The Mysterious Mr. Miller - William Le Queux 6 стр.

I re-read the piteous letter, sighing the while. Every word of it showed her mad desperation at being unable to prove her innocence of this mysterious allegation. The reason of the mans silence was now obvious. If he had spoken he would have had to tell the truth which from her letter appeared to be an unpleasant one and likely to cause scandal. Yet she asserted that she was fearless of anything the world might say; therefore did not that very fact suggest that there was no ground for any scandal?

Then I opened the yellow official paper which had been preserved with the letter of appeal.

Headed Amministrazione di Pubblica Sicurezza and bearing the number 28,280, it was, I saw, the Italian police record regarding an Englishman named James Harding Miller, son of William Miller, born at Studland, in Dorsetshire, widower, and resident in Rome. After the name and the statement that he was sometimes known as Milner, a minute description was given of the person whom the record concerned, and in that column headed Connotati, or personal appearance, was the following:

The meaning of this was that Mr Milner, or Miller, was tall of stature, dark complexion, chestnut beard, hair and eyes, Greek nose, and that he habitually wore pince-nez. In fact upon the back of the document were pasted four photographs, taken in different positions, and probably by different photographers.

The information contained in the record was, however, of more interest to me, and I read it through very carefully from end to end.

Briefly, what was chronicled there was to the effect that the Englishman Miller had on several occasions been suspected of being implicated in various schemes of fraud in association with certain persons against whom were previous convictions. It appeared that so strong were the suspicions concerning him in the case of an extensive fraud upon Frenchs bank in Florence by means of forged securities two years before that Miller was arrested, but after exhaustive inquiries was allowed his freedom as there was insufficient evidence.

The lines of even writing went on to state: The mans daughter, Lucie Lilian Miller, is constantly with him, and may participate in his schemes. There is, however, no direct allegation against her. Miller, it continued, evidently possessed a secret source of income which was believed to be derived from dishonest sources, though the actual truth had not yet been discovered. The record ended with the words added as a postscript in another handwriting: After exhaustive inquiries made by the Questura in Rome, in Florence and in Leghorn, it is now established beyond doubt that the Englishman is in active communication with a clever international association of sharpers.

After reading that I was compelled to accept the truth of Sammys statement. The man Miller had evidently plotted and obtained the securities in the young Chilians despatch-box.

Yet had Lucie, I wondered, any knowledge of that dastardly conspiracy which had ended in a tragedy?

Chapter Eight

The Mysterious Mr Miller.

On the following day, about noon, I took a cab to the Italian Embassy, that fine stone-built mansion in Grosvenor Square.

A tall footman with powdered hair asked me into the great reception-room where, at one end, hung a great portrait of the late King Humbert, the other end of the room opening upon a large conservatory where stood a grand piano. It was a sombre apartment, furnished with solid, old-fashioned taste and embellished with a number of photographs of noteworthy persons presented to the popular Ambassador and his wife in the various cities wherein His Excellency had represented his sovereign.

Like most London reception-rooms, it looked its best at night under the myriad electric lamps. At noon, as I sat there, it looked a trifle too dull and gloomy. Presently one of the staff of the Embassy, a short, pleasant-faced, elderly Italian of charming manner, and speaking perfect English, greeted me courteously and inquired the object of my request to see His Excellency.

I have called, I said, in order to give some confidential information which may be of interest to His Excellency. The fact is I have been present at the death of the ex-Minister for Justice Nardini.

His death! exclaimed the pleasant official. What do you mean? Is he dead?

He died here, in London, and unrecognised. It was only on searching his papers that I discovered his identity. He came to an obscure boarding-house in Shepherds Bush, giving the name of Massari, but on the following day he died. He had for a long time been suffering from an internal complaint and suddenly collapsed. The effort of the rapid journey from Rome and the anxiety were evidently too great for him.

This is astounding! We had no idea he was here! There were orders given for his arrest, you know, remarked the Embassy archivist, for such I afterwards found him to be a trusted official who for many years has held that position, and is well-known and popular in the diplomatic circle in London. But, he added suddenly, how were you enabled to establish his identity?

By these, I answered, drawing out a packet of official papers from my pocket, opening them and handing him one of them to read.

The instant his eyes fell upon it he started, turned it over, and looked up at me amazed.

I presume you know Italian? he asked quickly.

I nodded in the affirmative.

Then you are aware what these papers are most important Government documents, abstracted from the archives of the Ministry of Justice in Rome?

I know, I replied briefly. That is why I secured them, and why I have brought them to His Excellency. They certainly should not be allowed to go into the hands of any one, for they contain much confidential information regarding certain well-known persons.

Of course, he said. His Excellency will, Im sure, be extremely indebted to you for acting with such discretion. Had they fallen into the hands of the London police they might have been copied, and the secret of our methods known. Besides, in any case, it surely would be most detrimental to our prestige, if the public knew that confidential reports of this character were being allowed to pass from hand to hand for any one to read.

I viewed the matter from exactly the same standpoint, I said. My own opinion is that Nardini intended either to sell them, or to levy blackmail by their means.

But the official only shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. It was not likely that he would condemn his own compatriot, even though at heart he despised both the man and his dishonest methods.

Each paper he examined carefully, and once or twice gave vent to ejaculations of surprise when he read facts concerning certain persons in high positions in Rome which amazed him.

At this moment His Excellency is unfortunately out, but I trust, Mr Leaf, you will leave these with me, he suggested. We shall send them back under seal to Rome.

Of course, that was my intention, I said. And then, in reply to some further questions, I described to him the circumstances in which Nardini had died. Of course I made no mention of Lucie Miller nor of her strange story of the dead mans mysterious hatred of myself. I only apologised that I had not thought of communicating with the Italian Consulate, and expressed a hope that the restoration of these documents might partly atone for my remissness.

There is, I suppose, nothing else among the dead mans belongings to interest us? he asked seriously. You have, of course, made careful search?

Yes. I have had an inventory made by a solicitor. There is nothing else, I answered; and after giving my courteous friend my club address, and chatting for some ten minutes longer, I received his renewed thanks, and departed.

My one thought now was of Lucie Miller, the woman whose piteous appeal to the fugitive had been in vain. Several matters puzzled me and held me mystified.

Sammy now seemed reluctant to discuss the matter any farther. Light-hearted, easy-going and irresponsible, he declared that he wasnt going to trouble his head about mysteries. The Italian was dead and buried, and there let him rest. And as for Lucie, he had told me the truth concerning her, and it ought to suffice me.

But it did not suffice me.

That desperate appeal she had written to the man who had held her future in his hands showed me that she was in dire straits. What could be the allegation against her?

As day succeeded day and she did not return I became convinced that it was not her intention to do so. From the Embassy I received an official letter of thanks signed by His Excellency himself, but it was evident that they had not revealed the truth to the press, for the newspapers were still full of hue-and-cry after the absconding ex-Minister.

I recollected that the desperate girl had told me that she had an aunt living in the country, but she had not told me in what locality, and the country was a big place in which to search, more especially as I did not know the ladys name. She had told me also that she lived in Leghorn where, being English, it would be easy to find her. Yet somehow I held a strong belief that she had not returned to Italy.

The police record gave Millers place of birth as Studland, in Dorsetshire, therefore I began to wonder whether, if I went there, I should be able to discover any of the family. Surely somebody would know some facts concerning the family. From the Gazetteer I discovered that the place was a small village on the sea, not far from Swanage, and on the following morning, without saying anything to Sammy, I took train from Waterloo. At Swanage I hired a fly from that hotel which faces the bay so pleasantly with grounds sloping to the water, and an hour later I descended at the inn in Studland village.

It was a quiet, quaint old-world place, I found, with a queer ancient little church hidden away among the trees at the back. In the bar-parlour of the Lion I ordered some tea, and then, in the course of a chat with the stout, cheery old publican I casually inquired after some friends of mine named Miller.

Oh! yes, he said. Old Miss Miller lives ere still at the Manor Ouse just beyond the village. You passed it just before you came down the hill from Swanage way. Theyre one of the oldest families ere in Studland. One of the Millers Sir Roger e was called was governor of Corfe Castle under Queen Elizabeth, so Ive eard say.

Then the Millers have always lived at the Manor? I remarked.

Of course. The property really belongs to Mr James, but es always abroad, so is sister, old Miss Catherine, lives in the ouse and looks after it.

Is this Mr Miller named James Harding Miller? I asked.

Yes. Thats im. They calls im the mysterious Mr Miller. E always was a wild rascal when e wor a boy, they say. The old gentleman could do nothing with him, so e was sent abroad, and has lived there mostly ever since.

Has he any children?

A girl. The servants at the Manor talk a lot about er, and say shes very nice. Shes often ere.

Hes well off, I suppose?

Oh, dear no, sir, declared the innkeeper. The Millers are as poor as church mice. The value of lands gone down so of late years. The old place is mortgaged up to the hilt to some Jews in London, an its a pity a thousand pities.

All this, together with other facts and gossip which the garrulous old fellow revealed to me, was of extreme interest, and I congratulated myself upon the success of my first investigation.

When did you last see that mysterious Mr Miller, as you call him?

Oh! Its a long time now e avent been in Studland. Once, about three years ago, e came without any luggage they say and stayed over a twelvemonth. Es a queer man. E never speaks to the likes of us.

I resolved to act boldly and call upon old Miss Miller and inquire after her niece. Therefore I went out and up the hill in the bright sunshine until I came to the old and rather tumble-down lodge gate, and then, after walking a short distance up the drive, I came within sight of a large old Elizabethan mansion, long and rambling and time-mellowed a typical English home surrounded by great trees in the centre of a small park.

A neat maid answered my summons, and I was at once ushered into a quaint old oak-panelled room off the hall, the furniture of which was undoubtedly Elizabethan, with rich old brocades dropping to pieces with age. I examined everything with interest, and then walked to the deep diamond-paned window and was looking across the park admiring the delightful vista when, of a sudden, I heard a movement behind me, and turning, confronted a tall, thin, dark-haired man, slightly grey, with bony features, a pair of sharp, closely-set eyes and scraggy brown beard. He was dressed in dark grey tweeds, and wore white spats over his boots.

Mr Leaf? he inquired, glancing at the card I had sent in. I am Miss Millers brother, he explained. My name is James Harding Miller. Do you wish to see my sister very urgently? She has a headache, and has sent me to make her apologies.

I started when he introduced himself.

I was actually face to face with the ingenious scoundrel whom Sammy had denounced, and whom the Italian police so strongly suspected to be the leader of one of the cleverest gangs of malefactors in Europe.

Chapter Nine

Contains a Surprise

James Harding Miller was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan of most gentlemanly exterior. His grey face was deeply lined and bore that curious washed-out look of a man who had lived many years in a hot climate. After ten years or so the fiery Italian sun no longer tans the face of the northerner, but on the contrary his hair goes prematurely grey, and each year as the burning summer comes he is less able to withstand the heat of the lion days. His leanness, his foreign-cut clothes, and the slight gesticulation as he spoke all showed him to be a man more at home in the bright Italian land of song and sunlight than there, in an English village, the proprietor of that charming old home of his honourable ancestors.

In reply to his question I was rather evasive, saying that I happened to be in Swanage, and had driven out to pay a complimentary call upon his sister. She was not to put herself out of the way in the least, I urged. I should remain in Swanage for some days and hoped to have the pleasure of calling again.

Then turning and glancing around, I exclaimed: What a delightful old room! To me it is a real pleasure to enter a thoroughly English home, as this is.

Why? he inquired, eyeing me with some surprise. Because I live almost always on the Continent, and after a time foreign life and foreign ways jar upon the Englishman. At least Ive found it so.

Ah! He sighed, rather heavily I thought. And I, too, have found it so. I quite agree with you. One may travel the world over, as I have done these past twenty years, yet theres no place like our much-abused old England, after all.