present to take care of itself.You, in London, will do your best to discover whether Blair has met withfoul play and at whose hands, while I, here in Italy, will try to findout whether there was any further motive than the theft of the secret."
"But if the little chamois-bag had been stolen, would not Blair himselfhave missed it?" I suggested. "He was quite conscious for severalhours before he died."
"He might have forgotten it. Men's memories often fail them completelyin the hours preceding death."
Night had fallen before the great wooden clappers, used to arouse themonks to go to prayers at two o'clock in the morning, resounded throughthe cloister as a reminder that I, a stranger, must take my departure.
Fra Antonio rose, lit a great old brass lantern, and conducted me alongthose silent corridors, out across the small piazza and down thehillside to the main road which lay straight and white in the darkness.
Then, having directed me on the road, he grasped my hand in his bigpalm, rough through hard toil at his patch of garden, and said--
"Rely upon me to do my best. I knew poor Blair--yes, knew him betterthan you did, Signor Greenwood. I knew, too, something of hisremarkable secret, and therefore I am aware how strange and howmysterious are all the circumstances. I shall work on here, makinginquiries, while you return to London and pursue yours. I would,however, make the suggestion to you that if you meet Dick Dawson strikeup a friendship with him, and with Dolly. They are a strange pair, butfriendship with them may be profitable."
"What!" I exclaimed. "Friendship with the man whom you declare was oneof Blair's bitterest enemies?"
"And why not? Is it not diplomacy to be well received in the enemy'scamp? Recollect that your own stake in this affair is the greatest ofany one's. The secret is bequeathed to you--the secret of BurtonBlair's millions!"
"And I intend to recover it," I declared firmly.
"I only hope you will, signore," he said in a voice which to me soundedfull of a double meaning. "I only hope you will."
Then wishing me "_Addio, e buona fortuna_," Fra Antonio, the Capuchinand man of secrets, turned and left me standing in the dark highway.
Hardly had I advanced fifty yards before a short dark figure loomed outfrom the shadow of some bushes, and by the voice that hailed me I knewit to be old Babbo, whom I had believed had grown tired of awaiting me.He had, however, evidently followed us from the church, and seeing usenter the monastery had patiently awaited my return.
"Has the signore discovered what he wished?" inquired the old Italian,quickly.
"Some of it, not all," was my rejoinder. "You saw that monk whom Imet?"
"Yes. Since you have been in the convent I have made some inquiries,and find that the most popular Capuchin in the whole of Lucca is FraAntonio, and that his charitableness is well known. It is he who begsfrom door to door through the city for contesimi and lire in order thatthe poor shall have their daily soup and bread. Report accredits himwith great wealth, which on entering the Order of the Capuchins he madeover as a gift to the fraternity. He is also known to have a friend towhom he is very much attached--an Englishman who has one eye so badlyinjured that he is known by the townspeople as the Ceco."
"The Ceco!" I cried. "What have you discovered regarding him?"
"The keeper of a little cheese-shop close to the gate by which we leftthe city proved very communicative. Like all her class, she seemed togreatly admire our friend the Cappuccino. She told me of the frequentvisits of this one-eyed Englishman who had lived so long in Italy thathe was almost an Italian. The Ceco was in the habit, it seemed, ofstaying at the old albergo, the _Croce di Malto_, sometimes accompaniedby a young and very pretty lady, his daughter."
"Where do they come from?"
"Oh! I've not yet been able to discover that," was Babbo's reply. "Itseems, however, that the constant visits of the Ceco to the monasteryhave aroused the public interest. The people say that Fra Antonionowadays is not so active in his searches after money for the poor nowhe is too much occupied with his English friend."
"And the girl?"
"It is evident that her beauty is remarkable, even in Lucca, this cityof pretty girls," answered the old man with a grin. "She speaks Tuscanperfectly, and could, they say, easily pass for an Italian. Her back isnot straight like those Inglese one sees in the Via Tornabuoni--if thesignore will pardon the criticism," the old fellow added apologetically.
This proof that Dick Dawson, against whom the monk had warned BurtonBlair, was actually the friend of the Capuchin brother rendered thesituation more puzzling and more complicated. I recognised in thesefrequent consultations a secret plot against my friend, a conspiracywhich had apparently been carried to a successful issue.
The girl Dolly, whoever she was, had of course never been to themonastery, but she had evidently been in Lucca as a participator in theplot to obtain Burton Blair's valuable secret, the secret that was nowmine by law.
We there and then resolved to make inquiries at the _Croce di Malto_,that antique old hostelry in a narrow side street peculiarly Italian,and which still prefers to be designated as an albergo, in preference tothe modern name of hotel.
Dick Dawson, known as the Ceco, was undoubtedly in London, but with theconnivance and aid of that crafty and ingenious man of secrets, who hadso cleverly endeavoured to establish with me a false friendship.
Was it actually this man who hid his evil deeds beneath his shabbyreligious habit who was responsible for the death of poor Blair and themysterious disappearance of that strange little object which was hismost treasured possession. I somehow felt convinced that such was theactual truth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
WHICH EXPLAINS THE PERIL OF MABEL BLAIR.
From inquiries made by old Babbo next morning at the _Cross of Malta_,it appeared quite plain that Mr. Richard Dawson, whoever he was,constantly visited Lucca, and always with the object of consulting thepopular Capuchin brother.
Sometimes the one-eyed Englishman who spoke Italian so well wouldjourney up to the monastery and remain there several hours, and atothers Fra Antonio would come to the inn and there remain closeted inclosest secrecy with the visitor.
The Ceco, so called because of his defective vision, was apparently aman of means, for his tips to the waiters and maids were alwaysgenerous, and when a guest, he and his daughter always ordered the bestthat could be procured. They came from Florence, the _padrone_ thought,but of that he was not quite certain. The letters and telegrams hereceived securing rooms were dispatched from various towns in bothFrance and Italy, which seemed to show that they were constantlytravelling.
That was all the information we could gather. The identity of themysterious Paolo Melandrini was, as yet, unproven. My primary object intravelling to Italy was not accomplished, but I nevertheless feltsatisfied that I had at last discovered two of poor Blair's mostintimate and yet secret friends.
But why the secrecy? When I recollected how close had been ourfriendship, I felt surprised, and even a trifle annoyed that he hadconcealed the existence of these men from me. Much as I regretted tothink ill of a friend who was dead, I could not suppress a suspicionthat his acquaintance with those men was part of his secret, and thatthe latter was some dishonourable one.
Soon after midday, I crammed my things into my valise, and, impelled bya strong desire to return to safeguard, the interests of Mabel Blair,left Lucca for London. Babbo travelled with me as far as Pisa, where wechanged, he journeying back to Florence and I picking up thesleeping-car express on its way through from Rome to Calais.
While standing on the platform at Pisa, however, the shabby old man, whohad grown, thoughtful during the past half-hour or so, suddenly said--
"A strange idea has occurred to me, ignore. You will recollect that Ilearned in the Via Cristofano that the Signor Melandrini woregold-rimmed glasses. Is it possible that he does so in Florence inorder to conceal his defective sight?"
"Why--I believe so!" I cried. "I believe you've guessed the trut
h!But on the other hand, neither his servant nor the neighbours suspectedhim of being a foreigner."
"He speaks Italian very well," agreed the old man, "but they said he hada slight accent."
"Well," I said, excited at this latest theory. "Return at once to theVia San Cristofano and make further inquiries regarding the mysteriousindividual's eyesight and his glasses. The old woman who keeps hisrooms has no doubt seen him without his glasses, and can tell you thetruth."
"Signore," was the old fellow's answer. And I then wrote down for himmy address in London to which he was to dispatch a telegram if hissuspicions were confirmed.
Ten minutes later, the roaring Calais-Rome express, the limited train ofthree _wagon-lits_, dining-car and baggage-car, ran into the