Chapter Thirty.
“I Bear Witness!”
Next morning Gemma stood at the window of her bedroom, looking down upon Northumberland Avenue. She had breakfasted unusually early, and had chosen a dark-green dress trimmed with narrow astrachan—one of her Paris-made gowns which she knew fitted her perfectly and suited her complexion. She had stood before the long mirror in the wardrobe for some minutes, and, with a pride that may always be forgiven in a woman, regarded herself with satisfaction. They knew how to make a woman look her best in the Rue de la Paix.
The recollection of the previous night was, in the light of morning, horrifying. After leaving Sussex Square, she had stopped her cab at the telegraph office opposite Charing Cross Station, the office being open day and night, and had sent a long and urgent message to Rome explaining the situation. Already a reply reposed in the pocket of her gown, but it was unsatisfactory. The private secretary had wired back that the Marquis was away at his high-up, antique castle of Montelupo, “the Mountain of the Wolf,” between Empoli and Signa, in Tuscany. She therefore knew that many hours must elapse ere her cipher message was delivered to him. Even his reply could not reach her for four hours or so after it had been despatched from Empoli. But after sending the message to Rome, she had also sent one to Armytage at Aldworth Court, and was now awaiting his arrival.
Her hands were cold and nervous, her eyes heavy and weary, and her face deathly pale and haggard, for she had slept but little that night. She saw plainly that all her desperate efforts to free herself had been in vain. There had been a hitch somewhere, or that night the whole of that assembly at Lady Marshfield’s would have been arrested by detectives from Scotland Yard, at the instigation of Count Castellani, acting under telegraphic orders from Rome. Italy would thus have been able to rid herself of as desperate a gang of malefactors as ever stood in the dock of a criminal court. She had kept faith with the Marquis Montelupo, her master, and, in order to gain her freedom, had furnished the Ministry with full details of the plot. Her freedom of action had been promised her in exchange for this information, but with the stipulation that the conspirators must be arrested. The Marquis, cunning and far-seeing, was well aware that this would ensure greater secrecy, and hold her as his agent until the very end.
No arrest had, however, taken place. All her plans had failed utterly, and, in a paroxysm of despair, she told herself that she was still, even at that moment, as far off gaining her freedom as ever she had been. Her tiny white hands clenched themselves in despair.
“I love him!” she murmured hoarsely. “I love him; but Fate always intervenes—always. Shall I never be released from this terrible thraldom? I pray day and night, and yet—”
She paused. Her eyes fell upon the small ivory crucifix standing upon a pile of books beside her bed. She sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and her thin white lips moved in fervent prayer.
Suddenly, while her head was still bent upon her breast in penitence, as she craved forgiveness for violating the oath she had taken to these men who sought her death, a master-key was placed in the door and the chambermaid entered.