CHAPTER XIX.

WOMAN AGAINST MAN.

Matteo Vassalla was in his sitting-room, walking to and fro with his hands in his pockets. The Maltese gentleman was very well satisfied with himself, as all his plans seemed likely to turn out as he wished. Carmela had promised to marry him, and, as she had plenty of money, this was very satisfactory to the impecunious nobleman. She did not love him, it was true; but then he agreed with Rochefoucauld, that it is best to begin marriage with a little aversion. And then he had the pleasure of taking the prize from under the very nose of his rival; the race had been a long one, and the prize had been awarded, not to the swiftest, but to the most diplomatic. Fate had played into Matteo's hands, and secure in the certainty of his good fortune, he strolled gaily up and down the room, humming to himself.

The only thing that troubled him was the coming interview with Mrs. Verschoyle, for he knew that lady loved him, and if she found out that Carmela was engaged to him, would do anything to stop the marriage. She would fling money, character, even life itself, to attain her ends, such was her passionate temper, and Vassalla knew she was a dangerous adversary. The only chance of getting the better of her was to keep cool, as she invariably lost her head, and gave her adversary time to espy the weak points in her armour, so the Marchese felt tolerably certain of winning the game; but still he had a bad quarter of an hour before him, and did not relish the prospect.

"Malediction on these women," he said, stopping in front of the mirror, and admiring himself; "why can't they accept the inevitable, and own themselves beaten? But no, this jade of a Bianca will fight to the last. I rather admire such tenacity of purpose myself, that is when I'm not the opponent in the game."

He went to his travelling writing-desk, which was lying on a side table, and, having unlocked it, took out Carmela's last letter, which he read carefully, the result of his reading being anything but pleasant to him.

"Wants me to release her," he muttered, throwing down the letter and resuming his walk, "not I--give up the quarry after it has been run to earth? My dear Carmela, you must think me a fool; without your fortune you'd be a pretty prize, but, with it, my faith, it's killing two birds with one stone--come in" as a knock came to the door.

"Mrs. Verschoyle!" announced the waiter, showing in that lady, and closed the door after him, leaving the two adversaries face to face with the feeling of battle in the air.

Mrs. Verschoyle, as she called herself, though she had no claim to the name, being divorced, was very like Carmela, only, not quite so handsome, while her expression was rather repellent, and her lowering eyebrows and firmly closed mouth warned Matteo Vassalla that she had come with hostile intentions. Matteo was the first to speak, and offered his visitor a chair.

"You will be seated, my cousin?" he asked, politely.

"When I choose," she said, harshly.

Vassalla shrugged his shoulders and produced a silver cigarette case.

"As you please," he said, carelessly opening it; "you will smoke?"

"No!"

"Drink?--there is excellent wine here."

"No!--I tell you," she retorted, viciously, "we can dispense with all these formalities, Marchese."

"Eh!" with a sudden lifting of the eyebrows, "why so precise, my cousin?"

"Because you are a villain!" retorted Mrs. Verschoyle, bringing her fist down on the table.

"So!" said Matteo, with a laugh, "perhaps you will give me your reasons for calling me such a name?"

"The best of all possible reasons, you deserve it!"

"Indeed--the world is not of your opinion."

"Bah!--the world does not know you."

"Ah! so you are going to be Madame Asmodeus, and unroof my house for the benefit of my neighbours?" And Vassalla, having lighted a cigarette, sat down and prepared to listen. He had not long to wait, for Mrs. Verschoyle burst out into a perfect volley of imprecations in Italian, to which, Vassalla listened very quietly.

"You're not improving," he said coolly, when she stopped for want of breath; "but all this is talk. I want to know the reason of your visit."

Mrs. Verschoyle took off her gloves, sat down in a chair, and dragging it up to the table, placed her elbows thereon, and began to talk rapidly.

"You Maltese dog!" she hissed between her teeth; "I know all--yes, all--did I not meet Signor Clement at the Strada Cristoforo, and did he not tell me that you were as the shadow of my sister Carmelo, and that you wanted to become her husband? speak, you traitor--is it not true?"

"Before I answer that question," sad Vassalla, calmly, knocking the ash off his cigarette, "first tell me who is this Signor Clement, that knows so much of my affairs?"

"He came from England."

"When?"

"Shortly after your ship arrived in London."

"Did he stop at the Signora Briffa's?"

"Yes."

"And asked questions?"

"He asked me none, but, ah!" with a gesture of impotent rage, "that Dexter, she gave him all the lies of me, I am certain."

"Exactly! and he told you that I was making love to Carmela, and advised you to come to England."

"How did you know?" asked Mrs. Verschoyle, looking at him with fiery eyes.

"Because I have my suspicions that this Clement is a spy."

"A spy--for what--on whom?"

"For murder--on you."

Mrs. Verschoyle grew deathly pale, she clenched her hands, and her two black eyes glared like burning coals at her cousin.

"Bah!" she said, at length, making a snatch at one of her gloves; "this is a child's story."

"No, upon my honour, it's not. I don't know for certain, but I could swear this man is a spy. Why should he go out to Valletta, lodge at the same house as you, and tell you this about me? Because he wanted you to come to England--because he is employed by an Australian devil called Monteith to hunt you down, and accuse you of the murder of your husband, Leopold Verschoyle."

Vassalla arose to his feet while speaking, and went over to the woman, who cowered in her chair like a savage beast, subdued for the moment, by a master's eye.

"It's a lie--a lie!" she hissed, tearing her glove, viciously; "who can prove I was on board?"

"Carmela."

"Carmela?" she bounded to her feet, her face working with fury; "she would not dare!"

"She has done so, and told Monteith."

"My God! my God!" cried Mrs. Verschoyle, stamping up and down the room; "Oh that my fingers were round her throat? She has taken my lovers from me, and now she'd take my life. Bah!" with a sudden change, "they can't prove anything. You can save me."

"Yes, but will I?"

Mrs. Verschoyle stole round the table, and laid her arm caressingly round his neck.

"Yes, you will, my Matteo. Think of the love I have for you. You will disappoint this bloodhound, when he thinks his game sure, and you will marry me. We will go back to our beautiful Malta, and there be happy."

This woman wooed with all the caressing fierceness of the South, her harsh voice sank to a liquid murmur, and her wonderful eyes lost their savage gleam, and became melting and tender.

"You will marry me," she whispered, softly.

Vassalla sneered to himself, then rising suddenly, removed her arms from around his neck.

"Impossible," he said, coldly; "I am engaged to Carmela."

Mrs. Verschoyle sprang back, her eyes blazing with anger, and dashed the fragments of her glove in his face.

"Ingrate! Traitor! Scoundrel! You shall suffer for this."

"Not at your hands," with a soft laugh.

"Yes! at my hands. I have your letters, written when you truly loved me. When you said you would kill----"

"Silence, devil!" and Matteo, his face set and stern, caught her arm.

"I will not be silent!" screamed Mrs. Verschoyle, struggling to get free. "You shall not marry Carmela."

"I shall; it is the price of your safety."

"My safety?" and she suddenly grew calm.

"Yes, Carmela would have married the Australian. I hated him, and wanted her. He has been searching for the person who killed Leopold Verschoyle, and the evidence all points to you. He asked me if you were on board that night? I said 'No.' I showed your letter. He asked Carmela? She said 'Yes.'"

"The fool!"

"I made her write a letter denying it. She will keep silent for your sake. No one but I can prove it. I will keep silent on condition that I marry Carmela. She has accepted me, and you will not refuse your consent."

"I will."

"You will not."

"Dog, let me go!"

"Not till you consent."

"No!"

Vassalla released her, and went to the door of his room.

"I will be back in a few moments," he said, coldly. "If you consent, and promise not to trouble me, I will save you; if not, you must take the consequences," and he went into his bedroom, and shut the door.

Mrs. Verschoyle recovered herself by a strong effort, and going to the sideboard, poured out half a glass of brandy, which she drank off. This seemed to do her good, for she put her bonnet straight, smoothed her hair, and producing another pair of gloves from her pocket, put them on. Then she went round the room looking at things until she came to the table, whereon lay Vassalla's portfolio. She saw Carmela's letter, and first glancing towards the door to make sure he was safe, snatched it up, and devoured every word of it. Then, throwing it down, she ransacked the portfolio with nimble fingers, evidently to see if there were more.

"It is here! it is here!" she muttered, glancing rapidly over the papers. "Ah!" and with a cry of delight she picked up a letter and slipped it into her pocket.

Just as she did this she heard Vassalla's foot, and knew he was returning. Pushing all the papers back, she ran noiselessly to the mirror, leaving the portfolio in the same disorder as she had found it, and was arranging her bonnet strings, when Vassalla, dressed to go out, entered the room putting on his gloves.

"Your answer?" he said, sharply.

Mrs. Verschoyle turned to him with a smiling face.

"I am beaten. Yes."

He looked at her suspiciously.

"You mean it?"

"On condition that you stop the bloodhound."

"Agreed; and now let us go out."

"Where is Carmela?" she asked, as he held the door open.

"At Marlow with Sir Mark Trevor. Do you want to see her?"

"No; that is, not at present," she answered, going down the stairs. "Where does the bloodhound live?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asked, sharply.

"You needn't tell me unless you like," said Mrs. Verschoyle, haughtily; "I only asked from idle curiosity."

"I believe he is stopping at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden."

"Oh!" carelessly, as they stepped out to the street, "this is my cab. Can I take you anywhere?"

"No, thank you," said Matteo, helping her in. "Good-bye at present. I'll see you again soon."

"I hope so," replied Mrs. Verschoyle; and Matteo walked away as the cab drove off.

Mrs. Verschoyle lay back, and smiled.

"You think you have won," she murmured, glancing at the stolen letter; "but there are always two to a game, my dear Matteo! You forget that!"