As the coachman was driving at a good pace, I had some difficulty in deciphering the words by the light of the street-lamps as their rays flashed in, and as rapidly disappeared. The words I read, however, were decidedly curious. Written in Italian, rather faintly, be it said, the note ran as follows:
"The bearer will give you this in strictest secrecy. Do not return on board the yacht, but first call at Number 12, Via Magenta, ground floor, where you will meet a friend whose interests are identical with your own. Dismiss your carriage near the port, and take a cab to the address indicated. Come, without fear, and without delay."
The invitation was, to say the least of it, a peculiar one. Although a woman, I am not naturally timid, especially in Italy, where I know the language, and know the peculiarities of the people. My first feelings, however, were those of suspicion. Why could not the writer have approached me openly, without taking the elaborate precaution of sending me the missive by the hand of the dazio guard? Again, I was not acquainted with the Via Magenta, and suspected it to be in a low quarter of the city. There are several parts of Leghorn into which a woman would certainly not care to venture after dark.
The suggestion that I should not return to the yacht read to me as a warning, especially in the light of the knowledge I had gained of old Keppel's intentions. Could it be possible that it was intended that the Vispera should sail before morning and go straight to her doom?
I sat back in the carriage, thinking it all over. Finally, I came to the conclusion that the writer of the letter, whoever he was, must, like myself, be aware of the truth. Our interests, he declared, were identical. That statement was in itself interesting, and filled me with a curiosity which increased as I reflected. I glanced again at the sheet of common notepaper in my hand, and my suspicions were again aroused by the fact that there was no signature. The note was anonymous, and no one, especially a woman, has any sympathy with anonymity.
Should I disregard the warning, cast the letter out of the carriage window, and return on board; or should I act according to its instructions?
I was engaged in a very serious and difficult inquiry, which had baffled experienced police officials, be it remembered. In every direction I scented suspicion, now that the old millionaire, the man in whose integrity I had so firmly believed, was proved to be the author of a foul and dastardly crime. The whole affair was as startling as it was incomprehensible. The enigma was complete.
Ever since the time when I had been so cleverly tricked by the pseudo-detectives in Nice, I had been on the alert to discover some clue which might lead me to a knowledge of the manner in which poor Reggie had met with his death. That there was a deep-laid conspiracy on foot was manifest, but in what direction to seek for an explanation, I knew not. The mystery of this strange affair unnerved me.
The city of Leghorn is bisected by the Via Grande, its principal street, which runs from the great Piazza Carlo Alberto in a straight line down to the port. At the bottom of this thoroughfare I stopped the brougham, alighted, and sent the conveyance back to Ardenza. The steps at which I knew the yacht's boat would be awaiting me were a considerable distance away, and I had no fear of detection by any person who knew me. At that hour all my fellow-guests would undoubtedly be back on board; therefore if I kept the strange appointment, I might return to the yacht within an hour, and no one need be the wiser.
From the open casement of one of the high, not over-clean houses facing the port, where boatmen and dock-labourers lived, sounded the sweet twanging of a mandoline, while a voice sang an old Tuscan serenade: