Part 9 (1/2)

The whole affair was most puzzling. As I sat in the swift, open cab that took me back along the sea-road to Antignano, the crimson sun was setting, and the gaily dressed Italian crowd was promenading under the ilexes and acacias beside the Mediterranean. Leghorn is a fas.h.i.+onable bathing-place during July and August, and from the hour when the sun sinks behind Gorgona until far into the night no fairer prospect than the Viale Regina Margherita, as the beautiful promenade is called, with its open-air cafes and big bathing establishments, can be found in the south of Europe.

Through the little wood that lies between the fas.h.i.+onable village of Ardenza and the sea, where the oleanders were in the full blaze of their glory, my cab sped homeward; and having left the gaiety of the outskirts of Leghorn behind, I fell to reflecting upon the future, and wondering what, after all, was the hidden truth contained in The Closed Book--the knowledge that would place its possessor among the greatest on earth?

I thought of the strange circ.u.mstances in which I had purchased the old tome, of the inexplicable manner of Father Bernardo, of the old hunchback's evil face at the church window, and, most of all, of that singularly handsome young woman in black whom I had encountered in the prior's study--the woman with whom the fat priest had spoken in private.

Why should Father Bernardo have urged me to relinquish my bargain? Why should Graniani have come to me on the same errand, and have warned me?

Surely they could not be aware that the pages were envenomed, and just as surely they could have no motive in preventing my falling a victim!

If they were acting from purely humane motives, they would surely have explained the truth to me.

Besides, when I reflected, it became apparent that the vellum leaves at the end whereon was inscribed old G.o.dfrey's chronicle had not been opened for many years, as a number of them had become stuck together by damp at the edge, and I had been compelled to separate them with a knife.

At last I sprang out, paid the driver, pa.s.sed through the echoing marble hall of the _villino_, and up the stairs towards my study.

Old Nello, who followed me, greeted me with the usual ”_Ben tornato, signore_,” and then added, ”The lady called to see you, waited about a quarter of an hour in your study, and then left, promising to call tomorrow.”

”She said nothing about the little panel of St Francis?”

”Nothing, signore. But she seemed an inquisitive young lady--from Bologna, I should say, from her accent.”

”Young lady!” I exclaimed. ”Why, the winegrower's wife is sixty, if a day. Was this lady young?”

”About twenty-six, signore,” was his reply. ”Hers was a pretty face-- like a picture--only she seemed to wear a very sad look. She was dressed all in black, as though in mourning.”

”What?” I cried, halting on the stairs, for the description of my visitor tallied with that of the woman I had seen in the priest's study in Florence and afterwards in Leghorn. ”Had she black eyes and a rather protruding, pointed chin?”

”She had, signore.”

”And she was alone in my study a quarter of an hour?” I exclaimed.

”Yes. I looked through the keyhole, and, seeing her prying over your papers, I entered. Then she excused herself from remaining longer, and said she would call again.”

”But that's not the woman I expected, Nello?” And with a bound I rushed up the remaining stairs into the room.

A single glance around told me the truth.

The Closed Book had disappeared! It had been stolen by that woman, who had been following me, and whose face lived in my memory every hour.

I rushed around the room like a madman, asking Nello if he had placed the volume anywhere; but he had not. He recollected seeing it open upon my writing-table when he had ushered the visitor in, and had not thought of it until I now recalled the truth to him.

My treasure had been stolen; and as I turned towards my table I saw lying upon the blotting-pad a sheet of my own note paper, upon which was written in Italian, in an educated feminine hand, the axiom of Caesar Borgia as chronicled in the missing book:

”_That which is not done at noon can be done at sunset_.”

CHAPTER TEN.

ACROSS EUROPE.

The Closed Book had been filched from me at the very moment when I was about to learn the secret it contained.