Part 34 (2/2)
The police had discovered certain letters. What, I wondered, did they contain? Would they at last throw any light upon the affair which, when it got into the papers, must startle English society.
At present her name was, of course, unknown, unless perchance any of the envelopes were with the letters. I felt sympathy for my friend George, and wondered how I could prevent her name from being known.
The hours crept slowly on; the day seemed never-ending. The presence of that scrubby-bearded little Italian sitting near me reading a newspaper idly, or gossiping with the men who lay in the neighbouring beds, was particularly irritating.
At last, however, when night came on and my guard was relieved, I slept, for the pain in my head wore me out and exhausted me.
Next day, in accordance with his word, the _delegato_, accompanied by two other police officials, arrived, and feeling sufficiently well I dressed and accompanied them downstairs, where a closed cab was in waiting. After a short drive we turned into the half-finished street so familiar to me, and pulled up before the house over the threshold of which I had seen, carried by the a.s.sa.s.sin, the lifeless body of one of the most admired women in England.
They conducted me up a flight of stairs to a landing at the back, and there entered one of the flats with a key. I noticed that the door had been sealed, for the _delegato_ broke the seal before inserting the key.
Inside, the place was rather barely furnished, the home of a man with small means; but as we walked into the little dining-room the sight that met my eyes was terrible.
Upon the table were the remains of a supper--decaying fruit, half-consumed champagne and an unlit cigar lying on one of the plates.
Places seemed to have been laid, for five, but the cloth had been half torn off in the struggle, and a dish lay upon the ground, smashed.
Upon the floor of painted stone, the usual floor of an Italian house, were great brown patches--pools of blood that had dried up, and into one the corner of the table-cloth had draggled, staining it with a mark of hideous ugliness.
On the ground, just as they had been found, lay a heavy hatchet with blood upon it, the instrument with which my unknown a.s.sailant had struck me down. While at a little distance lay a long very thin knife, with a finely tempered three-edged blade.
To the astonishment of my three guards I took it in my hand and felt its edge. The curious thought occurred to me that with such a weapon, thin and triangular, Hugh Wingfield had been so mysteriously done to death.
”Then this is where they enticed the woman--to an apartment that was not their own, and which they evidently entered by a false key! They invited her to supper, and then--well, they murdered her,” I said reflectively. ”Where is the body? May I see it?”
The confronting of a murderer with his victim is part of the procedure of the Continental police, therefore the detectives were not adverse in the least to granting my request.
”Certainly,” answered the _delegato_. ”It is here, in this room, awaiting the official inquiry.” With that he opened the door of the small bedroom adjoining, and there, stretched upon the bed, lay the body, covered with a sheet.
I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had been so terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police had secured in those letters found upon her.
”G.o.d!” I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watching my face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white dead countenance.
I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.
”Ah!” exclaimed the _delegato_ in satisfaction. ”It is a test that few can withstand. You recognise her as your victim--good!”
I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory he liked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.
The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe my own eyes.
The dead woman was not Marigold, but another--Marie Lejeune!
CHAPTER THIRTY.
A RAY OF LIGHT.
Surprise held me dumb.
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