Chapter 7

“I wish I could see your face,” declared Dorise frankly.

“And I might express a similar desire, Miss Ranscomb. But for the present it is best as it is. I have sought you here to tell you the truth in secret, and to urge you to remain calm and patient.”

“Is that a message from Hugh?”

“No--not exactly. It is a message from one who is his friend.”

“You are very mysterious,” she declared. “If you do not know where he is at the moment, perhaps you know where we can find him later.”

“Yes. He is making his way to Brussels. A letter addressed to Mr. Godfrey Brown, Poste Restante, Brussels, will eventually find him. Recollect the name,” he added. “Disguise your handwriting on the envelope, and when you post it see that you are not observed. Recollect that his safety lies in your hands.”

“Trust me,” she said. “But do let me know your name,” she implored.

“Any old name is good enough for me,” he replied. “Call me Mr. X.”

“Don’t mystify me further, please.”

“Well, call me Smith, Jones, Robinson--whatever you like.”

“Then you refuse to satisfy my curiosity--eh?”

“I regret that I am compelled to do so--for certain reasons.”

“Are you a detective?” Dorise suddenly inquired.

The stranger laughed.

“If I were a police officer I should scarcely act as an intermediary between Mr. Henfrey and yourself, Miss Ranscomb.”

“But you say he is innocent. Are you certain of that? May I set my mind at rest that he never committed this crime of which the police suspect him?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes. I repeat that he is entirely innocent,” was the earnest response. “But I would advise you to affect ignorance. The police may question you. If they do, you know nothing, remember--absolutely nothing. If you write to Mr. Henfrey, take every precaution that nobody sees you post the letter. Give him a secret address in London, or anywhere in England, so that he can write to you there.”

“But how long will it be before I can see him again?”

“Ah! That I cannot tell. There is a mystery underlying it all that even I cannot fathom, Miss Ranscomb.”

“What kind of mystery?”

The white cavalier shrugged his shoulders.

“You must ask Mr. Henfrey. Or perhaps his friend Brock knows. Yet if he does, I do not suppose he would disclose anything his friend may have told him in confidence.”

“I am bewildered!” the girl declared. “It is all so very mysterious--Hugh a fugitive from justice! I--I really cannot believe it! What can the mystery be?”

“Of that I have no means of ascertaining, Miss Ranscomb. I am here merely to tell you what has happened and to give you in secret the name and address to which to send a letter to him,” the masked man said very politely. “And now I think we must part. Perhaps if ever we meet again--which is scarcely probable--you will recognize my voice. And always recollect that should you or Mr. Henfrey ever receive a message from ‘Silverado’ it will be from myself.” And he spelt the name.

“Silverado. Yes, I shall not forget you, my mysterious friend.”

“_Au revoir_!” he said as, bowing gracefully, he turned and left her.

The sun was rising from the sea when Dorise entered her bedroom at the hotel. Her maid had retired, so she undressed herself, and putting on a dressing-gown, she pulled up the blinds and sat down to write a letter to Hugh.

She could not sleep before she had sent him a reassuring message.

In the frenzy of her despair she wrote one letter and addressed it, but having done so she changed her mind. It was not sufficiently reassuring, she decided. It contained an element of doubt. Therefore she tore it up and wrote a second one which she locked safely in her jewel case, and then pulled the blinds and retired.

It was nearly noon next day before she left her room, yet almost as soon as she had descended in the lift the head _femme de chambre_, a stout Frenchwoman in a frilled cap, entered the room, and walking straight to the waste-paper basket gathered up the contents into her apron and went back along the corridor with an expression of satisfaction upon her full round face.

NINTH CHAPTER

CONCERNS THE SPARROW

With the rosy dawn rising behind them the big dusty car tore along over the white road which led through Pegli and Cornigliano, with their wealth of olives and palms, into the industrial suburbs of old-world Genoa. Then, passing around by the port, the driver turned the car up past Palazzo Doria and along that street of fifteenth-century palaces, the Via Garibaldi, into the little piazza in front of the Annunziata Church.

There he pulled up after a run of two hours from the last of the many railway crossings, most of which they had found closed.

When Hugh got out, the mysterious man, whose face was more forbidding in the light of day, exclaimed:

“Here I must leave you very shortly, signore. But first I have certain instructions to give you, namely, that you remain for the present in a house in the Via della Maddalena to which I shall take you. The man and the woman there you can trust. It will be as well not to walk about in the daytime. Remain here for a fortnight, and then by the best means, without, of course, re-entering France, you must get to Brussels. There you will receive letters at the Poste Restante in the name of Godfrey Brown. That, indeed, is the name you will use here.”

“Well, all this is very strange!” remarked Hugh, utterly bewildered as he glanced at the forbidding-looking chauffeur and the dust-covered car.

“I agree, signore,” the man laughed. “But get in again and I will drive to the Via della Maddalena.”

Five minutes later the car pulled up at the end of a narrow stuffy ancient street of high houses with closed wooden shutters. From house to house across the road household linen was flying in the wind, for the neighbourhood was certainly a poverty-stricken one.

The place did not appeal to Hugh in the least. He, however, recollected that he was about to hide from the police. Italians are early risers, and though it was only just after dawn, Genoa was already agog with life and movement.

Leaving the car, the mysterious chauffeur conduced the young Englishman along the street, where women were calling to each other from the windows of their apartments and exchanging salutations, until they came to an entrance over which there was an old blue majolica Madonna. The house had no outer door, but at the end of the passage was a flight of stone steps leading up to the five storeys above.

At the third flight Hugh’s conductor paused, and finding a piece of cord protruding from a hole in a door, pulled it. A slight tinkle was heard within, and a few moments later the sound of wooden shoes was heard upon the tiles inside.

The door opened, revealing an ugly old woman whose face was sallow and wrinkled, and who wore a red kerchief tied over her white hair.

As soon as she saw the chauffeur she welcomed him, addressing him as Paolo, and invited them in.

“This is the English signore,” explained the man. “He has come to stay with you.”

“The signore is welcome,” replied the old woman as she clattered into the narrow, cheaply furnished little sitting-room, which was in half darkness owing to the _persiennes_ being closed.

Truly, it was an uninviting place, which smelt of garlic and of the paraffin oil with which the tiled floors had been rubbed.

“You will require another certificate of identity, signore,” said the man, who admitted that he had been engaged in smuggling contraband across the Alps. And delving into his pocket he produced an American passport. It was blank, though the embossed stamp of the United States Government was upon it. The places were ready for the photograph and signature. With it the man handed him a large metal disc, saying:

“When you have your picture taken and affixed to it, all you have to do is to damp the paper slightly and impress this stamp. It will then defy detection.”

“Where on earth did you get this from?” asked Hugh, noticing that it was a replica of the United States consular seal.

The man smiled, replying:

“They make passports of all countries in Spain. You pay for them, and you can get them by the dozen. The embossing stamps are extra. There is a big trade in them now owing to the passport restrictions. Besides, in every country there are passport officers who are amenable to a little baksheesh!” And he grinned.

What he said was true. At no period has it ever been more easy for a criminal to escape than it is to-day, providing, of course, that he is a cosmopolitan and has money.

Hugh took the passport and the disc, adding:

“How am I to repay you for all this?”

“I want no payment, signore. All I ask you is to conform to the suggestions of the worthy Signore Ravecca and his good wife here. You are not the first guest they have had for whom the police searched in vain.”

“No,” laughed the old woman. “Do you recollect the syndic of Porticello, how we had him here for nearly three years, and then he got safely away to Argentina and took the money, three million lire, with him?”

“Yes,” was the man’s reply. “I recollect it, signora. But the Signore Inglese must be very careful--very careful. He must never go out in the daytime. You can buy him English papers and books of Luccoli, in the Via Bosco. They will serve to while away the time.”

“I shall, no doubt, pass the time very pleasantly,” laughed Hugh, speaking in French.

Then the old crone left them and returned with two cups of excellent _cafe nero_, that coffee which, roasted at home one can get only in Italy.

It was indeed refreshing after that long night drive.

Hugh stood there without luggage, and with only about thirty pounds in his pocket.

Suddenly the man who had driven him looked him curiously in the face, and said:

“Ah! I know you are wondering what your lady friend in Monte Carlo will think. Well, I can tell you this. She already knows that you have escaped, and she had been told to write to you in secret at the Poste Restante at Brussels.”

Hugh started.

“Who has told her? Surely she knows nothing of the affair at the Villa Amette?”

“She will not be told that. But she has been told that you are going to Brussels, and that in future your name is Monsieur Godfrey Brown.”

“But why have all these elaborate arrangements been made for my security?” Hugh demanded, more than ever nonplussed.

“It is useless to take one precaution unless the whole are taken,” laughed the sphinx-like fellow whose cheerful banter had so successfully passed them through the customs barrier.

Then, swallowing his coffee, he wished Hugh, “buon viaggio” and was about to depart, when Hugh said:

“Look here. Is it quite impossible for you to give me any inkling concerning this astounding affair? I know that some unknown friend, or friends, are looking after my welfare. But why? To whom am I indebted for all this? Who has warned Miss Ranscomb and told her of my alias and my journey to Brussels?”

“A friend of hers and of yourself,” was the chauffeur’s reply. “No, please do not question me, signore,” he added. “I have done my best for you. And now my journey is at an end, while yours is only beginning. Pardon me--but you have money with you, I suppose? If you have not, these good people here will trust you.”

“But what is this house?”

The man laughed. Then he said:

“Well, really it is a bolt-hole used by those who wish to evade our very astute police. If one conforms to the rules of Signora Ravecca and her husband, then one is quite safe and most comfortable.”

Hugh realized that he was in a hiding-place used by thieves. A little later he knew that the ugly old woman’s husband paid toll to a certain _delegato_ of police, hence their house was never searched. While the criminal was in those shabby rooms he was immune from arrest. The place was, indeed, one of many hundreds scattered over Europe, asylums known to the international thief as places ever open so long as they can pay for their board and lodging and their contribution towards the police bribes.

A few moments later the ugly, uncouth man who had brought him from Monte Carlo lit a cigarette, and wishing the old woman a merry “addio” left and descended the stairs.

The signora then showed Hugh to his room, a small, dispiriting and not overclean little chamber which looked out upon the backs of the adjoining houses, all of which were high and inartistic. Above, however, was a narrow strip of brilliantly blue sunlit sky.

A quarter of an hour later he made the acquaintance of the woman’s husband, a brown-faced, sinister-looking individual whose black bushy eyebrows met, and who greeted the young Englishman familiarly in atrocious French, offering him a glass of red wine from a big rush-covered flask.

“We only had word of your coming late last night,” the man said. “You had already started from Monte Carlo, and we wondered if you would get past the frontier all right.”

“Yes,” replied Hugh, sipping the wine out of courtesy. “We got out of France quite safely. But tell me, who made all these arrangements for me?”

“Why, Il Passero, of course,” replied the man, whose wife addressed him affectionately as Beppo.

“Who is Il Passero, pray?”

“Well, you know him surely. Il Passero, or The Sparrow. We call him so because he is always flitting about Europe, and always elusive.”

“The police want him, I suppose.”

“I should rather think they do. They have been searching for him for these past five years, but he always dodges them, first in France, then here, then in Spain, and then in England.”

“But what is this mysterious and unknown friend of mine?”

“Il Passero is the chief of the most daring of all the gangs of international thieves. We all work at his direction.”

“But how did he know of my danger?” asked Hugh, mystified and dismayed.

“Il Passero knows many strange things,” he replied with a grin. “It is his business to know them. And besides, he has some friends in the police--persons who never suspect him.”

“What nationality is he?”

The man Beppo shrugged his shoulders.

“He is not Italian,” he replied. “Yet he speaks the _lingua Toscano_ perfectly and French and English and _Tedesco_. He might be Belgian or German, or even English. Nobody knows his true nationality.”

“And the man who brought me here?”

“Ah! that was Paolo, Il Passero’s chauffeur--a merry fellow--eh?”

“Remarkable,” laughed Hugh. “But I cannot see why The Sparrow has taken such a paternal interest in me,” he added.

“He no doubt has, for he has, apparently, arranged for your safe return to England.”

“You know him, of course. What manner of man is he?”

“A signore--a great signore,” replied Beppo. “He is rich, and is often on the Riviera in winter. He’s probably there now. Nobody suspects him. He is often in England, too. I believe he has a house in London. During the war he worked for the French Secret Service under the name of Monsieur Franqueville, and the French Government never suspected that they actually had in their employ the famous Passero for whom the Surete were looking everywhere.”

“You have no idea where he lives in London?”

“I was once told that he had a big house somewhere in what you call the West End--somewhere near Piccadilly. I have, however, only seen him once. About eighteen months ago he was hard pressed by the police and took refuge here for two nights, till Paolo called for him in his fine car and he passed out of Italy as a Swiss hotel-proprietor.”

“Then he is head of a gang--is he?”

“Yes,” was the man’s reply. “He is marvellous, and has indeed well earned his sobriquet ‘Il Passero.’”

A sudden thought flitted through Hugh’s mind.

“I suppose he is a friend of Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”

“Ah, signore, I do not know. Il Passero had many friends. He is rich, prosperous, well-dressed, and has influential friends in France, in Italy and in England who never suspect him to be the notorious king of the thieves.”

“Now, tell me,” urged young Henfrey. “What do you know concerning Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo?”

The Italian looked at him strangely.

“Nothing,” he replied, still speaking bad French.

“You are not speaking the truth.”

“Why should I tell it to you? I do not know you!” was the quick retort.

“But you are harbouring me.”

“At the orders of Il Passero.”

“You surely can tell me what you know of Mademoiselle,” Hugh persisted after a brief pause. “We are mutually her friends. The attempt to kill her is outrageous, and I, for one, intend to do all I can to trace and punish the culprit.”

“They say that you shot her.”

“Well--you know that I did not,” Henfrey said. “Have you yourself ever met Mademoiselle?”

“I have seen her. She was living for a time at Santa Margherita last year. I had a friend of hers living here with me and I went to her with a message. She is a very charming lady.”

“And a friend of Il Passero?”

The Italian shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of ignorance.

Hugh Henfrey had certainly learned much that was curious. He had never before heard of the interesting cosmopolitan thief known as The Sparrow, but it seemed evident that the person in question had suddenly become interested in him for some obscure and quite unaccountable reason.

As day followed day in that humble place of concealment, Beppo told him many things concerning the famous criminal Il Passero, describing his exploits in terms of admiration. Hugh learnt that it was The Sparrow who had planned the great jewel robbery at Binet’s, in the Rue de la Paix, when some famous diamonds belonging to the Shah of Persia, which had been sent to Paris to be reset, were stolen. It was The Sparrow, too, who had planned the burglary at the art gallery of Evans and Davies in Bond Street and stolen Raphael’s famous Madonna.

During the daytime Hugh, anxious to get away to Brussels, but compelled to obey the order of the mysterious Passero, spent the time in smoking and reading books and newspapers with which Beppo’s wife provided him, while at night he would take long walks through the silent city, with its gloomy old palaces, the courtyards of which echoed to his footsteps. At such times he was alone with his thoughts and would walk around the port and out upon the hills which surrounded the bay, and then sit down and gaze out to the twinkling lights across the sea and watch the long beams of the great lighthouse searching in the darkness.

His host and hostess were undoubtedly criminals. Indeed, they did not hide the fact. Both were paid by The Sparrow to conceal and provide for anyone whom he sent there.

He had been there four weary, anxious days when one evening a pretty, well-dressed young French girl called, and after a short chat with Beppo’s wife became installed there as his fellow-guest. He did not know her name and she did not tell him.

She was known to them as Lisette, and Hugh found her a most vivacious and interesting companion. Truly, he had been thrown into very queer company, and he often wondered what his friends would say if they knew that he was guest in a hiding-place of thieves.

TENTH CHAPTER

A LESSON IN ARGOT

Late one evening the dainty girl thief, Lisette, went out for a stroll with Hugh, but in the Via Roma they met an agent of police.

“Look!” whispered the girl in French, “there’s a _pince sans rire_! Be careful!”

She constantly used the argot of French thieves, which was often difficult for the young Englishman to understand. And the dark-haired girl would laugh, apologize, and explain the meaning of her strange expressions.

Outside the city they were soon upon the high road which wound up the deep green valley of the Bisagno away into the mountains, ever ascending to the little hill-town of Molassana. The scene was delightful in the moonlight as they climbed the steep hill and then descended again into the valley, Lisette all the time gossiping on in a manner which interested and amused him.

Her arrival had put an end to his boredom, and, though he was longing to get away from his surroundings, she certainly cheered him up.

They had walked for nearly an hour, when, declaring she felt tired, they sat upon a rock to rest and eat the sandwiches with which they had provided themselves.

Two carabineers in cloaks and cocked hats who met them on the road put them down as lovers keeping a clandestine tryst. They never dreamed that for both of them the police were in search.

“Now tell me something concerning yourself, mademoiselle,” Hugh urged presently.

“Myself! Oh! la la!” she laughed. “What is there to tell? I am just of _la haute pegre--a truqueuse_. Ah! you will not know the expression. Well--I am a thief in high society. I give indications where we can make a coup, and afterwards _bruler le pegriot_--efface the trace of the affair.”

“And why are you here?”

“_Malheureusement_! I was in Orleans and a _friquet_ nearly captured me. So Il Passero sent me here for a while.”

“You help Il Passero--eh?”

“Yes. Very often. Ah! m’sieur, he is a most wonderful man--English, I think. _Girofle_ (genteel and amiable), like yourself.”

“No, no, mademoiselle,” Hugh protested, laughing.

“But I mean it. Il Passero is a real gentleman--but--_maquiller son truc_, and he is marvellous. When he exercises his wonderful talent and forms a plan it is always flawless.”

“Everyone seems to hold him in high esteem. I have never met him,” Hugh remarked.

“He was in Genoa on the day that I arrived. Curious that he did not call and see Beppo. I lunched with him at the Concordia, and he paid me five thousand francs, which he owed me. He has gone to London now with his _ecrache-tarte_.”

“What is that, pray?”

“His false passport. He has always a good supply of them for anyone in need of one. They are printed secretly in Spain. But m’sieur,” she added, “you are not of our world. You are in just a little temporary trouble. Over what?”

In reply he was perfectly frank with her. He told her of the suspicion against him because of the affair of the Villa Amette.

“Ah!” she replied, her manner changing, “I have heard that Mademoiselle was shot, but I had no idea that you had any connexion with that ugly business.”

“Yes. Unfortunately I have. Do you happen to know Yvonne Ferad?”

“Of course. Everyone knows her. She is very charming. Nobody knows the truth.”

“What truth?” inquired Hugh quickly.

“Well--that she is a _marque de ce_.”

“A _marque de ce_--what is that?” asked Hugh eagerly.

“Ah! _non_, m’sieur. I must not tell you anything against her. You are her friend.”

“But I am endeavouring to find out something about her. To me she is a mystery.”

“No doubt. She is to everybody.”

“What did you mean by that expression?” he demanded. “Do tell me. I am very anxious to know your opinion of her, and something about her. I have a very earnest motive in trying to discover who and what she really is.”

“If I told you I should offend Il Passero,” replied the girl simply. “It is evident that he wishes you should remain in ignorance.”

“But surely, you can tell me in confidence? I will divulge nothing.”

“No,” answered the girl, whose face he could not see in the shadow. “I am sorry, M’sieur Brown”--she had not been told his Christian name--“but I am not permitted to tell you anything concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne.”

“She is a very remarkable person--eh?” said Henfrey, again defeated.

“Remarkable! Oh, yes. She is of the _grande monde_.”

“Is that still your argot?” he asked.

“Oh no. Mademoiselle Yvonne is a lady. Some say she is the daughter of a rich Englishman. Others say she is just a common adventuress.”

“The latter is true, I suppose?”

“I think not. She has _le clou_ for the _eponge d’or_.”

“I do not follow that.”

“Well,” she laughed, “she has the attraction for those who hold the golden sponge--the Ministers of State. Our argot is difficult for you, m’sieur--eh?”

“I see! Your expressions are a kind of cipher, unintelligible to the ordinary person--eh?”