He stood up at last, and Spigno was whispering urgently.
“Wait! We must not go together. Give me five minutes to win clear; then follow.”
Bellarion considered him, and his eyes were very grave.
“But when my evasion is discovered …” he was beginning.
Spigno impatiently broke in, explaining hurriedly.
“I am the last they will suspect. The others are all here tonight. But I pleaded urgent reasons why I could not remain. I made a pretence of departing; then hid below until all were asleep. They will be at each other’s throats in the morning over this.” He smiled darkly in satisfaction of his cunning. “I’ll take the light. You know your way about this house better than I do. Tread softly when you come.”
He was turning to take up the lantern when Bellarion arrested him.
“You’ll wait for me outside?”
“To what end? Nay, now. There is no purpose in that.”
“Let me come with you, then. If I should stumble in the dark they’ll be upon me.”
“Take care that you do not.”
“At least leave me your dagger since you take the light.”
“Here, then.” Spigno unsheathed and surrendered the weapon to him.
Bellarion gripped the hilt. With very sombre eyes he considered the Count. Then the latter turned aside again for the lantern.
“A moment,” said Bellarion.
“What now?”
Impatiently Spigno faced once more the queer glance of those dark eyes, and in that moment Bellarion stabbed him.
It was a swift, hard-driven, merciful stroke that found the unfortunate man’s heart and quenched his life before he had time to realise that it was threatened.
Without a sound he reeled back under the blow. Bellarion’s left arm went round his shoulders to ease him to the ground. But Spigno’s limbs sagged under him. He sank through Bellarion’s embrace like an empty sack, and then rolled over sideways.
The murderer choked back a sob. His legs were trembling like empty hose with which the wind makes sport. His face was leaden-hued and his sight was blurred by tears. He went down on his knees beside the dead count, turned him on his back, straightened out the twitching limbs, and folded the arms across the breast. Nor did he rise when this was done.
In slaying Count Spigno, he had performed a necessary act; necessary in the service to which he had dedicated himself. Thus at a blow he had shattered the instrument upon which the Marquis Theodore was depending to encompass his nephew’s ruin; and the discovery tomorrow of Spigno’s death and Bellarion’s own evasion, in circumstances of unfathomable mystery, must strike such terror into the hearts of the conspirators that there would probably be an end to the plotting which served no purpose but to advance the Regent’s schemes.
Yet, despite these heartening reflections, Bellarion could not shake off his horror. He had done murder, and he had done it in cold blood, deliberate and calculatingly. Worse than all—his convent rearing asserting itself here—he had sent a man unshriven to confront his Maker. He hoped that the unexpectedness with which Spigno’s doom had overtaken him would be weighed in the balance against the sins which death had surprised upon him.
That is why he remained on his knees and with joined hands prayed fervently and passionately for the repose of the soul which he had despatched to judgment. So intent was he that he took no heed of the precious time that was meanwhile speeding. For perhaps a quarter of an hour he continued there in prayer, then crossing himself he rose at last and gave thought to his own escape.
Thrusting his shoes into his belt and muffling the lantern as Spigno had muffled it, he set out, the naked dagger in his right hand.
A stair creaked under his step and then another, and each time he checked and caught his breath, listening intently. Once he fancied that he heard a movement below, and the sound so alarmed him that it was some moments before he could proceed.
He gained the floor below in safety, and rounding the balusters continued his cautious descent towards the mezzanine, where, as he knew, Barbaresco slept. Midway down he heard that sound again, this time unmistakably the sound of someone moving in the passage to the right, in the direction of Barbaresco’s room. He stopped abruptly, and thrust the muffled lantern behind him, so that the faint glow of it might not beat downwards upon the gloom to betray him. He was conscious of pulses drumming in his temples, for shaken by the night’s events he was now become an easy prey to fear.
Suddenly to his increasing horror, another, stronger light fell along the passage. It grew steadily as he watched it, and with it came a sound of softly shod feet, a mutter in a voice that he knew for Barbaresco’s, and an answering mutter in the high-pitched voice of Barbaresco’s old servant.
His first impulse was to turn and flee upwards, back the way he had come. But thus he would be rushing into a trap, which would be closed by Barbaresco’s guests, who slept most probably above.
Then, bracing himself for whatever fate might send, he bounded boldly and swiftly forward, no longer troubling to tread lightly. His aim was to round the stairs and thereafter trust to speed to complete the descent and gain the street. But the noise he made brought Barbaresco hurrying forward, and at the foot of that flight they confronted each other, Bellarion’s way barred by the gentleman of Casale who loosed at sight of him a roar that roused the house.
Barbaresco was in bedgown and slippers, a candle in one hand; his servant following at his heels. He was unarmed. But not on that account could he shirk the necessity of tackling and holding this fugitive, whose flight itself was an abundant advertisement of his treachery, and whose evasion now might be attended by
