They were silent for a moment, and then passed out of the garden together, both absorbed in their own thoughts.
The woman's: "Will this love prevent him doing justice to my brother's memory?"
The man's; "Is Carmela aware that I know her relationship to Mrs. Verschoyle?"
[CHAPTER XIV.]
A LETTER FROM MALTA.
Julian Roper to Ronald Monteith.
Dear Sir,--I have now been here a week, and in accordance with your instructions, have lost no time in investigating the case entrusted to me; but the results, I regret to say, are far from satisfactory. On my arrival at Valletta, I took up my quarters at the Hotel D'Angleterre, in the Strada Sta. Lucia, made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Verschoyle, and after some considerable difficulty, found that she was staying at a boarding-house in the Strada Cristoforo.
On learning this, I thought my best plan would be to take up my abode in the same house, as I could then learn with more precision the movements of Mrs. Verschoyle. To this end I went to the Strada Cristoforo, and found the boarding-house to be a very comfortable one, kept by a fat widow whose name is Signora Briffa. I secured very pleasant apartments, and took possession of them next day, much to my own satisfaction and that of the Signora.
At the table d'hôte I met the rest of the lodgers, who are a queer-looking lot, mostly Italians, with a sprinkling of English people. Among the latter is a Mrs. Dexter, the widow of a colonel in the Indian army, who has been staying in Valletta for the last fifteen years for her health, and being a garrulous old person, much given to gossip, knows everything and everyone. She is tall, rather thin, with sharp features--scanty, grey hair, and cold, grey eyes. In fact, she gave me the impression of being a decidedly unpleasant person, a presentiment which turned out to be true on my further acquaintance with her. She confesses to the age of thirty-five, though I shrewdly suspect forty-five, or even more, would be near the mark. She has one quality, however, which is of great service to me--she hates Mrs. Verschoyle with all the intense hatred of a narrow-minded woman. Her reasons are twofold. First, Mrs. Verschoyle is very handsome; Mrs. Dexter is not. Secondly, Mrs. Verschoyle is rich, whereas Mrs. Dexter is poor. Given these reasons, can you wonder at the malignity of her feelings towards Mrs. Verschoyle? As to the latter, she is very beautiful--I speak as an unenthusiastic man--tall, dark skinned, with clearly cut features, and magnificent, black eyes, she impressed me at once with an overwhelming sense of a strong personality. Looking at her in repose, she is a fine picture, but once hear her talk, and the charm is gone. Yes, her voice is very coarse, and sounds discordantly; in addition to which, she is insufferably proud--another cause of Mrs. Dexter's dislike--and has a very violent temper. She, of course, did not deign to speak to me--a mere English tourist--such, of course, is my character--but gave all her attention to Lord Francis Hurlington, a young nobleman who hovers round her like a moth round a candle. I hope he will not singe his lordly wings.
Seeing me, seated in the drawing-room all alone, Mrs. Dexter came and sat beside me, apparently out of good nature for one so forsaken, but in reality to learn all my history, and gratify her love of curiosity. I told her my history--that is, I invented a fictitious story, which proved that I ought to have been a novelist. In return for my confidence, she told me all about the inmates of the house, more especially of Mrs. Verschoyle, thinking, I've no doubt, that a skilfully coloured story might injure the lady in my estimation. I heard all about the divorce case, but as you are already acquainted with the facts, there is no need, on my part, for repetition, so I may as well tell you the story of Mrs. Verschoyle's life from the time she settled in Valletta after the divorce.