Having heard all that Ferrari could tell him, he felt easier in his mind than he had felt since that unpleasant hour with his mother and Sefton on Saturday evening. The more he thought of the courier’s chain of evidence, the weaker it seemed to him. No, he could not think that the man he had killed was the brother of the woman he was going to marry. He tried to recall the man’s face; but the suddenness and fury of that deadly encounter had afforded no time for minute observation. The man’s face had flashed upon him out of the crowd—fair-haired, fair-skinned, amidst all those olive complexions—a face and figure that bore down upon him with the impression of physical power; handsome only as the typical gladiator is handsome. What more could he remember? Irregular features, strongly marked; a low forehead; and light blue eyes. The Marchants were a blue-eyed race; but that went for little in a country where the majority of eyes are blue or grey.
Vansittart remembered his promise to visit Fiordelisa and her aunt; and as this was his last day in London, perhaps, for some time, he gave up his afternoon to the performance of that promise. Tuesday was one of the Professor’s days; and he had promised to hear the Professor’s opinion of Signora Vivanti’s progress.
Since that painful hour on Saturday he had thought seriously of the impulsive Venetian, and of his relations with her—relations which he felt to be full of peril. It had occurred to him that there was only one way to secure Fiordelisa’s future welfare, while strictly maintaining his own incognito, and that was by the purchase of an annuity. It would cost him some thousands to capitalize that income of two hundred a year, which he had resolved to allow Lisa; but he had reserves which he could afford to draw upon, the accumulations of his minority, invested in railway stock. Any lesser sacrifice would appear to him too poor an atonement; for after all, it was possible that, but for him, Fiordelisa’s Englishman might have kept his promise and married her. No, Vansittart did not think he would be doing too much in securing these two women against poverty for the rest of their lives—and the annuity once bought he would be justified in disappearing out of Fiordelisa’s life, and leaving her in ignorance of his name and belongings.
He spent an hour with his lawyer before going to Chelsea, and from that gentleman obtained all needful information as to the proper manner of purchasing an annuity, and the best people with whom to invest his money.
This done, he walked across the Park, and arrived at Saltero’s Mansion on the stroke of four. Lisa had told him that her lesson lasted from three to four, so he had timed himself to meet the maestro.
The ripe round notes of Lisa’s mezzo soprano rose full and strong in one of Conconi’s exercises as la Zia opened the door. She attacked a florid passage with force and precision, ran rapidly up the scale to A sharp, and held the high note long and clear as the call of a bird.
“Brava, brava!” cried Signor Zinco, banging down a chord and rising from the piano as Vansittart entered.
Lisa flew to meet him. She was in her black frock, with a bit of scarlet ribbon tied round her throat, and another bit of scarlet tying up her great untidy knot of blue-black hair. The rusty black gown, the scarlet ribbons, the olive face, with its carnation flush and star-like eyes, made a brilliant picture after the school of Murillo. Vansittart could but see that she was strikingly handsome—just the kind of woman to take the town by storm, if she were once seen and heard in opera bouffe.
Zinco was a little old man, with no more figure than an eighteen-gallon cask. He had a large bald head, and benevolent eyes. He was very shabby. His coat, which might once have been black, was now a dull green—his old grey trousers were kneed and frayed, his old fat hands were dirty.