But this state of uncertainty as to his meaning was destined to be but of short duration. Barely a week had elapsed since my receipt of the above letter when, as I stood alone in the composing-room one morning, I was surprised to see the figure of an unknown man appear above the balustrade leading from below. He was evidently a foreigner and a Southerner, and walking straight up to me he asked in Italian, but with a distinct Spanish accent, "Are you Isabel Meredith?"
On my answering in the affirmative, he handed me a sealed note on which was written my name in Giannoli's familiar hand.
"This is for you," he said, "I bring it direct from Barcelona. It is strictly private. Good morning," and as mysteriously as he had appeared he was gone.
Even before opening it, the shaky writing on the envelope told me only too eloquently that matters were no better with Giannoli at the time he penned it. Moreover, I felt certain, from the extraordinary nature of its delivery, that it must contain news of exceptional moment. A dull, sick feeling of dread overcame me as I stood irresolute, holding the unopened letter in my hand. I was tempted to put it aside and postpone the knowledge of any unpleasant news it might contain. I knew this, however, to be a weakness, and so with an effort I tore it open. It read as follows:—
"DEAREST FRIEND,—This is a letter which it would be unsafe to consign to the post. Therefore I send it to you by hand, by means of an old friend who can be trusted. He is not a comrade, and has no knowledge of its contents. A few days back I wrote to you from Gibraltar, telling you of the serious break-down in my health, and of the circumstances which had compelled me once again to leave Lisbon. Now, at last, I feel in a measure more composed, for my resolution is taken, and I mean to end my life—not without benefit to our Cause, I hope. You are the only person with whom I am communicating. Even Kosinski has been bought over by my enemies. A letter from him was forwarded to me in Lisbon, in which he sided with the spies who have been trying to ruin me, and which contained covert threats which I understood only too well. Thus another illusion is shattered! The burden of all these disillusions, all these disgusts and disappointments, is too heavy to bear any longer. I must get away from it all before my health and intellect are completely shattered. I have always thought suicide a cowardly death for an Anarchist. Before taking leave of life it is his duty to strike a final blow at Society and I, at least, mean to strike it. Here the moment is in every way ripe. Ever since the explosion in Madrid, eight months ago, the Anarchists have been the victims of the most savage persecutions. I have seen one man with his nails torn off, and another raving mad with thirst, after having been kept without water, and fed on salt cod during sixty hours. Others have been tortured in prison in other ways—some tortures so vile and filthy that I would not tell you of them. I write this in order to show you that the moment is ripe here for some vigorous act of reprisal. It is impossible to strike a blow at all those who are responsible, for the whole of Society is to blame: but those most guilty must suffer for it. I am prepared to strike my final blow before I take my leave, and you will learn from the papers in a few days' time the exact nature of the act I contemplate.
"And now I must beg you to pardon me for all the trouble and disturbance I have occasioned you, dear friend; I can never thank you enough. You, and you alone, have been true to me. For your own sake, I entreat you also to beware of false friends—especially avoid Kosinski.——Yours ever,
"GIACOMO GIANNOLI."