“Lots—from Carling’s own to Lord Warrington’s; it had been handled by half a dozen people at least—quite legitimately. Carling’s prints, of course—though they’re the clearest of the lot under the microscope—won’t be regarded as evidence against him, as he was the first to handle and seal the envelope the night before. All that will be threshed out at the trial.”
“I guess so. Well, I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Snell,” said Austin despondently.
“Wish I’d been able to help you,” Snell responded as they shook hands.
Austin walked slowly along the Embankment in deep and distressed thought. This interview with Snell was a bitter disappointment; and now again he seemed up against a blank wall. There was still the mysterious visitant to the flat to be considered, but if he or she was traced that might prove nothing.
Outside Charing Cross Station he paused indecisively. He had an hour or two to spare. Should he go to Chelsea? He hadn’t seen Winnie for over a week—not since that day at the police court when Roger was committed for trial—as she had been singing at Bristol and only returned yesterday. Or should he go to Cacciola’s on the chance of finding anyone at home?
He would not acknowledge even in his own mind that by “anyone” he meant Maddelena. The girl attracted him most strongly, and in a manner that he did not choose to analyse. He did not love her—of that he was quite sure. He had never been of a susceptible nature where women were concerned; had always held to the high ideals of love and marriage derived from a long line of Puritan ancestors, for he came of a sound New English stock. He loved Winnie Winston; he meant to marry her; would have been profoundly indignant at any suggestion that he could waver in his allegiance to her.
And yet at intervals ever since he first saw Maddelena Cacciola beside Paula Rawson’s grave, and almost continuously since that evening when he had met and talked with her, that beautiful, vivid face, with its swift, passionate changes of expression, had haunted him, sleeping and waking, in a most perplexing and disturbing way!
He had not seen or spoken to her since, for though he had rung up several times, only Giulia had answered, to the effect that the signor and signorina were out.
As he turned into the station he tried to convince himself that he was going to Rivercourt Mansions merely to ascertain if the girl had been able to get any information from Boris, as she had undertaken to do, and not that he had any desire to meet her again; and all the time, at the back of his honest mind he was quite aware—and ashamed—of the subterfuge.
As he mounted the last of the long flights of stone stairs that led to Cacciola’s eyrie he heard music from within—a glorious tenor voice, pure, passionate, thrilling—singing to a masterly accompaniment of piano and violin.