VII.  —  The Golden Antonio

"SIGNOR — for the love of Heaven!" The Strand was crowded with a matinee throng, and the idle folk which promenade that famous thoroughfare before the Easter holiday filled the sidewalks.

To the man in a hurry the name of the loitering, sauntering pleasure-seekers was anathema. Frank Gallinford was that man in a hurry, for the 6.30 Burboro' express waits for no man, and, though Charing Cross was in sight, there remained only two minutes to get through the crowd, into the station, and on to the platform.

He cursed the idlers deeply and earnestly as he elbowed and pushed his way forward. To leave the pavement was to court disaster, for the roadway was blocked with traffic, and moreover an intelligent authority had had it dug up at its busiest portion and railed off to half its width for "repairs."

Frank Gallinford had stepped from the kerb into the roadway, and from the roadway on to the kerb again, dodging between the hawkers who vended their wares; he had sprung away from the wheels of devastating motor-cars, and buffeted stout and leisurely gentlemen in his effort to reach the station on time, but he seemed as far from his objective as ever.

Then he suddenly felt his sleeve clutched and the words —

"Signor, in the name of Mary!"

They were gasped rather than spoken, and the language employed was Italian.

Frank stopped and looked round with a bewildered frown. Who spoke to him in Italian in this most English Strand — and who knew that he was acquainted with the language?

The man at his elbow was unquestionably Latin. His long, cadaverous face, covered with a week's growth of beard, was working almost convulsively in his agitation. The big black eyes that stared at him from beneath two shaggy brows blazed as only Southern eyes can blaze.

In a moment the Englishman's anxiety to catch his train was forgotten. The soft accents which he knew so well, and loved so well, came to his ears like the first sigh of the breeze that ripples the Adriatic on summer nights. It stirred memories of a simple and charming peasantry, it brought visions of the marble palaces of the old Venetian nobility.

"Well, my friend?" he asked, kindly.

"I cannot speak to you here," said the man, dropping his voice and speaking quickly. "You remember me, Signor? — Romano — I was your foreman on the harbour works at Cattaro."

Frank remembered, and his hand dropped in a friendly salute on the other's shoulder.

"Remember you, Miguelo mio!" he laughed, "why, however could I forget you! You were the man who swam out to me when I was seized with cramp — confound you, you saved my life!"

A faint smile flickered across the lips of the little Italian, and then the look of anxiety came again.

"Follow me," he whispered, "this is urgent, you do not know, you cannot understand."

With no other word, he plunged into the throng, and Frank Gallinford, keeping him in sight, followed.

Romano turned the first corner he reached. It was a steep street which led down into the Adelphi.

Here the stream of traffic dried up. Into the gloomy depths only the most experienced travellers, who knew this contributed a short cut to the District Railway station, ventured, and the two men had the thoroughfare to themselves.

When they had gone fifty yards the Italian stopped, and Frank observed that he chose a spot midway between two street-lamps where the light was dimmest and most uncertain.

"Signor," he said, speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, "you know me a little. I am a mason, and I was brought to London to work on the new Italian restaurant in Regent Street. I have no friend in London, no one to whom I can turn — and I am in despair " — he wrung his hands, and his voice, though he kept it low by sheer effort of control, was shrill, — "and then I saw your face — your strong, calm English face in that great crowd, Signor — like a saint, Signor...."

Frank was too accustomed to the extravagance of the Italian compliment to feel embarrassed, though he had never overcome the sense of shyness which comes to the more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon in face of florid flattery.

"I am not feeling particularly angelic, Miguelo," he said, with a rueful smile as the recollection of his lost train occurred to him.

"Listen, Signor," the man went on. "Years ago, when I was younger, I was in New York — and for a joke, Signor — I swear it was no more than a youthful jest — I joined a Society. I took oaths — I thought nothing of it. Then I went away to my own country, later to Montenegro, then to Italy again — and now to London. And, Signor, they have found me, my Society. And they tell me I must do horrible things — horrible — horrible."

He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Frank was puzzled. He knew of these secret societies, had indeed seen their milder manifestations. He had endured an exasperating strike on more occasions than one as a result of some offence given to an official of a society. But never had he glimpsed the tragedy, the underlying horror of these mysterious associations.

He laid his hand gently on the other's arm.

"My friend," he said, soothingly, "you need not worry — this is England. These things do not happen here. If you are threatened, go to the police."

"No, no, no!" protested the man, frantic with terror; "you do not understand. My only hope is to get away ... if I could reach the Argentine — come — come!"

He dragged the other with him to the nearest street-lamp, fumbling in his pocket the while.

"They want me for many reasons," he said, "and for this most of all."

His coat was one of those heavy cloth coats which Italian labourers wear, the corners of the pockets ornamented with tiny triangles of rusty black velvet. From the depths of a pocket the man produced a little case. It looked like a jewel case, and the Englishman observed that it was very new. Romano's trembling hand sought for the catch. He found it after a while, and the satin-lined lid flew open. On a bed of dark blue velvet lay a little medallion.

"San Antonio," said the Italian, in a hushed, eager voice.

It was a beautiful piece of work. The back ground was made up of small diamonds, the Saint with the Babe was in gold relief. This was no stamped and minted impression, but a piece of rare and delicate carving.

"Signor," said Miguelo, "a month ago a man who was a friend of mine brought this to me — how it came to him I do not know. He asked me to take care of it, and in time — these were his words, Signor — to restore it — "

A motor-car came swiftly down the street, and the Italian looked round apprehensively.

"Take it!"

He thrust the case into Gallinford's hands, clicking it close as he did it.

"But — "

"Take it — ah!"

The car drew up abreast of them and, as the lacquered door swung open, Romano shrank back against the railings.

Two men alighted, and they were followed by a woman.

She was tall, slim, graceful. Frank could not see her face, for it was thickly veiled, but her voice was low and sweet.

"This is the man," she said, and pointed to the cowering Italian.

The two men sprang at Romano and caught him by the arms. There was the click of handcuffs.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Gallinford, though, with a sinking heart, he anticipated the answer.

"This man has taken a jewel of mine," the lady replied.

"What does she say — what does she say?" asked the Italian. The conversation had been in English; Frank translated.

"It is a lie — a lie! —— " screamed Romano, struggling desperately as they dragged him toward the car; "save me, for God's sake, Signor!"

The Englishman hesitated. He had all the national repugnance of a "scene." He knew that the Italian would at any rate be safe at the police station — and if he were guilty, as it seemed probable, he needed no protection. The whole story was a cock-and-bull invention.

"Where are you taking him?" he asked.

"To Marlborough Street," said one of the men gruffly.

"Go quietly, Miguelo," said Frank, turning to the struggling man, "I will follow you."

But the prisoner had gone limp, he had fainted.

They lifted him into the car and the men jumped in after. The woman waited expectantly. Then Frank saw a second car behind. As the first car manoeuvred to turn, he heard voices in altercation. Miguelo had recovered from his swoon; there was a scuffle, and the Italian's head appeared at the window.

"Signor!" there was agony in his voice, "tell Signor Tillizini — "

A hand was placed over his mouth, and he was dragged back as the car rolled up the hill and into the slow-moving traffic.

Frank waited. He half expected the woman to speak. Then it occurred to him that she would regard him, if not as an accomplice, at least as a friend of the arrested man, and he went red.

She stepped lightly into the second car. This did not turn, but made its way downhill.

It was on the point of moving off when he remembered with a shock that, if he was not the thief, he was all unwillingly a receiver. The jewel was still in his pocket.

The car was on the move when he realized this and sprang to the door of the carriage.

"Madame," he said, "a word — I have something to say — I have — "

Through the open window of the car he saw the woman draw back.

"I want you —— " he began, and jumped back as he saw the flash of descending steel.

He was just in time.

The thin stiletto aimed at him struck the edge of the window, and Frank, temporarily dazed, stumbled to his knees in the muddy road as the car jerked ahead and vanished round the corner of Adam Street.

One glimpse he got of a white hand still clasping the hilt of the quivering poignard — a white hand on a finger of which glowed a square black opal.

He rose slowly to his feet, dumbfounded. He was furiously angry. She had evidently mistaken him for a robber.

He brushed the mud from his knees with a handkerchief, and collected his thoughts, swearing softly.

Here was he, a prosaic young engineer on his way to meet his fiancee in prosaic Burboro', engaged in an adventure which was three parts melodrama and one part comedy.

"This comes from listening to plausible Italians?" he said, savagely. He made his way to the Strand and hailed a taxicab.

"Marlborough Street Police Station," he directed.

He would rid himself of this infernal jewel and clear himself, at any rate.

The sergeant returned his greeting curtly, taking in the mud-stained figure with professional suspicion.

"Romano," he said. "No, we haven't a Romano here."

"He has just been arrested by two of your men," said Frank.

"No warrant has been executed for a man of that name," said the sergeant, shaking his head. "Just wait a minute and I'll ask Bow Street."

He went into an adjoining room, and Frank heard the tinkle of a telephone.

By and by the officer returned.

"Neither Bow Street nor Vine Street know anything about it," he said.

Briefly the young man told the story of the arrest, omitting only the fact that the jewel reposed in his pocket. He had no desire to find himself detained. With Miguelo to confirm his story and with the prosecutrix present to identify the jewel, it would be different. And he had, too, an overpowering desire to explain to the murderous lady, in person, his honourable intentions.

"No sir," the sergeant went on, "we've no Italians — we've had enough of them since the 'Red Hand' started operations in England. But since Mr. Tillizini began working for Scotland Yard, they haven't been so busy."

"Tillizini?" cried Frank, with a start.

The sergeant nodded.

"That's the gentleman," he said, complacently; "if you want to know anything about Italian criminals, you'd better see him — 108, Adelphi Terrace; anyway, you'd best come back again — the C.I.D. men may be working independently."

Frank walked in the neighbourhood of the station until ten o'clock that night. He sent a wire to his host and dined at a Piccadilly restaurant.

The clock was striking the hour when he again mounted the steps of Marlborough Street Station.

The sergeant was not alone. Three over-coated men were talking together in one corner of the room.

"Here he is," said the sergeant, and the three turned and surveyed the young engineer gravely.

"What was the name of that Italian you were inquiring about?" asked the sergeant.

"Miguelo della Romano," replied Frank. "Have you found him?"

The officer nodded grimly.

"Picked him up in the Embankment Gardens — an hour ago," he said.

"Where is he?" asked Frank.

"In the mortuary," said the sergeant, "with twenty-five knife-wounds in his body."