Why were they leaving the yacht in company? What fresh conspiracy was there in progress?
I had always believed old Benjamin Keppel to be the soul of honour, but the revelations of the past few hours caused me utter bewilderment. I stood there in hesitation, and glancing up at the clock, saw that there were still three minutes before the departure of the train. Next moment I had made a resolve to follow them and ascertain the truth. I entered the booking-office, obtained a ticket to Modane, the French frontier beyond Mont Cenis, and a few moments later was sitting alone in a compartment at the rear of the train. I had no luggage, nothing whatever save the small travelling reticule suspended from my waist-belt. And I had set out for an unknown destination!
The train moved off, and soon we were tearing through the night across that wide plain which had been the sea-bottom in those mediæval days when the sculptured town of Pisa was a prosperous seaport, the envy of both Florentines and Genoese, and past the spot marked by a church where St. Peter is said to have landed. Well I knew that wide Tuscan plain, with its fringe of high, vine-clad mountains, for in my girlhood days I had wandered over it, making my delighted way through the royal forest and through the gracious vinelands.
At last, after three quarters of an hour, we ran into the busy station at Pisa, that point so well known to every tourist who visits Italy. It is the highway to Florence, Rome, and Naples, just as it is to Genoa, Turin, or Milan; and just as the traveller in Switzerland must at some time find himself at Bâle, so does the traveller in Italy at some time or other find himself at Pisa. Yet how few strangers who pass through, or who drive down to look at the Leaning Tower and the great old Cathedral, white as a marble tomb, ever take the trouble to explore the country beyond. They never go up to quiet, grey, old Lucca, a town with walls and gates the same to-day as when Dante wandered there, untouched by the hand of the vandal, unspoilt by modern progress, undisturbed by tourist invaders. Its narrow, old-world streets of decaying palaces, its leafy piazzas, its Lily theatre, its proud, handsome people, all are charming to one who, like myself, loves Italy and the gay-hearted Tuscan.
Little time was there for reflection, however, for on alighting at Pisa I was compelled to conceal myself until the arrival of the express on its way from Rome to Paris. While I waited, the thought occurred to me that the Vispera was still in peril, and that I alone could save her passengers and crew. Yet, with the mysterious woman still alive, there could, I pondered, be no motive in destroying the vessel. Perhaps the idea had happily been abandoned.
Nevertheless, the non-appearance of the individual whose voice I had heard, but whom I had not seen, was disconcerting. Try as I would, I could not get rid of the suspicion aroused by Keppel's flight that foul play was still intended. If it were not, why had the old millionaire not continued his cruise? As the unknown woman had been concealed on board for several weeks, there was surely no reason why she should not have remained there another three or four days, until we reached Marseilles! No. That some unusually strange mystery was connected with the whole affair, I felt confident.
I peered out from the corner in which I was standing, and saw Keppel and his companion enter the buffet. As soon as they had disappeared, I made a sudden resolve, entered the telegraph office, and wrote the following message:
"To Captain Davis. S.Y. 'Vispera' in port, Livorno.—Have altered arrangements. Sail at once for Genoa. Box I spoke of will join you there. Leave immediately on receipt of this.—KEPPEL."
I handed it in to the telegraphist, saying in Italian:
"I want this delivered on board to-night, most particularly."