from his path.
My thoughts tortured me—I clenched my teeth; I felt my brain reeling. In every way that a man could fail, I had failed. I had succumbed to the wiles of a professional vampire and had given over my friend to death.
There were perhaps issues greater than my personal sorrow. The life of Rudolf Adion hung upon a hair. Nayland Smith was gone!
Venice, the city of the doges, had claimed one more victim.
Dawn was creeping gloriously over the city when the first, the only clue, came to hand.
A Carabinieri patrol returning at four o’clock was subjected, in common with all others who had been on duty that night, to a close examination. He remembered (a fact which normally he would not have reported) that a girl, smartly dressed and wearing a scarf over her hair, had hurried past him at a point not far from the hotel. He had paid little attention to her, except that he remem bered she was pretty, but his description of her dress strongly suggested Ardatha!
Twenty yards behind and, as he recalled, seeming deliberately to keep in the shadow, he had noticed a man: an Englishman, he was confident, tall, wearing a tweed suit and a soft-brimmed hat.
The time, as nearly as I could judge, would have corresponded to that at which I had parted from Ardatha . . .
The detective’s theory had been the right one. Something had drawn Smith’s attention to the presence of the girl. He had not been kidnapped—he had watched and followed her. To where? What had become of him?
That sense of guilt which weighed heavily upon me became heavier than ever. I was indeed directly responsible for whatever had befallen my friend.
I was already at police headquarters when this report came in. The man was sent for and through an interpreter I questioned him. Since I knew the two people concerned more intimately than anyone present his answers to my questions removed any possibility of doubt.
The girl described was Ardatha. Nayland Smith had been following her!
Even at this stage, frantic as I was with anxiety about Smith, almost automatically I compromised with my conscience when Colonel Correnti asked me:
“Do you think this girl is someone known to Sir Denis?”
“Possibly,” I replied. “He may have thought he recognized an accomplice of Doctor Fu Manchu.”
When I left police headquarters to walk back to the hotel, Venice was bathed in its morning glory. But I moved through the streets and across the canals of that fairy city in a state of such utter dejection that any I passed surely pitied me.
Of Smith’s plans in regard to the luncheon party on Silver Heels I had very little idea, but I had been fully prepared to go with him. I was anxious to see Rudolf Adion in person. It seemed to me to be pointless to go alone. What he had hoped to learn I could not imagine. James Brownlow Wilton, the New York newspaper magnet, would seem to have no place in this tangled skein. It was a baffling situation and I was hopelessly worn out.
I tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but found sleep to be impossible. Sir George Herbert called at ten o’clock, an old young man with foreign office stamped indelibly upon him. His expression was
grave.
“This is a great blow, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said. “I can see how it has affected you. To me, it is disastrous. These threats to Rudolf Adion, who is here incognito, as you know, are backed by an organization which does not threaten lightly. General Quinto has been assassinated—why not Rudolf Adion?”
“I agree. But I know nothing of Smith’s plans to protect him.”
“Nor do I!” He made a gesture of despair. “It had been arranged for him to go on board Mr. Wilton’s yacht during today’s luncheon, but what he hoped to accomplish I have no idea.”
“Nor I.”
I spoke the words groaningly, dropped on to a chair and stared I suppose rather wildly at Sir George.
“The Italian authorities are sparing no effort. Their responsibility is great, for more than the reputation of the chief of police is at stake. If any news should reach me I will advise you immediately, Mr. Kerrigan. I think you would be wise to rest.”
A Woman Drops A Rose
The human constitution is a wonderfully adjusted instrument. I had no hope, indeed no intention, of sleeping. Venice, awakened, lived gaily about me. Yet, after partially undressing, within five minutes of Sir George’s departure I was fast asleep.
I was awakened by Colonel Correnti. Those reflected rays through my shutters which I had not closed told me the truth.
It was sunset, I had slept for many hours.
“What news?”
Instantly I was wide awake, a cloak or sorrow already draped about me.
He shook his head.
“None, I fear.”
“The luncheon party on the yacht took place, I suppose? Sir Denis feared that some attempt might be made there.”
“Rudolf Adion was present, yes. He is known on these occasions as Major Baden. My men report that nothing of an unusual nature took place. The dictator is safely back at the Palazzo da Rosa where he will be joined tomorrow by Pietro Monaghani. There is no evidence of any plot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do? Officially, I am not supposed to know that the chancellor is here. Of Sir Denis no trace can be found. What can I do?”
His perplexity was no greater than mine. What, indeed, could any of us do?
I forced myself to eat a hasty meal. The solicitude of the management merely irritated me. I found myself constantly looking aside, constantly listening, for I could not believe it possible for a man so well known as Nayland Smith to vanish like a mirage.
Of Ardatha I dared not think bat all.
To remain there inert was impossible. I could do nothing useful, for I had no plan, but at least I could move, walk the streets, search the cafes, stare up at the windows. With no better object than this in view, I set out.
Before St Mark’s I pulled up abruptly. The magic of sunset was draping the facade in wonderful purple shadows. I was torn between two courses. If I lost myself in this vain hunt through the streets of Venice, I might be absent when news came. In a state of indecision I stood there before the doors of that ornate, ancient church. What news could come? News that Smith was dead!
From these ideas I must run away, must keep moving. Indeed I found myself incapable of remaining still, and now a reasonable objective occurred to me. Since Rudolph Adion was staying at the Palazzo da Rosa this certainly would be the focus of Dr Fu Manchu’s attention. Actually, of course I was seeking some excuse for action, something to distract my mind from the ghastly contemplation of Nayland Smith’s fate.
I hurried back to the hotel and learned from the hall porter that no message had been received for me. Thereupon I walked out and chartered a motorboat.
A gondola was too slow for my humor.
“Go along the Grand Canal,” I directed, “and show me the Palazzo da Rosa.”
We set out, and I endeavored to compose myself and to submit without undue irritation to the informative remarks of the man who drove the motorboat. He wished to take me to the Rialto Bridge, to the villa where Richard Wagner had died, to the Palace of Gabriel d’Annunzio; but finally, with a great air of mystery, slowing his craft:
“Yonder,” he said, “where I am pointing, is the Palazzo da Rosa. It is here, sir, that Signer Monaghani, himself, stays sometimes when he is in Venice. Also it is whispered, but I do not know, that the great Adion is there.”
“Stop awhile.”
Dusk had fallen and light streamed from nearly all the windows of the palace. I observed much movement about the water gate, many gondolas crowded against the painted posts, there was a stir and bustle which told of some sort of entertainment taking place.
A closed motorboat, painted black, and apparently empty, passed almost silently between us and the steps.
