. It was a vignette of a long-faced,bald-headed, full-bearded man, wearing a stand-up collar, a blackfrock-coat and well-tied bow cravat. The stud in his shirt front wassomewhat peculiar, for it seemed like the miniature cross of someforeign order of chivalry, and produced a rather neat and novel effect.The eyes were those of a keen, crafty man, and the hollow cheeks gavethe countenance a slightly haggard and striking appearance.
It was a face that, to my recollection, I had never seen before, yetsuch were its peculiarities that they at once became photographedindelibly upon my memory.
I told him of my failure to recognise who it was, whereupon he urged--
"When you return, watch the movements of your so-called friend Seton,and you will perhaps meet his friend. When you do, write to me here,and leave him to me." And he replaced the photograph in the drawer, butas he did so my quick eye detected that within was a playing card, theseven of clubs, with some letters written upon it very similar to thoseupon the card in my pocket. I mentioned it, but he merely smiled andquickly closed the drawer.
Yet surely the fact of the cipher being in his possession was more thanstrange.
"Do you ever travel away from Lucca?" I inquired at last, recollectinghow I had met him at Blair's table in Grosvenor Square, but not at allsatisfied regarding the discovery of the inscribed card.
"Seldom--very seldom," he answered. "It is so difficult to obtainpermission, and then it is only given to visit relatives. If there isany monastery in the vicinity of our destination we must beg our bedthere, in preference to remaining in a private house. The rules soundirksome to you," he added with a smile. "But I assure you they do notgall us in the least. They are beneficial to man's happiness andcomfort, all of them."
Again I turned the conversation, endeavouring to ascertain some factsconcerning the dead man's mysterious secret, which I somehow feltconvinced was known to him. But all to no avail. He would tell menothing.
All he explained was that the reason of the appointment in Lucca thatevening was a very strong one, and that if alive the millionaire wouldundoubtedly have kept it.
"He was in the habit of meeting me at certain intervals either in theChurch of San Frediano, or at other places in Lucca, in Pescia, orPistoja," the monk said. "We generally varied the
place of meeting fromtime to time."
"And that, of course, accounts for his mysterious absences from home," Iremarked, for his movements were frequently very erratic, so that evenMabel was unaware of his address. He was generally supposed, however,to be in the North of England or in Scotland. No one had any idea thathe travelled so far afield as Central Italy.
The monk's statement also made it plain that Blair had some very strongmotive for keeping these frequent appointments. Fra Antonio, his secretfriend, had undoubtedly also been his most intimate and most trustedone.
Why had he kept this strange and mysterious friendship from us all--evenfrom Mabel?
I gazed upon the Italian's hard, sunburnt face and tried to penetratethe mystery written there, but in vain. No man can keep a secret likethe priest of the confessional, or the monk in his cell.
"And what is your intention, now that poor Blair is dead?" I asked atlength.
"My intention, like yours, is to discover the truth," he replied. "Itwill be a difficult matter, no doubt, but I trust that we shall, in theend, succeed, and that you will regain the lost secret."
"But may not Blair's enemies make use of it in the meantime?" Iqueried.
"Ah! of course we cannot prevent that," answered Fra Antonio. "We haveto look to the future, and allow the