The Midnight Guest

mistress in a worse case than ever. But there are others of my clan also serving the noble house from which my mistress came, and they write the Count the letter. You don’t know what that means, and I am not going to tell you. But it is the death-warrant, and the Count knows it. He cannot appeal against that. All the forces of the Crown cannot save his life. And then, mysteriously, he dies. But he does not die before he has done one last piece of irreparable mischief. He sees a way to strike his wife to the heart from the other side of the grave. There is a child, perhaps the only thing on earth that the Count loves purely and sincerely. He gets his friend, Lord Ravenspur, to kidnap that child. I tell you if his lordship had come amongst us and dishonoured the threshold of the greatest chief in South Italy he could not have unlocked the floodgates of vengeance in a more thorough manner. Think of the degradation, the bitter insult of it all! If the true facts of the case had been known to me at the time, Lord Ravenspur would have been a dead man years ago. But when my mistress vanished from the world, I naturally thought that she had taken the child with her. I did not know until quite recently what had happened. Then when I cast my mind back to the past I had no difficulty in fixing upon Lord Ravenspur as the culprit. The rest you know.”

The words were quietly and evenly spoken, but the deep ring of sincerity in them was not lost upon Walter Lance. Here was a man who saw his way clearly before him, a man blinded by prejudice and bigotry, who would not hesitate for a single moment, who would laugh contemptuously at the mere suggestion of personal danger.

“What could you do afterwards?” Walter urged.

Silva shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

“Why go into that?” he said. “The honour of the house would be avenged. I should have done my duty, and have earned the approbation of my friends. There would be a great outcry, no doubt. The thing would be inquired into, and probably the child I speak of would have been restored to her mother, though, to be sure, I am not quite certain whether the Countess is a proper person⁠—”

“So you have your doubts on that score?” Walter cried eagerly. “Now is it not a fact that the Countess Flavio was notoriously a woman of evil disposition?”

“Everybody said so,” Silva replied. “Had I chosen, I might have thrown a different light upon it. Mind you, I am not pleased with my late mistress; but there were excuses plausible enough. I cannot forget that it was a horrible thing for a mother to go off and leave her only child all those years. Still, that is no matter. If the time ever came, I could show the world something which would open their eyes as to the doings in his lifetime of Count Flavio. He kept a diary. After his death I found that diary.”

“And you did not produce it at the trial?”

“To what good, signor? Popular prejudice was so strong against us that, beyond doubt, the prosecution would have proved that diary to be a forgery. Then I should have been cast into prison, and my mistress would have been deprived of the one protector whom she so sorely needed. Why, feeling ran so high at the time of the trial that it was dangerous for me to walk the streets alone at night. But why discuss this now? Why continue this unnecessary conversation? You have made up your mind what to do. You have only to ring the bell, and there is an end of me⁠—”

Silva paused and shrugged his shoulders significantly. He rose as if to take another cigarette. The box slipped from his hand, and some of the little white tubes rolled across the polished floor. With an apology for his clumsiness, he stooped to pick them up. Then he rose again, his right hand shot out in the direction of a figure in armour, grasping a huge battle-axe in its hand. With the swiftness of an animal, the battle-axe was snatched away, and before Walter could realise what had happened, the Italian had smashed a couple of the heavy plate-glass sheets, thus clearing a way into the garden. Walter yelled at the top of his voice and darted forward, but he was too late. He realised the folly of a search in the darkness. No doubt, by this time the man was far away. He opened the studio door, which closed suddenly behind him, owing to a draught which came streaming through the broken panes. He saw Lord Ravenspur standing before him in the corridor, with a white face and agitated manner.

“What is it, Walter?” the latter asked hoarsely.

“I’ll tell you presently,” Walter said. “Only you must get the women-kind away first. It is quite imperative that Vera should know nothing, though it doesn’t in the least matter in Mrs. Delahay’s case. She knows all about it.”

Mrs. Delahay, followed by Vera, was in the corridor by this time. The girl’s face was pale. There was an inquiring look in her eyes.

“It is really nothing,” Walter said. “Just a little accident on the polished floor of the studio. One of the servants will have to sleep in there tonight in case of intruders. It is a great pity we haven’t got one of the dogs from uncle’s place in Hampshire.”

“It is terribly late,” Mrs. Delahay exclaimed, with a significant glance in Walter’s direction. “Really, I ought to be back at my hotel long ago. I suppose I can find a cab?”

“I will go and find one for you,” Walter said. “Hadn’t you better go to bed, Vera? Don’t forget that you are likely to be up very late tomorrow night.”

Very few words sufficed to tell Mrs. Delahay what had