Loe raamatut: «The Day of Temptation», lehekülg 9

Chapter Seventeen
Smayle’s Dilemma

Tristram’s sinewy fingers tightened upon the slender white throat of the helpless woman until her breath was crushed from her, her face became crimson, and in her wild, starting eyes was a ghastly expression of suffering and despair.

“Mercy!” she managed to gasp with difficulty. “Ah, no! Let me go! let me go!”

“Your evil tongue can ruin me. But you shall not!” he cried in a frenzy of anger, his face suffused by a fierce, murderous passion. “By Heaven, you shall die!”

“If – if you kill me,” she shrieked, “you will suffer; for even though I’m outcast, there is a law here, in your England, to deal with murderers.”

“Outcast!” he echoed wildly, with an imprecation. “Yes; curse you! Is there any wonder that you are hounded out of Italy, after all that has occurred? Is there any wonder, after what took place in Tuscany, that I now hold you within my hands, eager to extinguish the last remaining spark of your life?”

“You’re a brute!” she cried in a hoarse, gurgling voice. “Release me! I – I can’t breathe!”

“No, by Heaven, you shall die!” he declared, his strong, muscular hands trembling with uncurbed passion. “Your infernal tongue shall utter no more foul slanders, for to-night, now – this moment – I’ll silence you!” She uttered a low, agonised cry, then, fainting, panting, breathless, sank upon her knees, unable any longer to resist the frightful pressure upon her throat. At that instant, however, Smayle, hearing an unusual noise, dashed in, and, taking in the situation at a glance, seized his master firmly.

“Good heavens, sir! what’s the matter?” he cried. “Why, you’re killing the lady!”

“Get out?” cried the Captain with an oath, shaking himself free, and still holding the fainting woman at his feet. “Get out quickly! Leave the house, and – and don’t come back!”

“But you’re killing her!” he cried. “See, there’s blood in her mouth!”

“Obey me this instant!” he roared. “Leave me!”

“No,” Smayle answered, “I won’t!” And, springing upon his master, he managed, after a desperate struggle, to drag his hands free of the kneeling woman’s throat and fling him back with a smothered oath. “I won’t see a woman murdered in that cowardly way,” he declared vehemently, “even if you are my master?”

“What the devil do my affairs concern you, Smayle?” Tristram demanded fiercely, glaring at his servant, and glancing at Gemma, now fallen back prostrate on the floor, her hat crushed beneath her, her fair hair escaping from its pins.

“They concern me as far as this, sir – that you shall leave this room at once. If the lady is dead, then you’ve committed murder, and I am witness of it!”

“You’d denounce me, would you?” the Captain shrieked with rage, his hands still clenched in a fierce paroxysm of anger. Then, next instant he sprang at him.

But Smayle was a slim, athletic fellow, and, like most of the genus Tommy Atkins, knew how to use his fists when occasion required. He jumped aside, nimbly evaded the blow his master aimed at him, and cleverly tripped up his adversary, so that he fell headlong to the ground, bringing down from its pedestal a pretty Neapolitan statuette, which was smashed to atoms.

Tristram quickly rose with an imprecation, but Smayle, again grappling with him, succeeded at length, after an encounter long and fierce, in flinging him out of the room, and locking the door.

Then instantly he turned towards the white-faced woman, and, kneeling beside her, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. With his handkerchief he staunched the blood slowly trickling from the corners of her pale lips, placed a cushion beneath her head, and snatching some flowers from a bowl, sprinkled her face with the water. Her white, delicate throat was dark and discoloured where his master’s rough hands had pressed it in his violent attempt to strangle her, her dress was torn open at the neck, and her gold necklet she had worn, with its tiny enamelled medallion, lay upon the ground, broken by the sudden, frantic attack. Tenderly the soldier-servant stroked her hair, chafed her hands, and endeavoured to restore her to consciousness, but all in vain. Inert and helpless she remained while he held her head, gazing upon her admiringly, but unable to determine the best course to pursue.

The outer door banged suddenly, and he knew his master had fled.

With every appearance of one dead, Gemma lay upon the carpet where she had sunk from the cruel, murderous hands of the man who had attempted to kill her, while Smayle again rose, and obtaining some brandy from the liquor-stand, succeeded in forcing a small quantity of it down her throat.

This revived her slightly, for she opened her great clear eyes, gazing into Smayle’s with an expression of fear and wonder.

“Drink a little more of this, miss,” the man said eagerly, holding the glass to her lips, delighted to find that she was not, after all, dead as he had at first feared.

Unable to understand what he said, she nevertheless allowed him to pour a few more drops of the spirit down her dry, parched throat, but it caused her to cough violently, and she made a gesture that to take more was impossible.

For fully ten minutes she remained silent, motionless, her head lying heavily upon Smayle’s arm, breathing slowly, but each moment more regularly. The deathly pallor gradually disappeared as the blood came back to her cheeks, but the dark rings about her eyes, and the marks upon her throat, still remained as evidence how near she had been to an agonising and most terrible death.

At last Gemma again opened her eyes and uttered some words faintly, making a frantic gesture with her hands. The man who had rescued her understood that she wished to rise, and, grasping her beneath the arms, gradually lifted her into the Captain’s great leather-covered armchair, in which she reclined, a frail, beautiful figure, with eyes half closed and breast panting violently after the exertion.

Then again she closed her eyes, her tiny hands, cold and feeble, trembled, and in a few minutes her regular breathing made it apparent to the Captain’s man that, exhausted, she had sunk into a deep and peaceful sleep.

He left her side, and creeping from the room noiselessly, searched all the other apartments. His master had gone. He had taken with him his two travelling-bags – a sign that he had set out upon a long journey. As far as Constantinople, one bag always sufficed; to Teheran he always took both. The fact that the two bags were taken made it plain that his absence would be a long one – probably some weeks, if not more.

Smayle stole back to the sitting-room, and saw that the blue official ribbon with its silver greyhound hung no longer upon its nail, and that his revolver was gone. He returned to the Captain’s bedroom, and upon the dressing-table found a ten-pound note lying open. Across its face had been scribbled hastily, in pencil, the words, “For Smayle.” Upon the floor were some scraps of paper, letters that had been hurriedly destroyed, while in the empty grate lay a piece of tinder and a half-consumed wax vesta, showing that some letters of more importance than the others had been burnt.

The man, mystified, gathered the scraps together, examined them closely and placed them in a small drawer in the dressing-table. Then putting the banknote in his pocket, exclaimed to himself —

“This is curious, and no kid. The Captain ain’t often so generous as to give me a tenner, especially when he only paid me yesterday. I wonder who the lady is? I wish I could speak to her. She’s somebody he’s met, I suppose, when abroad.”

He went to the hall, and noted what coats his master had taken, when suddenly it occurred to him that without assistance it was impossible that he could have carried them all downstairs; somebody must have helped him.

Into the small bachelor’s kitchen he passed, pondering deeply over the strange occurrence. Only an hour before, his master had arrived home from dining at the club, and putting on his well-worn velvet lounge-coat, had announced his intention of remaining at home and smoking. Smayle had asked him whether he was under orders to leave with despatches, when he had answered that it was not yet his turn, and that he expected to have a fortnight in London. Three days ago he had returned from St. Petersburg, tired, hungry, irritable, as he always was after that tedious journey. A run home from Brussels, Paris, or even Berlin, never made him short-tempered, but always when he arrived from Petersburg, Madrid, or “Constant,” he grumbled at everything; always declared that Smayle had been drinking his whisky; that the place was dirty; that the weather in London was brutal; and ten thousand a year wouldn’t repay him for the loss of nerve-power on “those infernal gridirons they call railways.”

Yet he had made a serious attempt upon the life of a strange lady who had called, and had left hurriedly with sufficient kit to last him six months.

He was reflecting deeply, wondering what he should do with the lady, when suddenly he was startled by the door-bell ringing. With military promptness he answered it, and found his master’s new acquaintance, Arnoldo Romanelli. The latter had spent several evenings at Tristram’s chambers since the night they had dined together at Bonciani’s, therefore Smayle knew him well.

“The Captain’s not at home, sir,” he answered, in reply to the visitor’s inquiry.

“Is he away?”

“He left this evening suddenly.”

“On important business, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” Smayle answered. Then he added, “Excuse me, sir, but you are Italian, aren’t you?”

“Yes; why?” Arnoldo asked in surprise.

Smayle hesitated, fidgeted a moment, and then answered —

“Well, sir, there’s a lady there, in the Captain’s sitting-room, and she’s not well, and she can’t speak English.”

“A lady?” cried Romanelli, suddenly interested. “Young or old?”

“Young, sir. She’s Italian, I believe. And I thought, sir, that perhaps you wouldn’t mind assisting a friend of my master’s.”

“Of course not. Take me to her at once,” he said. “Is she very ill?”

“She had a bad fainting fit,” answered the servant as he led the way to the sitting-room. She was still lying back in the chair, now quite conscious, but still pale, dishevelled, and so exhausted as to be scarcely able to move her limbs. They seemed paralysed by the excruciating torture she had undergone.

The opening of the door aroused her, and looking up, her eyes met those of the young Italian.

“You – Gemma!” he cried in profound surprise, rushing forward. “Why are you here – in London? And in Tristram’s rooms?”

She held her breath in amazement at this unexpected meeting.

“I – I called here,” she explained in a low, weak voice, “and became seized with a sudden faintness. I – I think I fell.”

“I trust you’re not hurt,” he said quickly. “You are pale and trembling. Shall I call a doctor?”

“No, no,” she answered. “In a few minutes I shall be quite right again.”

Romanelli noticed her necklet at his feet, and picked it up. Then he glanced across the room and saw the broken statuette, and his quick, dark eyes detected signs of a struggle in the disarranged hearthrug and the chairs pushed out of place.

“Merely fainting did not break this,” he said gravely, holding up the chain and picking up the tiny medallion enamelled with the picture of a dog’s head with the words beneath, “Toujours Fidèle.” The chain and its pendant were simple and old-fashioned, the one remaining link of her girlhood days at the Convent of San Paolo della Croce.

She held out her hand in silence, and the young man placed both chain and medallion in her palm. Then, with her great, pain-darkened eyes fixed upon him, she kissed the chain reverently, afterwards slipping both into her glove, and sighing.

“Gemma,” continued Romanelli, bending beside her chair, “what does this mean? Tell me. Why have you come to London?”

She shook her head.

“This man can’t speak Italian,” he explained, glancing at Smayle, who stood beside wondering. “We can talk quite freely. Come, tell me what has happened.”

“Nothing,” she assured him.

“But why are you in London? Were you not afraid?”

“Afraid?” she echoed. “Why should I be? I am just as safe here in England, as I was in Florence or Livorno.”

“Vittorina died within the first hour she set foot in London,” he observed with a grave, meaning look.

“You loved her,” she said. “You have all my sympathy, Arnoldo. Some day we shall know the truth; then those responsible for her death shall receive no mercy at our hands.”

“That chapter of my life has closed,” the young Italian said, with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “She has been murdered, but by whom we cannot yet tell.” He paused, then added, “What object had you, Gemma, in leaving Italy? And why have you come here? Surely you know that you have enemies in London – enemies as cruel, as unrelenting, as cunning as those who killed poor Vittorina.”

“I am well aware of that,” she answered, stirring uneasily in her chair, and putting up her hand to her bruised throat. “I know I have enemies. To one person, at least, my death would be welcome,” she added, remembering the fierce struggle in that room an hour before.

“Then why have you risked everything and come here? You were safer in Italy,” he said.

“I was not safer there. I am safe nowhere,” she replied. “The police have discovered some of the facts, and – ”

“The police!” he gasped in alarm. “Our secret is out, then?”

“Not entirely. I was warned to leave Livorno within twenty-four hours, and advised to leave Italy altogether. Then – well, I came here.”

“With your lover, eh?”

She nodded.

“And you will marry him?” the young Italian observed slowly. “You do not fear the exposure which afterwards must come? These English are fond of looking closely into the woman’s past, you know.”

She shrugged her shoulders, answering: “My past is secret. Fortunately the one person who knows the truth dares not speak.”

“Then what I know is of no account?” he said, somewhat surprised.

She laughed.

“If you and I have ever flirted, or even exchanged foolish letters, it was long ago, when we had not the experience of the world we now have. I do not dread exposure of your knowledge of my past.”

“But this lover of yours, this Englishman – why does he believe in you so blindly?” Romanelli inquired. “Is he so utterly infatuated that he thinks you absolutely innocent of the world and its ways?”

“My affairs of the heart are of no concern to you now, Arnoldo,” she answered a trifle coquettishly.

“But if I come here to a man’s rooms, and find you in his sitting-room in a half-conscious state, trembling and afraid, with every sign of a desperate struggle in your dress and in the room, and therefore I, once your boy-lover, seek an explanation,” he said. “True, the affection between us is dead long, long ago, but remember that you and I both have interests in common, and that by uniting we may effect the overthrow of our enemies. If we do not – well, you know the fate that awaits us.”

“Yes,” she answered in a voice that sounded low and distant. “I know, alas! too well – too well!”

Chapter Eighteen
What Lady Marshfield Knew

Some days passed. Charles Armytage had not called again at the hotel, having resolved to end the acquaintance. He regretted deeply that he had brought Gemma to London; yet when he pondered over it in the silence of his own rooms in Ebury Street, he told himself that he still loved her, that she was chic, beautiful, and even this mystery surrounding her might one day be elucidated.

The action of the authorities in Leghorn puzzled him. Gemma’s secret was, without doubt, of a character which would not bear the light of day. Still, as days went on and he heard nothing of her, he began to wonder whether she was at the hotel, or whether she had carried out her intention of returning to Italy.

He loved her. This brief parting had increased his affection to such an extent that he thought of her hourly, remembering her sweet, musical voice, her pretty broken English, her happy smiles whenever he was at her side. Her face, as it rose before him in his day-dreams, was not that of an adventuress, but of a sweet, loving woman who existed in mortal terror of some terrible catastrophe; its childlike innocence was not assumed; her blue eyes had the genuine clearness of those of an honest woman.

Thoughts such as these filled his mind daily. He passed the hours at the rooms of friends, at the club, at the theatres, anywhere where he could obtain distraction, but in all he saw the same face, with the same calm look of reproach, those same eyes glistening with tears as had been before him in the hall of the Victoria on that well-remembered evening when they parted.

At last, one morning, he could bear the suspense no longer. Bitterly reproaching himself for having acted so harshly as to leave her alone in a country where she was strange and did not know the language, he took a cab and drove down to Northumberland Avenue.

He inquired at the bureau of the hotel, and was informed that the Signorina Fanetti had left three days ago, and that she had given no address to which letters might be forwarded. He thanked the clerk, turned, and went blindly down the steps into the street, crushed, grief-stricken, the sun of his existence blotted out.

He remembered his protestations in Livorno; he remembered all that had passed between them, and saw that he had acted as a coward and a cad. That she loved him he had no doubt, and it was also plain to him that she had left London heart-broken.

Armytage was very well known in London, and as soon as his friends knew he was back again, the usual flow of invitations poured in upon him. In his endeavour to divert his thoughts, he accepted all and sundry, and one evening went to Lady Marshfield’s, whose receptions were always a feature of London life.

The eccentric old lady had long been his friend. Like so many other young and good-looking men, he had been “taken up” by her ladyship, flattered, petted, and fêted, utterly unconscious that by allowing this to be done he was making himself the laughingstock of the whole set in which he moved. But the ugly old woman’s attentions had at last nauseated him, as they had done every other young man, and his absence abroad had for a time prevented him calling at Sussex Square.

But to the card for this particular evening was added, in her ladyship’s own antiquated handwriting, a few words expressing pleasure at his return to London, and a hope that he would call and see her.

Lady Marshfield’s junketings were distinctly brilliant on account of the large number of the diplomatic corps which she always gathered about her and this evening there was a particularly noteworthy crowd. There were many young attachés, many pretty girls, a few elderly diplomats, a fair sprinkling of members of Parliament, and a large gathering of the exclusive set in which her ladyship moved. The rooms were well-lit, the electricity bringing joy to every feminine heart, as it always does, because it shows their jewels to perfection; the flowers were choice and abundant, and the music was by one of the most popular orchestras in London. But it was always so.

When Charles Armytage shook the old lady’s hand at the head of the stairs, her thin blue lips parted in what she considered her sweetest smile, and she said: “You have quite deserted me, Charles. I hear you’ve been in London a whole fortnight, and yet this is your first visit!”

“I’ve been busy,” he answered. “I was away so long that I found such lots of things wanting my attention when I came back.”

“Ah! no excuses, no excuses,” the old lady croaked. “You young men are always full of excellent reasons for not calling. Well, go in; you’re sure to find some people you know. When I can, I want to have a serious chat with you, so don’t leave before I’ve seen you again. Promise me?”

“Certainly,” he said, as he passed on into the apartment filled to overflowing with its distinguished crowd.

Careless of all about him, he wandered on through the great salons until he met several people he knew, and then the evening passed quite gaily.

At last, an hour past midnight, he found himself again at Lady Marshfield’s side.

“Well,” she said as they passed into one of the small rooms then unoccupied, for the guests were already departing – “well, why have you been so long away?”

“I had no incentive to stay in England,” he said. “I find life much more amusing on the Continent, and I’m a bit of a Bohemian, you know.”

“When you are in love – eh?” she laughed.

Her words stabbed him, and he frowned.

“If I want a wife, I suppose I can find one in London,” he snapped, rather annoyed.

“But it was love which kept you in Tuscany so long,” she observed with sarcasm. “Because you love Gemma Fanetti.”

He started in surprise.

“How did you know?” he inquired.

“News of that sort travels quickly,” the old lady answered, glancing at him craftily. “It is to be regretted.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman of her character could never become your wife, Charles,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “Take my advice; think no more of her.” Strange, he pondered, how every one agreed that her past would not bear investigation, yet all seemed to conspire against him to preserve the secret.

“We have already parted,” he said in a low voice. On many previous occasions they had spoken together confidentially.

At that moment a man-servant entered, glanced quickly across the room, and noticing with whom his mistress was conversing, turned and rapidly made his exit. Armytage was seated with his back to the door, therefore did not notice that the eminently respectable servant was none other than the man in whose company he had shot down in Berkshire – the jovial Malvano. That evening the movements of the village doctor of Lyddington had been somewhat mysterious. He had arrived about dinner-time as an extra hand, and had served refreshments in the shape of champagne-cup, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits to the hungry ones – and it is astonishing how hungry and thirsty people always are at other people’s houses, even if they have only finished dinner half an hour before. His face was imperturbable, his manner stiff, and the style in which he handled plates and glasses perfect.

One incident, at least, would have struck the onlooker as curious. While standing behind the improvised buffet serving champagne, Count Castellani, the Italian Ambassador, a tall, striking figure with his dozen or so orders strung upon a tiny golden chain in his lapel, approached and demanded some wine. Malvano opened a fresh bottle, and while pouring it out His Excellency exclaimed in a low half-whisper in Italian —

“To-morrow at twelve, at the Embassy.”

“Si, signore,” the other answered without raising his head, apparently still engrossed in pouring out the wine.

“You’re still on the alert?” asked the Ambassador in an undertone.

“Si, signore.”

“Good! To-morrow I must have a consultation with you,” answered His Excellency, tossing off the wine.

By the secret confidences thus exchanged, it was evident that Count Castellani and Doctor Malvano thoroughly understood each other; and, further, it was plain that upon some person in that assembly Filippo, head-waiter at the Bonciani, was keeping careful observation. Yet he apparently attended to his work as a well-trained servant should; and even when he discovered Armytage with her ladyship, he was in no way confused, but retreated quietly without attracting the young man’s attention.

“Why have you parted from Gemma?” her ladyship asked.

“Well,” answered Armytage, hesitating, “have you not said that she’s an impossible person?”

“Of course. But when a man’s in love – ”

“He alters his mind sometimes,” he interrupted, determined not to tell this woman the truth.

“So you’ve altered your mind?” she said. “You ought really to congratulate yourself that you’ve been able to do so.”

“Why?”

Lady Marshfield regarded her visitor gravely, fanned herself slowly in silence for some moments, then answered —

“Because it is not wise for a man to take as wife a woman of such an evil reputation.”

“Evil reputation?” he echoed. “What do you mean by evil?”

“Her reputation is wide enough in Italy. I wonder you did not hear of her long ago,” her ladyship answered. “You speak as if she were notorious.”

“Ask any one in Turin, in Milan, or Florence. They will tell you the truth,” she replied. “Your idol is, without doubt, the most notorious person in the whole of Italy.”

“The most notorious?” he cried. “You speak in enigmas. I won’t have Gemma maligned in this way,” he added fiercely.

She smiled. It was a smile of triumph. She was happy that they were already parted, and she sought now to embitter him against her, in order that he should not return to her.

“Have you never heard of the Countess Funaro?” she asked in a calm voice.

“The Countess Funaro!” he cried. “Of course I have. Her escapades have lately been the talk of society in Rome and Florence. Only a couple of months ago a duel took place at Empoli, the outcome of a quarrel which she is said to have instigated, and the young advocate Cassuto was shot dead.”

“He was her friend,” her ladyship observed.

“Well?”

“Well,” said Lady Marshfield, “don’t you think you were rather foolish to fall in love with a woman of her reputation?”

“Good Heavens!” he cried, starting up. “No, that can’t be the truth! Gemma cannot be the notorious Contessa Funaro!”

“If you doubt me, go out to Italy again and make inquiries,” the eccentric old lady answered calmly.

“But the Countess Funaro has the most unenviable reputation of any person in Italy. I’ve heard hundreds of extraordinary stories regarding her.”

“And the latest is your own interesting experience – eh!”

“I – I really can’t believe it,” Armytage said, dumbfounded.

“No; I don’t expect you do. She’s so amazingly clever that she can cause her dupes to believe in her absolutely. Her face is so innocent that one would never believe her capable of such heartless actions as are attributed to her.”

“But what experience have you personally had of her?” he inquired, still dubious. He knew that this elderly woman of the world was utterly unscrupulous.

“I met her in Venice last year,” her ladyship said. “All Venice was acquainted with her deliciously original countenance. Her notoriety was due to her pretty air of astonishment, the purity of her blue eyes, and the expression of chaste innocence which she can assume when it so pleases her – an expression which contrasts powerfully with her true nature, shameless creature that she is.”

“And are you absolutely positive that the woman I love as Gemma Fanetti is none other than the Contessa Funaro, the owner of the great historic Funaro palace in Florence, and the Villa Funaro at Ardenza?”

“I have already told you all I know.”

“But you have given me no proof.”

“I merely express satisfaction that you have been wise enough to relinquish all thought of marrying her.”

“I really can’t believe that this is the truth. How did you know she was in London?”

“I was told so by one who knows her. She has been staying at the Victoria,” her ladyship answered.

“I don’t believe what you say,” he cried wildly. “No, I won’t believe it. There is some mistake.”

“She has left the hotel,” Lady Marshfield said, fixing her cold eyes on him. “Follow her, and charge her with the deception.”

“It is useless. I am confident that Gemma is not this notorious Contessa.”

Her ladyship made a gesture of impatience, saying – “I have no object in deceiving you, Charles. I merely think it right that you should be made aware of the truth, hideous as it is.”

“But is it the truth?” he demanded fiercely. “There is absolutely no proof. I certainly never knew her address in Florence, but at Livorno she lived in a little flat on the Passeggio. If she were the Contessa, she would certainly have lived in her own beautiful villa at Ardenza, only a mile away.”

“She may have let it for the season,” his hostess quickly observed.

“The Countess Funaro is certainly wealthy enough, if reports be true, without seeking to obtain a paltry two or three thousand lire for her villa,” he said.

“She no doubt had some object in living quietly as she did, especially as she was hiding her identity from you.”

“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he declared, as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him for some ulterior object. “Until I have proof of Gemma’s perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word against her,” he declared decisively.

“You desire proof?” the old woman said, her wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again met his. “Well, you shall have it at once;” and, rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. “Read the words upon this,” she said, with an evil gleam in her vengeful gaze.

He took the picture with trembling hands, and read the following, written boldly across the base: —

“T’invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sarà sempre presente la mia efige, che ti obbligherà a ricordarmi. Tua aff. – Gemma Luisa Funaro.”

The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from the same negative as the one at that moment upon the table in his chambers. The handwriting was undoubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life.

Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. Indeed, it was a hideous truth.