“And this,” retorted Nenci, pointing at the Captain—“this man is a murderer! It was he who killed Vittorina Rinaldo!”
“You’re a liar?” Tristram answered, his face livid and set. “The evidence against me is circumstantial enough, perhaps, to convict me of the crime, but I am innocent—absolutely innocent. I myself was the victim of a dastardly plot. Little dreaming of what was intended, I escorted her from Leghorn to London, and thus unwittingly myself created circumstances which were so suspicious as to fasten the terrible guilt upon me. But I declare before Heaven that I’m in ignorance of both the motive and the secret means by which the crime was accomplished!”
The outlaw laughed a harsh, dry laugh. His demeanour at the first moment of their entry into the room had been one of fear. Now he was fiercely defiant, and affected amusement at their demeanour.
“If you can prove your innocence, then do so,” he said grimly. “According to the papers, you left the cab, entered the bar, spoke to your accomplice, the Major, whoever he was, and then escaped by the back entrance.”
“True,” replied the King’s Messenger. “But my hurried flight had nothing whatever to do with the murder of Vittorina, nor did my conversation with the Major bear upon it in any way whatever. I merely expressed surprise at meeting him there after leaving him at the station; and he, too, was surprised to see me. Then, while in the bar, I suddenly recollected that, in the hurry of alighting from the train, I had left in the carriage a despatch-bag given me by one of the messengers of the Embassy in Paris to convey to London; and knowing that the train would be shunted out, perhaps down to the depot at Nine Elms, I made all speed back to Charing Cross, where I found that a porter had already discovered it, and taken it to the lost-property office. I had no fear of Vittorina’s safety, for I had already given the cabman the address in Hammersmith, and every second was of consequence in recovering my lost despatches.”
“But the Major’s photograph was discovered in Vittorina’s bag,” Nenci cried in a tone of disbelief. “How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know. To me, that fact is a mystery, although I have since entertained a suspicion that the Major, when he met me, must have been aware that the girl’s life was to be taken. He called upon me afterwards, and we were both afraid of arrest upon circumstantial evidence. I was aware that he was implicated in some shady transactions in the City, for he confessed to me his intention of leaving England secretly.”
“Your story is ingenious enough,” Nenci replied, “but it will never convince a jury of your innocence. You can’t clear yourself. It’s absolutely impossible.”
“One moment,” interrupted Armytage, who, standing beside his well-beloved, had been intently watching the face of this desperate malefactor during this argument—“one moment,” he said coolly. “This visit is a very fortuitous circumstance. A face such as yours, one never forgets—never. We have met before.”
“I think not, signore,” the other answered, smiling with that ineffable politeness which so often nauseates. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, save that I presume you are the affianced husband to the Signora Contessa.”