The Slave of the Lamp Part 11

"No; not yet. I know his face. I have seen it or a photograph of it somewhere, and at some time. I cannot tell when or where yet, but it will come to me."

"When it does come," said Hilda, with a smile, "you will find that it is some one else. I can a.s.sure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyond that he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable."

"Well," replied Christian. "In the meantime I vote that we do not trouble ourselves about him."

The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had reached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno had returned.

"Oh, indeed," was the reply. "I am very glad. You must ask him to dinner to-morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, Christian?"

"Very," replied Christian, almost before the words were out of her lips.

"Yes, very nice." He looked across the table towards Hilda with an absolutely expressionless composure.

During the following day, which he pa.s.sed with Sidney and Stanley at sea in a little cutter belonging to the Carews, Christian learnt, without asking many questions, all that Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the way of information respecting himself. It was a short story and an old one, such as many a white-haired Italian could tell to-day. A life, income, and energy devoted to a cause which never had much promise of reward.

Failure, exile, and a life closing in a land where the blue skies of Italy are known only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, and long black cigars almost un.o.btainable.

Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mrs.

Farrar, at Farrar Court. Molly and Christian were to drive over for her in the evening. This programme was carried out, but the young people lingered rather longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint, old-world recollections of its white-haired hostess than was allowed for. Consequently they were late, and heard the first dinner-bell ringing as they drove up the lane that led in a casual way to their home. (This lane was characteristic of the house. It turned off un.o.btrusively from the high road at right angles with the evident intention of leading nowhere.) A race upstairs ensued and a hurried toilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a few minutes later.

Christian had won the race, for he was ready, while Molly struggled with a silver necklace that fitted closely round her throat. Of course he had to help her. While waiting patiently for him to master the intricacies of the old silver clasp, Molly said:

"Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not seen yet. Quite close at hand too."

"Ye--es," he replied absently, as he at length fixed the clasp. "There, it is done!"

As he held open the drawing-room door, he said: "What is the place I have to see?"

Signor Bruno, who was seated at the far end of the room with Mrs. Carew, rose as he heard the door opened, and advanced to meet Molly.

"Porton Abbey," she said over her shoulder as she advanced into the room. "You must see Porton Abbey."

The Italian shook hands with the new-comers and made a clever, laughing reference to Christian's politeness of the previous day. At this moment Hilda entered, and as soon as she had returned Signor Bruno's courteous salutation Molly turned towards her.

"Hilda," she said, "we have never shown Christian Porton Abbey."

"No," was the reply. "I have been reserving it for some afternoon when we do not feel very energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside the Abbey now, though."

"Why?" asked Christian, without looking towards Hilda. He had discovered that Signor Bruno was attempting to keep up a conversation with his hostess, while he took in that which was pa.s.sing at the other end of the room. The old man was seated, and his face was within the radius of light cast by a shaded lamp. Christian, who stood, was in the shade.

"Because it is a French monastery," replied Molly. "Here," she added, "is a flower for your coat, as you say the b.u.t.ton-hole is warped by constant pinning in of stalks."

"Thanks," he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reach the b.u.t.ton-hole of his coat. She was in front of him, directly between him and Signor Bruno; but he could see over her head. "What sort of monastery is it?" he continued conversationally. "I did not know that there were any establishments of that sort in England."

Hilda looked up rather sharply from an ill.u.s.trated newspaper she happened to be studying. She knew that he was not adhering strictly to the truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continued to watch Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed, that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of whose fame Farrar had spoken as already known in London.

Signor Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew became at this moment somewhat muddled.

"There, you see," said Molly vivaciously, "we endeavour to interest him by retailing the simple annals of our neighbourhood, and his highness simply disbelieves us!"

"Not at all," Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. "It simply happened that I was surprised. It shall not occur again. But tell me, what sort of monastery is it? Dominican? Franciscan? Carmelite?--"

"Oh, goodness! I do not know."

"Perhaps," said Christian, advancing towards the Italian--"perhaps Signor Bruno can tell us."

"What is that, Mr. Vell'cott?" asked the old gentleman, making a movement as if about to raise his curved hand to his ear, but restraining himself upon second thoughts.

Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice, Christian spoke in the same tone, or even lower, as he said:

"We want some details of the establishment at Porton Abbey, Signor Bruno."

The old gentleman made a little grimace expressive of disgust, at the same time spreading out his hands as if to ward off something hurtful.

"Ach!" he said, "do not ask me. I know nothing of such people, and wish to learn no more. It is to them that my poor country owes her downfall.

No, no; leave them alone. I always take care of myself against--against--what you say--_ces gens-la_!"

Christian awaited the answer in polite silence, and, when Signor Bruno had again turned to Mrs. Carew, he looked across the room towards Hilda with the same expression of vacant composure that she had noticed on a previous occasion. The accent with which Signor Bruno had spoken the few words of French was of the purest Parisian, entirely free from the harshness which an Italian rarely conquers.

After dinner Hilda went out of the open window into the garden alone.

Christian, who had seated himself at a small table in the drawing-room, did not move. Sidney and his mother were talking with the Italian.

The young journalist was stooping over a book, a vase of flowers stood in front of him, but by the movement of his arm it appeared as if he were drawing instead of reading. Presently a faint, low whistle came from the garden. Though soft, the sound was very clear, and each note distinctly given. It was like the beginning of a refrain which broke off suddenly and was repeated. Signor Bruno gave a little start and a quick upward glance.

"What is that?" he asked, with a little laugh, as if at the delicacy of his own nerves.

"Oh," replied Mrs. Carew, "the whistle, you mean. That is our family signal. The children were in the habit of calling each other by that means in bygone years. I expect they are in the garden now, and wish us to join them."

Mrs. Carew knew that Molly was not in the garden, but in making this intentional mistake she showed the wisdom of her kind.

"It seems to me," said Signor Bruno, "that the air--the refrain, one might call it--is familiar."

Christian Vellacott smiled suddenly behind his screen of flowers, but did not move or look up.

"I expect," explained Sidney, "that you have heard the air played upon the bugle. It is the French 'retraite,' played by the patrol in garrison towns at night."

In the meantime Christian had cut the fly-leaf from the book before him, and, after carefully folding it, he placed the paper in his breast-pocket. Then he rose and pa.s.sed out of the open window into the garden.

Immediately Signor Bruno asked his hostess a few polite questions regarding her guest--what was his occupation, how long he was going to stay, and whether she did not agree with him in considering that their young friend had a remarkably interesting face. In the course of his remarks the old gentleman rose and crossed to the table where Christian had been sitting. There was a flower there which he had not seen in England before. Absently he took up the book which Christian had just been studying, and very naturally turned to the t.i.tle-page. The fly-leaf was gone! When he laid the volume down again he replaced it in the identical position in which he had found it.

CHAPTER IX

A CLUE

When Christian left the drawing-room he walked quickly down the moss-grown path to the moat. Hilda was standing at the edge of the dark water, and as he joined her she turned and walked slowly by his side.

"You are a most unsatisfactory person," she said gravely after a few moments.