“Well, I suppose not; if I were tremendously in love. But life would be considerably embittered, to my mind, by the apprehension of such a brother-in-law’s reappearance, or by any unlooked-for concatenation which might bring his personality into the foreground.”
“I am willing to risk such a concatenation. In the meantime it has occurred to me that I ought to see Ferrari, and look into his story dispassionately. If you will kindly give me his address I will write and ask him to call upon me.”
“You will find him a very good fellow—a splendid animal, with a fair intelligence,” said Sefton, writing an address. “And now I hope you have forgiven me for bringing an unpleasant train of circumstances under your notice. You must remember that the facts in question came to my knowledge solely from my wish to oblige Miss Marchant. It would not have been fair to you to leave you in ignorance of what so nearly concerned your future wife.”
“Certainly not; but it would have been kinder, or wiser, on your part to have kept this knowledge from my mother.”
“Mrs. Vansittart had won my warmest regard by her kindness to the son of an old friend. I felt my first duty was to her.”
“That was unwise; and your unwisdom has caused much pain. However, I thank you for having spared Miss Marchant the knowledge that would make her miserable. I may rely upon you to keep the secret always—may I not?” asked Vansittart, earnestly.
“Always. You have my promise.”
“Thank you. That sets my mind at rest. I know how to deal with my mother’s prejudices; and I know that her affection for Eve will overcome those prejudices—in good time.”
Ferrari called at Charles Street at eleven o’clock next morning, in accordance with Vansittart’s request. As the clock struck the hour a tall, good-looking man, with reddish-brown hair, reddish-brown eyes, and a cheerful, self-satisfied smile, was ushered into Vansittart’s study.
“You are punctual, Signor Ferrari. Sit down, please, and come to business at once. Mr. Sefton tells me that you are the most businesslike of men, as well as the best of fellows.”
“Mr. Sefton have know me many years, sir. I have had the honour to nurse the of him father in his last illness. Ten years ago we was at Venice, at the Grand Hotel—Mr. Sefton’s father threw himself out of the window in a paroxis of pain—I pick him out of the canal at risk of to drown. The son does not forget what Ferrari did for the father.”
Those who knew Ferrari intimately discovered that this rescuing of would-be suicides from the Grand Canal was an idiosyncrasy of his. He affected to have saved half the distinguished travellers of Europe in this manner.
“Now, Signor Ferrari, you have no doubt considered that the charge you have brought against Mr. Harold Marchant is a very serious one—”
“Scusatemi, illustrissimo gentleman, I bring no charge,” protested Ferrari, in his curious English, which he spoke with an American accent, having improved his knowledge of the language in the society of American travellers, few of whom condescended to Italian or even French. “I bring no charge. Mr. Sefton tell me, trace for me the movements of a young man called ’Arol Marchant. Find him for me. He was last heard of with a party of explorers in Mashonaland. He good shot. Kill big game. With these bare facts I set to work. I am one who never stop. I am like the devil in Job, always going to and fro over the earth. I know men in all parts; couriers, interpreters, servants of every class, money-changers, shipping agents. From among these I get my information, and here it is tabulated. It is for the illustrissimo to judge for herself, having seen my facts.”
He opened a neat little book, where, upon ruled paper, appeared a record of the movements of Harold Marchant from the hour of his appearing at the diamond fields to his return from New York with a party of Americans, in whose company he put up at the Hotel di Roma, Pension Suisse, on the Grand Canal.
When he was at the Hotel di Roma he was known as Marchant. His signature was in the visitors’ book at the hotel. Ferrari had seen it, and had recorded the date, which was in the September preceding that February in which Vansittart had shared in the gaieties of the Carnival at Venice. A fortnight later Mr. Marchant took a second floor in the Campo Goldoni, under the name of Smith. There was no doubt in the courier’s mind as to the identity of the man in the Campo Goldoni with the man at the Hotel di Roma. He had talked with a New Yorker who had known Marchant under both names, and who knew of his relations with the pretty lace-maker. But there was nothing in Ferrari’s statement which could be called proof positive of this identity. The facts rested on information obtained at second hand. It was open to Vansittart to doubt—since error was not impossible—error as complete as that mistake which had put the man who was killed in the place of the man who killed him.
Ferrari tracked the fugitive on his voyage to Alexandria: recorded the name of Smith given to the captain of the P. and O. After Alexandria there was nothing.
“Do you think he came back to Europe by another steamer?” asked Vansittart, testing the all-knowing Venetian.
“Not he, Altissimo. Having once set his foot upon the soil of Africa he would be too wise to return to Europe. He might go to India, to America—north or south—but he would not come to England, to answer for the English life which he had taken. You Englishmen set great store upon life.”
Vansittart dismissed the man with a present, but before he went Ferrari laid his card upon the
