he was regularly employed by the police in serious cases,and through his shrewdness many a criminal had been brought to justice.
In the privacy of my bedroom I explained in Italian the mission I wishedhim to execute for me.
"Si, signore," was all he responded, and this at every pause I made.
His boots were sadly cracked and down at heel, and he was badly in wantof clean linen, but from his handkerchief pocket there arose a small rowof "toscani," those long, thin, penny cigars so dear to the Italianpalate.
"Recollect," I impressed upon the old fellow, "you must, if possible,find a way of striking up an acquaintance with this individual, PaoloMelandrini, obtain from him all you can about himself, and arrange sothat I have, as soon as possible, an opportunity of seeing him withoutbeing myself observed. This matter," I added, "is strictlyconfidential, and I engage you for one week in my service at a wage oftwo hundred and fifty lire. Here are one hundred to pay your currentexpenses."
He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hand, and with a muttered"Tanti grazie, signore," transferred it to the inner pocket of hisshabby jacket.
"You must on no account allow the man to suspect that any inquiry isbeing made concerning him. Mind that he knows nothing of any Englishmanin Florence asking about him, or it will arouse his suspicions at once.Be very careful in all that you say and do, and report to me tonight.At what time shall I meet you?"
"Late," the old fellow grunted. "He may be a working-man, and if so Ishall not be able to see anything of him till evening. I'll call hereat eleven o'clock to-night," and then he shuffled out, leaving an odourof stale garlic and strong tobacco.
I began to wonder what the hotel people would think of me entertainingsuch a visitor, for the _Savoy_ is one of the smartest in Florence, butmy apprehensions were quickly dispelled, for as we passed out I heardthe uniformed hall-porter exclaim in Italian--
"Hulloa, Babbo! Got a fresh job?"
To which the old fellow only grinned in satisfaction, and with anothergrunt passed out into the sunshine.
That day passed long and anxiously. I idled on the Ponte Vecchio and inthe dim religious gloom of the Santissima Anunziata, in the afternoonmaking several calls upon friends I had known, and in the evening diningat Doney's in preference to the crowded _table-d'hote_ of English andAmericans at the _Savoy_.
At eleven I awaited old Carlini in the hall of the hotel, and on hisarrival took him anxiously in the lift up to my room.
"Well," he commenced, speaking in his slightly-lisping Florentinetongue, "I have been pursuing inquiries all day, but have discoveredvery little. The individual you require appears to be a mystery."
"I expected so," was my reply. "What have you discovered regardinghim?"
"They know him in Via San Cristofano. He has a small apartment on thethird floor of number eight, which he only visits occasionally. Theplace is looked after by an old woman of eighty, whom I managed toquestion. Discovering that this Melandrini was absent and that a clothwas hanging from the window to dry, I presented myself as an agent ofpolice to explain that the hanging out of a cloth was a contravention ofthe law and liable to a fine of two francs. I then obtained from her afew facts concerning her _padrone_. She told me all she knew, which didnot amount to much. He had a habit of arriving suddenly, generally atevening, and staying there for one or two days, never emerging in thedaytime. Where he lived at other times she did not know. Letters oftencame for him bearing an English stamp, and she kept them. Indeed, sheshowed me one that arrived ten days ago and is now awaiting him."
Could it be from Blair, I wondered?
"What was the character of the handwriting on the envelope?" Iinquired.
"An English hand--thick and heavy. Signore was spelt wrongly, Inoticed."
Blair's hand was thick, for he generally wrote with a quill. I longedto examine it for myself.
"Then this old serving-woman has no idea of the individual's address?"
"None whatever. He told her that if any one ever called for him to saythat his movements are uncertain, and that any message must be left inwriting."
"What is the place like?"
"Poorly furnished, and very dirty and neglected. The old woman isnearly blind and very feeble."
"Does she describe him as a gentleman?"
"I could not ask her for his description, but from inquiries in otherquarters I learned that he was in all probability a person who was introuble with the police, or something of that sort. A man who kept awine-shop at the end of the street told me in confidence that about sixmonths before, two men, evidently agents of police, had been very activein their inquiries concerning him. They had set a watch upon the housefor a month, but he had not returned. He described him as, amiddle-aged man with a beard, who was very reticent, who wore glasses,spoke with just a slight foreign accent, and who seldom entered anywine-shop and who scarcely ever passed the time of day with hisneighbours. Yet he was evidently well off, for on several occasions, onhearing of distress among the families living in that street, he hadsurreptitiously visited them and dispensed charity to a no mean degree.Apparently it is this which has inspired respect, while, in addition, heseems to have purposely surrounded his identity by mystery."
"With some object, no doubt," I remarked.
"Certainly," was the queer old man's response. "All my inquiries tendto show he is a man of secrecy and that he is concealing his realidentity."
"It may be that he keeps those rooms merely as an address for letters,"I suggested.
"Do you know, signore, that is my own opinion?" he said. "He may livein another part of Florence for aught we know."
"We must find out. Before I leave here it is imperative that I shouldknow all about him, therefore I will assist you to watch for hisreturn."
Babbo shook his head and fingered his long cigar, which he was longingto smoke.
"No, signore. You must not appear in the Via San Cristofana. Theywould note your presence instantly. Leave all to me. I will employ anassistant, and we shall, I hope, before long be shadowing thismysterious individual."
Recollecting that strange letter in Italian which I had secured from thedead man's effects, I asked the old fellow if he knew any place calledSan Frediano--the place appointed for the meeting between the man nowdead and the writer of the letter.
"Certainly," was his reply. "There is the market of San Frediano behindthe Carmine. And, of course, there is the Church of San Frediano inLucca."
"In Lucca!" I echoed. "Ah, but it is not Florence."
Nevertheless, now I recollected, the letter distinctly appointed thehour of meeting "at vespers." The place arranged was therefore mostcertainly a church.
"Do you know of any other Church of San Frediano?" I inquired.
"Only the one in Lucca."
It was evident, then, that the meeting was to take place there on the6th of March. If I did not ascertain any further facts concerning PaoloMelandrini in the meantime, I resolved to keep the appointment and watchwho should be present.
I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, seated in a low easy-chair, theold fellow soon filled my room with the strong fumes of his cheap cigar,at the same time relating to me in narrow details all that he hadgathered in that Florentine slum.
The secret connexion between Burton Blair and this mysterious Italianwas a problem I could not solve. There was evidently some strong motivewhy he should appoint him controller of Mabel's fortune, yet it was allan utter enigma, just as much as the mysterious source from which themillionaire had obtained his vast wealth.
Whatever we discovered I knew that it must be some strange revelation.From the first moment I had met the wayfarer and his daughter, they hadbeen surrounded by striking romance, which had now deepened, and becomemore inexplicable by the death of that bluff, hearty man with a secret.
I could not help strongly suspecting that the man Melandrini, whosemovements were so mysterious and suspicious, had had some hand infilching from Blair that curiou
s little possession of his which he had,in his will, bequeathed to my keeping. This was a strange fancy ofmine, and one which, try how I would, I could not put aside. So erraticseemed the man's movements that, for aught I knew, he might have been inEngland at the time of Blair's death--if so, then the suspicion againsthim was gravely increased.
I was feverishly anxious to return to London, but unable yet to do soere my inquiries were completed. A whole week went by, and Carlini,employing his son-in-law, a dark-haired young man of low class, as hisassistant, kept vigilant watch upon the house both night and day, but tono avail. Paolo Melandrini did not appear to claim the letter fromEngland that was awaiting him.
One evening by judiciously bribing the old servant with twenty