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A Mystery of Modern Venice

by Wilkie Collins (1824-1889)

(after the edition of Chatto & Windus, London, 1879)



In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London
physician reached its highest point. It was reported on good
authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes
derived from the practice of medicine in modern times.

One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor
had just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work
in his consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits
to patients at their own houses to fill up the rest of his day--
when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him.

'Who is she?' the Doctor asked. 'A stranger?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see no strangers out of consulting-hours. Tell her what the hours are,
and send her away.'

'I have told her, sir.'


'And she won't go.'

'Won't go?' The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. He was
a humourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situation
which rather amused him. 'Has this obstinate lady given you her name?'
he inquired.

'No, sir. She refused to give any name--she said she wouldn't keep
you five minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till
to-morrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and how to get
her out again is more than I know.'

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women
(professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more
than thirty years; he had met with them in all their varieties--
especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time,
and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex.
A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds
among the patients who were waiting for him at their own houses.
He decided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open
under the circumstances. In other words, he decided on taking
to flight.

'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. Open the house-door for me without making any noise,
and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room.
When she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her.
If she asks when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club,
and spend the evening at the theatre. Now then, softly, Thomas!
If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.'

He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant
on tip-toe.

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did Thomas's
shoes creak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen?
Whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened
was beyond all doubt. Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his
consulting-room, the door opened--the lady appeared on the threshold--
and laid her hand on his arm.

'I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak
to you first.'

The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers
closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor's arm.

Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining
him to grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him,
on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face.
The startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her
complexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering
metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held him literally
spell-bound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste;
she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age--say a year
or two over thirty. Her lower features--the nose, mouth, and chin--
possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen
among women of foreign races than among women of English birth.
She was unquestionably a handsome person--with the one serious
drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable
defect of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes.
Apart from his first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced
in the Doctor may be described as an overpowering feeling of
professional curiosity. The case might prove to be something entirely
new in his professional experience. 'It looks like it,' he thought;
'and it's worth waiting for.'

She perceived that she she had produced a strong impression
of some kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.

'You have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said.
'Comfort one more, to-day.'

Without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the room.

The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her
in the patients' chair, opposite the windows. Even in London
the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright.
The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly,
with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smooth
pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.
For the first time, for many a long year past, the Doctor felt his pulse
quicken its beat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared,
strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy
seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to
speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase,
what he could do for her.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight
at the light, she said abruptly: 'I have a painful question to ask.'

'What is it?'

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor's face.
Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put
the 'painful question' in these extraordinary words:

'I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'

Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed.
Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment.
Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly
by appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman,
whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a
weak brain? 'Why do you come to me?' he asked sharply. 'Why don't
you consult a doctor whose special employment is the treatment of
the insane?'

She had her answer ready on the instant.

'I don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said, 'for the very
reason that he is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging
everybody by lines and rules of his own laying down. I come to you,
because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are
famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease.
Are you satisfied?'

He was more than satisfied--his first idea had been the right idea,
after all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to his
professional position. The capacity which had raised him to fame
and fortune was his capacity (unrivalled among his brethren)
for the discovery of remote disease.

'I am at your disposal,' he answered. 'Let me try if I can find
out what is the matter with you.'

He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered;
and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was,
mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied
with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life.
Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that
was amiss. With the admirable patience and devotion to his art
which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student,
he still subjected her to one test after another. The result was
always the same. Not only was there no tendency to brain disease--
there was not even a perceptible derangement of the nervous system.
'I can find nothing the matter with you,' he said. 'I can't even
account for the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely
puzzle me.'

'The pallor of my complexion is nothing,' she answered a
little impatiently. 'In my early life I had a narrow escape from
death by poisoning. I have never had a complexion since--and my skin
is so delicate, I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash.
But that is of no importance. I wanted your opinion given positively.
I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.' Her head dropped
on her breast. 'And so it ends!' she said to herself bitterly.

The Doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more
correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt.
'It may end in the right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to
help me.'

She looked up again with flashing eyes, 'Speak plainly,' she said.
'How can I help you?'

'Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me
to make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art
will do much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred--
something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health--
to frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here
to consult me. Is that true?'

She clasped her hands in her lap. 'That is true!' she said eagerly.
'I begin to believe in you again.'

'Very well. You can't expect me to find out the moral cause which has
alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical
cause of alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence)
I can do no more.'

She rose, and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said.
'But, mind, I shall mention no names!'

'There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.'

'The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'I have only my own impressions
to confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you
hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you--
I will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it,
they won't do much to help you.'

She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began
the strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached
the Doctor's ears.


'It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,' she said. 'It is another fact,
that I am going to be married again.'

There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her.
Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile--
there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly,
and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise
in acting on his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace
patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him,
with a certain tender regret.

The lady went on.

'My approaching marriage,' she said, 'has one embarrassing
circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be,
was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad:
that lady, mind, being of his own blood and family, related to
him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover,
and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say--because he told
me nothing of his engagement until after I had accepted him.
When we next met in England--and when there was danger, no doubt,
of the affair coming to my knowledge--he told me the truth.
I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse ready; he showed me
a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from his engagement.
A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never read in my life.
I cried over it--I who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own!
If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would
have positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it--
without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes
even for his happiness--the firmness of it, I say, left him no hope.
He appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his love for me.
You know what women are. I too was soft-hearted--I said,
Very well: yes! In a week more (I tremble as I think of it)
we are to be married.'

She did really tremble--she was obliged to pause and compose herself,
before she could go on. The Doctor, waiting for more facts,
began to fear that he stood committed to a long story. 'Forgive me
for reminding you that I have suffering persons waiting to see me,'
he said. 'The sooner you can come to the point, the better for my
patients and for me.'

The strange smile--at once so sad and so cruel--showed itself again
on the lady's lips. 'Every word I have said is to the point,'
she answered. 'You will see it yourself in a moment more.'

She resumed her narrative.

'Yesterday--you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday--
I was among the visitors at one of your English luncheon parties.
A lady, a perfect stranger to me, came in late--after we had left
the table, and had retired to the drawing-room. She happened
to take a chair near me; and we were presented to each other.
I knew her by name, as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had
robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter.
Now listen! You were impatient with me for not interesting
you in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy your mind
that I had no enmity of feeling towards the lady, on my side.
I admired her, I felt for her--I had no cause to reproach myself.
This is very important, as you will presently see. On her side,
I have reason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly
explained to her, and that she understood I was in no way to blame.
Now, knowing all these necessary things as you do, explain to me,
if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman's eyes looking at me,
I turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered, and shivered,
and knew what a deadly panic of fear was, for the first time in my

The Doctor began to feel interested at last.

'Was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appearance?'
he asked.

'Nothing whatever!' was the vehement reply. 'Here is the true
description of her:--The ordinary English lady; the clear cold
blue eyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner,
the large good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin:
these, and nothing more.'

'Was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her,
that took you by surprise?'

'There was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been
preferred to her; and perhaps some astonishment also, not to see
a more engaging and more beautiful person; both those feelings
restrained within the limits of good breeding, and both not lasting
for more than a few moments--so far as I could see. I say, "so far,"
because the horrible agitation that she communicated to me disturbed
my judgment. If I could have got to the door, I would have run out
of the room, she frightened me so! I was not even able to stand up--
I sank back in my chair; I stared horror-struck at the calm
blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise.
To say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing.
I felt her soul in them, looking into mine--looking, if such a thing
can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. I tell you my impression,
in all its horror and in all its folly! That woman is destined
(without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life.
Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that I
was not aware of myself, until I felt them stirring under her look.
If I commit faults in my life to come--if I am even guilty of crimes--
she will bring the retribution, without (as I firmly believe)
any conscious exercise of her own will. In one indescribable
moment I felt all this--and I suppose my face showed it.
The good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm
for me. "I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you;
will you try my smelling bottle?" I heard her say those kind words;
and I remember nothing else--I fainted. When I recovered my senses,
the company had all gone; only the lady of the house was with me.
For the moment I could say nothing to her; the dreadful impression
that I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming
back of my life. As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell me
the whole truth about the woman whom I had supplanted. You see,
I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved,
that her noble letter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy--in short,
that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enough to hide it.
No! the lady had been her friend from her girlhood, was as familiar
with her as if they had been sisters--knew her positively to be as good,
as innocent, as incapable of hating anybody, as the greatest saint
that ever lived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary
forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy,
was a hope destroyed for ever. There was one more effort I could make,
and I made it. I went next to the man whom I am to marry.
I implored him to release me from my promise. He refused.
I declared I would break my engagement. He showed me letters
from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dear friends--
all entreating him to think again before he made me his wife;
all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London,
which are so many vile lies. "If you refuse to marry me," he said,
"you admit that these reports are true--you admit that you are afraid
to face society in the character of my wife." What could I answer?
There was no contradicting him--he was plainly right: if I persisted
in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result.
I consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it--
and left him. The night has passed. I am here, with my fixed conviction--
that innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life.
I am here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answer it.
For the last time, sir, what am I--a demon who has seen the avenging
angel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a deranged

Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview.

He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard.
The longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly
the conviction of the woman's wickedness had forced itself on him.
He tried vainly to think of her as a person to be pitied--a person
with a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities
for evil which lie dormant in us all, and striving earnestly to open
her heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature; the effort
was beyond him. A perverse instinct in him said, as if in words,
Beware how you believe in her!

'I have already given you my opinion,' he said. 'There is no sign
of your intellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged,
that medical science can discover--as I understand it.
As for the impressions you have confided to me, I can only say
that yours is a case (as I venture to think) for spiritual
rather than for medical advice. Of one thing be assured:
what you have said to me in this room shall not pass out of it.
Your confession is safe in my keeping.'

She heard him, with a certain dogged resignation, to the end.

'Is that all?' she asked.

'That is all,' he answered.

She put a little paper packet of money on the table.
'Thank you, sir. There is your fee.'

With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward,
with an expression of despair so defiant and so horrible in its silent
agony that the Doctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sight
of it. The bare idea of taking anything from her--not money only,
but anything even that she had touched--suddenly revolted him.
Still without looking at her, he said, 'Take it back; I don't want
my fee.'

She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward, she said
slowly to herself, 'Let the end come. I have done with the struggle:
I submit.'

She drew her veil over her face, bowed to the Doctor, and left
the room.

He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servant
closed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity--
utterly unworthy of him, and at the same time utterly irresistible--
sprang up in the Doctor's mind. Blushing like a boy, he said
to the servant, 'Follow her home, and find out her name.'
For one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears
had not deceived him. Doctor Wybrow looked back at him in silence.
The submissive servant knew what that silence meant--he took his hat
and hurried into the street.

The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. A sudden revulsion
of feeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection
of wickedness in the house, and had he caught it? What devil had
possessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant?
He had behaved infamously--he had asked an honest man, a man who had
served him faithfully for years, to turn spy! Stung by the bare
thought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door.
The servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back.
But one refuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him--
the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among
his patients.

If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation,
he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he made
himself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off
until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written,
the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home
earlier than usual--unutterably dissatisfied with himself.

The servant had returned. Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him.
The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to
be asked.

'The lady's name is the Countess Narona. She lives at--'

Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged
the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head,
and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused
still lay in its little white paper covering on the table.
He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the 'Poor-box'
of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in,
directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning.
Faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question,
'Do you dine at home to-day, sir?'

After a moment's hesitation he said, 'No: I shall dine at the club.'

The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is
the quality called 'conscience.' In one state of a man's mind,
his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him.
In another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible
terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices.
When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did
not even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object,
in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of the
Countess Narona.


There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip
sought the society of ladies. The man knows better now.
He goes to the smoking-room of his club.

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren
in social conclave assembled. The room was well filled;
but the flow of talk was still languid. The Doctor innocently
applied the stimulant that was wanted. When he inquired if
anybody knew the Countess Narona, he was answered by something
like a shout of astonishment. Never (the conclave agreed)
had such an absurd question been asked before! Every human creature,
with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the Countess Narona.
An adventuress with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour--
such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike
complexion and the glittering eyes.

Descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed
his own little stock of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess.
It was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself,
a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever
been married to the Count whose widow she assumed to be.
It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels
(under the name of Baron Rivar, and in the character of her brother)
was her brother at all. Report pointed to the Baron as a gambler at
every 'table' on the Continent. Report whispered that his so-called
sister had narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous trial
for poisoning at Vienna--that she had been known at Milan as a spy
in the interests of Austria--that her 'apartment' in Paris had been
denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling-house--
and that her present appearance in England was the natural result
of the discovery. Only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room
took the part of this much-abused woman, and declared that her
character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed.
But as the man was a lawyer, his interference went for nothing:
it was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent
in his profession. He was asked derisively what he thought
of the circumstances under which the Countess had become
engaged to be married; and he made the characteristic answer,
that he thought the circumstances highly creditable to both parties,
and that he looked on the lady's future husband as a most
enviable man.

Hearing this, the Doctor raised another shout of astonishment by
inquiring the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to marry.

His friends in the smoking-room decided unanimously that the
celebrated physician must be a second 'Rip-van-Winkle,' and that
he had just awakened from a supernatural sleep of twenty years.
It was all very well to say that he was devoted to his profession,
and that he had neither time nor inclination to pick up fragments
of gossip at dinner-parties and balls. A man who did not know
that the Countess Narona had borrowed money at Homburg of no less
a person than Lord Montbarry, and had then deluded him into making
her a proposal of marriage, was a man who had probably never heard
of Lord Montbarry himself. The younger members of the club,
humouring the joke, sent a waiter for the 'Peerage'; and read aloud
the memoir of the nobleman in question, for the Doctor's benefit--
with illustrative morsels of information interpolated by themselves.

'Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry,
King's County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished military
services in India. Born, 1812. Forty-eight years old, Doctor,
at the present time. Not married. Will be married next week,
Doctor, to the delightful creature we have been talking about.
Heir presumptive, his lordship's next brother, Stephen Robert,
married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden,
Rector of Runnigate, and has issue, three daughters. Younger brothers
of his lordship, Francis and Henry, unmarried. Sisters of his lordship,
Lady Barville, married to Sir Theodore Barville, Bart.; and Anne,
widow of the late Peter Norbury, Esq., of Norbury Cross.
Bear his lordship's relations well in mind, Doctor. Three brothers
Westwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry; and two sisters, Lady Barville
and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage;
and not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it,
if the Countess will only give them a chance. Add to these hostile
members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the
'Peerage,' a young lady--'

A sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped
the coming disclosure, and released the Doctor from further persecution.

'Don't mention the poor girl's name; it's too bad to make a joke of that
part of the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful provocation;
there is but one excuse for Montbarry--he is either a madman or a fool.'
In these terms the protest expressed itself on all sides.
Speaking confidentially to his next neighbour, the Doctor
discovered that the lady referred to was already known to him
(through the Countess's confession) as the lady deserted by
Lord Montbarry. Her name was Agnes Lockwood. She was described
as being the superior of the Countess in personal attraction,
and as being also by some years the younger woman of the two.
Making all allowance for the follies that men committed every day
in their relations with women, Montbarry's delusion was still
the most monstrous delusion on record. In this expression
of opinion every man present agreed--the lawyer even included.
Not one of them could call to mind the innumerable instances in
which the sexual influence has proved irresistible in the persons
of women without even the pretension to beauty. The very members
of the club whom the Countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages)
could have most easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while,
were the members who wondered most loudly at Montbarry's choice of
a wife.

While the topic of the Countess's marriage was still the one topic
of conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room
whose appearance instantly produced a dead silence.
Doctor Wybrow's next neighbour whispered to him, 'Montbarry's brother--
Henry Westwick!'

The new-comer looked round him slowly, with a bitter smile.

'You are all talking of my brother,'he said. 'Don't mind me.
Not one of you can despise him more heartily than I do.
Go on, gentlemen--go on!'

But one man present took the speaker at his word. That man was
the lawyer who had already undertaken the defence of the Countess.

'I stand alone in my opinion,' he said, 'and I am not ashamed of
repeating it in anybody's hearing. I consider the Countess Narona to be
a cruelly-treated woman. Why shouldn't she be Lord Montbarry's wife?
Who can say she has a mercenary motive in marrying him?'

Montbarry's brother turned sharply on the speaker. 'I say it!'
he answered.

The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his
ground as firmly as ever.

'I believe I am right,' he rejoined, 'in stating that his lordship's
income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life;
also that it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property
in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed.'

Montbarry's brother made a sign, admitting that he had no objection
to offer so far.

'If his lordship dies first,' the lawyer proceeded, 'I have been
informed that the only provision he can make for his widow consists
in a rent-charge on the property of no more than four hundred a year.
His retiring pension and allowances, it is well known, die with him.
Four hundred a year is therefore all that he can leave to the Countess,
if he leaves her a widow.'

'Four hundred a year is not all,' was the reply to this.
'My brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds;
and he has settled the whole of it on the Countess, in the event
of his death.'

This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other,
and repeated the three startling words, 'Ten thousand pounds!'
Driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend
his position.

'May I ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage?'
he said. 'Surely it was not the Countess herself?.'

Henry Westwick answered, 'it was the Countess's brother'; and added,
'which comes to the same thing.'

After that, there was no more to be said--so long, at least,
as Montbarry's brother was present. The talk flowed into other channels;
and the Doctor went home.

But his morbid curiosity about the Countess was not set at rest yet.
In his leisure moments he found himself wondering whether Lord
Montbarry's family would succeed in stopping the marriage after all.
And more than this, he was conscious of a growing desire to see
the infatuated man himself. Every day during the brief interval before
the wedding, he looked in at the club, on the chance of hearing some news.
Nothing had happened, so far as the club knew. The Countess's position
was secure; Montbarry's resolution to be her husband was unshaken.
They were both Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at
the chapel in Spanish Place. So much the Doctor discovered about them--
and no more.

On the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself,
he actually sacrificed his patients and their guineas, and slipped
away secretly to see the marriage. To the end of his life,
he was angry with anybody who reminded him of what he had done on
that day!

The wedding was strictly private. A close carriage stood at
the church door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly
old women, were scattered about the interior of the building.
Here and there Doctor Wybrow detected the faces of some of his
brethren of the club, attracted by curiosity, like himself.
Four persons only stood before the altar--the bride and bridegroom
and their two witnesses. One of these last was an elderly woman,
who might have been the Countess's companion or maid; the other
was undoubtedly her brother, Baron Rivar. The bridal party
(the bride herself included) wore their ordinary morning costume.
Lord Montbarry, personally viewed, was a middle-aged military man
of the ordinary type: nothing in the least remarkable distinguished
him either in face or figure. Baron Rivar, again, in his way was
another conventional representative of another well-known type.
One sees his finely-pointed moustache, his bold eyes,
his crisply-curling hair, and his dashing carriage of the head,
repeated hundreds of times over on the Boulevards of Paris.
The only noteworthy point about him was of the negative sort--
he was not in the least like his sister. Even the officiating
priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man, who went through
his duties resignedly, and felt visible rheumatic difficulties
every time he bent his knees. The one remarkable person,
the Countess herself, only raised her veil at the beginning
of the ceremony, and presented nothing in her plain dress that was
worth a second look. Never, on the face of it, was there a less
interesting and less romantic marriage than this. From time to time
the Doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries,
vaguely anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger,
in possession of some terrible secret, commissioned to forbid
the progress of the service. Nothing in the shape of an event occurred--
nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic. Bound fast together as man
and wife, the two disappeared, followed by their witnesses, to sign
the registers; and still Doctor Wybrow waited, and still he cherished
the obstinate hope that something worth seeing must certainly
happen yet.

The interval passed, and the married couple, returning to the church,
walked together down the nave to the door. Doctor Wybrow
drew back as they approached. To his confusion and surprise,
the Countess discovered him. He heard her say to her husband,
'One moment; I see a friend.' Lord Montbarry bowed and waited.
She stepped up to the Doctor, took his hand, and wrung it hard.
He felt her overpowering black eyes looking at him through
her veil. 'One step more, you see, on the way to the end!'
She whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband.
Before the Doctor could recover himself and follow her,
Lord and Lady Montbarry had stepped into their carriage, and had
driven away.

Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club who,
like Doctor Wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity.
Near them was the bride's brother, waiting alone. He was evidently bent
on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to, in broad daylight.
His bold eyes rested on the Doctor's face, with a momentary flash
of suspicion in them. The cloud suddenly cleared away; the Baron
smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister's friend,
and walked off.

The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the
church steps. They began with the Baron. 'Damned ill-looking rascal!'
They went on with Montbarry. 'Is he going to take that horrid
woman with him to Ireland?' 'Not he! he can't face the tenantry;
they know about Agnes Lockwood.' 'Well, but where is he going?'
'To Scotland.' 'Does she like that?' 'It's only for a fortnight;
they come back to London, and go abroad.' 'And they will never return
to England, eh?' 'Who can tell? Did you see how she looked at Montbarry,
when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service?
In his place, I should have bolted. Did you see her, Doctor?'
By this time, Doctor Wybrow had remembered his patients, and had heard
enough of the club gossip. He followed the example of Baron Rivar,
and walked off.

'One step more, you see, on the way to the end,' he repeated to himself,
on his way home. 'What end?'


On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little
drawing-room of her London lodgings, burning the letters which had
been written to her by Montbarry in the bygone time.

The Countess's maliciously smart description of her,
addressed to Doctor Wybrow, had not even hinted at the charm
that most distinguished Agnes--the artless expression of goodness
and purity which instantly attracted everyone who approached her.
She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair
complexion and her shy manner, it seemed only natural to speak of her
as 'a girl,' although she was now really advancing towards thirty
years of age. She lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her,
on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two.
There were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face,
as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw
the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them.
Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply
to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers,
she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again.
She had torn the last of the series, and was still shrinking
from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame,
when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'Master Henry,'--
meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly
declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of
the club.

Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.

There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned
that he loved her. She had made her confession to him,
acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother.
He had submitted to his disappointment; and they had met
thenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she
associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections.
But now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to another
woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there was
something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him.
The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles)
observed her hesitation; and sympathising of course with the man,
put in a timely word for Henry. 'He says, he's going away, my dear;
and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.' This plain
statement of the case had its effect. Agnes decided on receiving
her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act
of throwing the fragments of Montbarry's last letter into the fire.
She hurriedly spoke first.

'You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business?
or pleasure?'

Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter,
and to some black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower
part of the fireplace.

'Are you burning letters?'


'His letters?'


He took her hand gently. 'I had no idea I was intruding on you,
at a time when you must wish to be alone. Forgive me, Agnes--I shall
see you when I return.'

She signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair.

'We have known one another since we were children,' she said.
'Why should I feel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? why
should I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brother's
gifts to me some time ago. I have been advised to do more, to keep
nothing that can remind me of him--in short, to burn his letters.
I have taken the advice; but I own I shrank a little from destroying
the last of the letters. No--not because it was the last,
but because it had this in it.' She opened her hand, and showed
him a lock of Montbarry's hair, tied with a morsel of golden cord.
'Well! well! let it go with the rest.'

She dropped it into the flame. For a while, she stood with her back
to Henry, leaning on the mantel-piece, and looking into the fire.
He took the chair to which she had pointed, with a strange
contradiction of expression in his face: the tears were in his eyes,
while the brows above were knit close in an angry frown.
He muttered to himself, 'Damn him!'

She rallied her courage, and looked at him again when she spoke.
'Well, Henry, and why are you going away?'

'I am out of spirits, Agnes, and I want a change.'

She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly
that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was
grateful to him, but her mind was not with him: her mind was still
with the man who had deserted her. She turned round again to the fire.

'Is it true,' she asked, after a long silence, 'that they have been
married to-day?'

He answered ungraciously in the one necessary word:--'Yes.'

'Did you go to the church?'

He resented the question with an expression of indignant surprise.
'Go to the church?' he repeated. 'I would as soon go to--'
He checked himself there. 'How can you ask?' he added in lower tones.
'I have never spoken to Montbarry, I have not even seen him,
since he treated you like the scoundrel and the fool that
he is.'

She looked at him suddenly, without saying a word.
He understood her, and begged her pardon. But he was still angry.
'The reckoning comes to some men,' he said, 'even in this world.
He will live to rue the day when he married that woman!'

Agnes took a chair by his side, and looked at him with a gentle surprise.

'Is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her, because your
brother preferred her to me?' she asked.

Henry turned on her sharply. 'Do you defend the Countess,
of all the people in the world?'

'Why not?' Agnes answered. 'I know nothing against her.
On the only occasion when we met, she appeared to be a singularly timid,
nervous person, looking dreadfully ill; and being indeed so ill that she
fainted under the heat of my room. Why should we not do her justice?
We know that she was innocent of any intention to wrong me; we know
that she was not aware of my engagement--'

Henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her.
'There is such a thing as being too just and too forgiving!'
he interposed. 'I can't bear to hear you talk in that patient way,
after the scandalously cruel manner in which you have been treated.
Try to forget them both, Agnes. I wish to God I could help you to
do it!'

Agnes laid her hand on his arm. 'You are very good to me, Henry;
but you don't quite understand me. I was thinking of myself
and my trouble in quite a different way, when you came in.
I was wondering whether anything which has so entirely filled my heart,
and so absorbed all that is best and truest in me, as my feeling
for your brother, can really pass away as if it had never existed.
I have destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him.
In this world I shall see him no more. But is the tie that once bound us,
completely broken? Am I as entirely parted from the good and evil
fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved? What do
you think, Henry? I can hardly believe it.'

'If you could bring the retribution on him that he has deserved,'
Henry Westwick answered sternly, 'I might be inclined to agree
with you.'

As that reply passed his lips, the old nurse appeared again at the door,
announcing another visitor.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, my dear. But here is little Mrs. Ferrari
wanting to know when she may say a few words to you.'

Agnes turned to Henry, before she replied. 'You remember
Emily Bidwell, my favourite pupil years ago at the village school,
and afterwards my maid? She left me, to marry an Italian courier,
named Ferrari--and I am afraid it has not turned out very well.
Do you mind my having her in here for a minute or two?'

Henry rose to take his leave. 'I should be glad to see Emily again
at any other time,' he said. 'But it is best that I should go now.
My mind is disturbed, Agnes; I might say things to you, if I
stayed here any longer, which--which are better not said now.
I shall cross the Channel by the mail to-night, and see
how a few weeks' change will help me.' He took her hand.
'Is there anything in the world that I can do for you?' he asked
very earnestly. She thanked him, and tried to release her hand.
He held it with a tremulous lingering grasp. 'God bless you, Agnes!'
he said in faltering tones, with his eyes on the ground.
Her face flushed again, and the next instant turned paler
than ever; she knew his heart as well as he knew it himself--
she was too distressed to speak. He lifted her hand to his lips,
kissed it fervently, and, without looking at her again, left the room.
The nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs: she had not
forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful
rival of the elder for the hand of Agnes. 'Don't be down-hearted,
Master Henry,' whispered the old woman, with the unscrupulous common
sense of persons in the lower rank of life. 'Try her again, when you
come back!'

Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a turn in the room,
trying to compose herself. She paused before a little water-colour
drawing on the wall, which had belonged to her mother: it was her
own portrait when she was a child. 'How much happier we should be,'
she thought to herself sadly, 'if we never grew up!'

The courier's wife was shown in--a little meek melancholy woman,
with white eyelashes, and watery eyes, who curtseyed deferentially
and was troubled with a small chronic cough. Agnes shook hands
with her kindly. 'Well, Emily, what can I do for you?'

The courier's wife made rather a strange answer: 'I'm afraid
to tell you, Miss.'

'Is it such a very difficult favour to grant? Sit down, and let
me hear how you are going on. Perhaps the petition will slip
out while we are talking. How does your husband behave to you?'

Emily's light grey eyes looked more watery than ever.
She shook her head and sighed resignedly. 'I have no positive
complaint to make against him, Miss. But I'm afraid he doesn't
care about me; and he seems to take no interest in his home--
I may almost say he's tired of his home. It might be better
for both of us, Miss, if he went travelling for a while--
not to mention the money, which is beginning to be wanted sadly.'
She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed again more resignedly
than ever.

'I don't quite understand,' said Agnes. 'I thought your husband
had an engagement to take some ladies to Switzerland and Italy?'

'That was his ill-luck, Miss. One of the ladies fell ill--
and the others wouldn't go without her. They paid him a month's salary
as compensation. But they had engaged him for the autumn and winter--
and the loss is serious.'

'I am sorry to hear it, Emily. Let us hope he will soon have
another chance.'

'It's not his turn, Miss, to be recommended when the next applications
come to the couriers' office. You see, there are so many of them
out of employment just now. If he could be privately recommended--'
She stopped, and left the unfinished sentence to speak for itself.

Agnes understood her directly. 'You want my recommendation,'
she rejoined. 'Why couldn't you say so at once?'

Emily blushed. 'It would be such a chance for my husband,'
she answered confusedly. 'A letter, inquiring for a good courier
(a six months' engagement, Miss!) came to the office this morning.
It's another man's turn to be chosen--and the secretary will
recommend him. If my husband could only send his testimonials by the
same post--with just a word in your name, Miss--it might turn the scale,
as they say. A private recommendation between gentlefolks goes so far.'
She stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet,
as if she had some private reason for feeling a little ashamed
of herself.

Agnes began to be rather weary of the persistent tone of mystery
in which her visitor spoke. 'If you want my interest with any
friend of mine,' she said, 'why can't you tell me the name?'

The courier's wife began to cry. 'I'm ashamed to tell you, Miss.'

For the first time, Agnes spoke sharply. 'Nonsense, Emily!
Tell me the name directly--or drop the subject--whichever you
like best.'

Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her handkerchief
hard in her lap, and let off the name as if she had been letting
off a loaded gun:--'Lord Montbarry!'

Agnes rose and looked at her.

'You have disappointed me,' she said very quietly, but with a look
which the courier's wife had never seen in her face before.
'Knowing what you know, you ought to be aware that it is impossible
for me to communicate with Lord Montbarry. I always supposed you
had some delicacy of feeling. I am sorry to find that I have
been mistaken.'

Weak as she was, Emily had spirit enough to feel the reproof.
She walked in her meek noiseless way to the door. 'I beg your pardon,
Miss. I am not quite so bad as you think me. But I beg your pardon,
all the same.'

She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something
in the woman's apology that appealed irresistibly to her just and
generous nature. 'Come,' she said; 'we must not part in this way.
Let me not misunderstand you. What is it that you expected me
to do?'

Emily was wise enough to answer this time without any reserve.
'My husband will send his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbarry
in Scotland. I only wanted you to let him say in his letter
that his wife has been known to you since she was a child,
and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account.
I don't ask it now, Miss. You have made me understand that I
was wrong.'

Had she really been wrong? Past remembrances, as well as present
troubles, pleaded powerfully with Agnes for the courier's wife.
'It seems only a small favour to ask,' she said, speaking under
the impulse of kindness which was the strongest impulse in her nature.
'But I am not sure that I ought to allow my name to be mentioned in your
husband's letter. Let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say.'
Emily repeated the words--and then offered one of those suggestions,
which have a special value of their own to persons unaccustomed to the use
of their pens. 'Suppose you try, Miss, how it looks in writing?'
Childish as the idea was, Agnes tried the experiment. 'If I let you
mention me,' she said, 'we must at least decide what you are to say.'
She wrote the words in the briefest and plainest form:--'I venture to state
that my wife has been known from her childhood to Miss Agnes Lockwood,
who feels some little interest in my welfare on that account.'
Reduced to this one sentence, there was surely nothing in the reference
to her name which implied that Agnes had permitted it, or that she
was even aware of it. After a last struggle with herself, she handed
the written paper to Emily. 'Your husband must copy it exactly,
without altering anything,' she stipulated. 'On that condition,
I grant your request.' Emily was not only thankful--she was
really touched. Agnes hurried the little woman out of the room.
'Don't give me time to repent and take it back again,' she said.
Emily vanished.

'Is the tie that once bound us completely broken? Am I as entirely
parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never
met and never loved?' Agnes looked at the clock on the mantel-piece.
Not ten minutes since, those serious questions had been on her lips.
It almost shocked her to think of the common-place manner in
which they had already met with their reply. The mail of that
night would appeal once more to Montbarry's remembrance of her--
in the choice of a servant.

Two days later, the post brought a few grateful lines from Emily.
Her husband had got the place. Ferrari was engaged, for six
months certain, as Lord Montbarry's courier.



After only one week of travelling in Scotland, my lord and my lady
returned unexpectedly to London. Introduced to the mountains and
lakes of the Highlands, her ladyship positively declined to improve
her acquaintance with them. When she was asked for her reason,
she answered with a Roman brevity, 'I have seen Switzerland.'

For a week more, the newly-married couple remained in London,
in the strictest retirement. On one day in that week the nurse
returned in a state of most uncustomary excitement from an errand on
which Agnes had sent her. Passing the door of a fashionable dentist,
she had met Lord Montbarry himself just leaving the house.
The good woman's report described him, with malicious pleasure,
as looking wretchedly ill. 'His cheeks are getting hollow,
my dear, and his beard is turning grey. I hope the dentist
hurt him!'

Knowing how heartily her faithful old servant hated the man who
had deserted her, Agnes made due allowance for a large infusion
of exaggeration in the picture presented to her. The main impression
produced on her mind was an impression of nervous uneasiness.
If she trusted herself in the streets by daylight while Lord
Montbarry remained in London, how could she be sure that his next
chance-meeting might not be a meeting with herself? She waited at home,
privately ashamed of her own undignified conduct, for the next two days.
On the third day the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers
announced the departure of Lord and Lady Montbarry for Paris,
on their way to Italy.

Mrs. Ferrari, calling the same evening, informed Agnes that her husband
had left her with all reasonable expression of conjugal kindness;
his temper being improved by the prospect of going abroad.
But one other servant accompanied the travellers--Lady Montbarry's maid,
rather a silent, unsociable woman, so far as Emily had heard.
Her ladyship's brother, Baron Rivar, was already on the Continent.
It had been arranged that he was to meet his sister and her husband
at Rome.

One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of Agnes.
She faced her position with admirable courage, seeing her friends,
keeping herself occupied in her leisure hours with reading and drawing,
leaving no means untried of diverting her mind from the melancholy
remembrance of the past. But she had loved too faithfully,
she had been wounded too deeply, to feel in any adequate degree
the influence of the moral remedies which she employed.
Persons who met with her in the ordinary relations of life,
deceived by her outward serenity of manner, agreed that 'Miss
Lockwood seemed to be getting over her disappointment.'
But an old friend and school companion who happened to see her during
a brief visit to London, was inexpressibly distressed by the change
that she detected in Agnes. This lady was Mrs. Westwick, the wife
of that brother of Lord Montbarry who came next to him in age,
and who was described in the 'Peerage' as presumptive heir to the title.
He was then away, looking after his interests in some mining property
which he possessed in America. Mrs. Westwick insisted on taking Agnes
back with her to her home in Ireland. 'Come and keep me company
while my husband is away. My three little girls will make you
their playfellow, and the only stranger you will meet is the governess,
whom I answer for your liking beforehand. Pack up your things,
and I will call for you to-morrow on my way to the train.'
In those hearty terms the invitation was given. Agnes thankfully
accepted it. For three happy months she lived under the roof
of her friend. The girls hung round her in tears at her departure;
the youngest of them wanted to go back with Agnes to London.
Half in jest, half in earnest, she said to her old friend at parting,
'If your governess leaves you, keep the place open for me.'
Mrs. Westwick laughed. The wiser children took it seriously,
and promised to let Agnes know.

On the very day when Miss Lockwood returned to London, she was recalled
to those associations with the past which she was most anxious to forget.
After the first kissings and greetings were over, the old nurse
(who had been left in charge at the lodgings) had some startling
information to communicate, derived from the courier's wife.

'Here has been little Mrs. Ferrari, my dear, in a dreadful state
of mind, inquiring when you would be back. Her husband has left
Lord Montbarry, without a word of warning--and nobody knows what has
become of him.'

Agnes looked at her in astonishment. 'Are you sure of what you
are saying?' she asked.

The nurse was quite sure. 'Why, Lord bless you! the news comes
from the couriers' office in Golden Square--from the secretary,
Miss Agnes, the secretary himself!' Hearing this, Agnes began to feel
alarmed as well as surprised. It was still early in the evening.
She at once sent a message to Mrs. Ferrari, to say that she
had returned.

In an hour more the courier's wife appeared, in a state of agitation
which it was not easy to control. Her narrative, when she was at last
able to speak connectedly, entirely confirmed the nurse's report of it.

After hearing from her husband with tolerable regularity from Paris,
Rome, and Venice, Emily had twice written to him afterwards--
and had received no reply. Feeling uneasy, she had gone to the office
in Golden Square, to inquire if he had been heard of there.
The post of the morning had brought a letter to the secretary from
a courier then at Venice. It contained startling news of Ferrari.
His wife had been allowed to take a copy of it, which she now handed to
Agnes to read.

The writer stated that he had recently arrived in Venice.
He had previously heard that Ferrari was with Lord and Lady Montbarry,
at one of the old Venetian palaces which they had hired for a term.
Being a friend of Ferrari, he had gone to pay him a visit.
Ringing at the door that opened on the canal, and failing to make
anyone hear him, he had gone round to a side entrance opening
on one of the narrow lanes of Venice. Here, standing at the door
(as if she was waiting for him to try that way next), he found a pale
woman with magnificent dark eyes, who proved to be no other than Lady
Montbarry herself.

She asked, in Italian, what he wanted. He answered that he wanted
to see the courier Ferrari, if it was quite convenient.
She at once informed him that Ferrari had left the palace,
without assigning any reason, and without even leaving an address at
which his monthly salary (then due to him) could be paid. Amazed at
this reply, the courier inquired if any person had offended Ferrari,
or quarrelled with him. The lady answered, 'To my knowledge,
certainly not. I am Lady Montbarry; and I can positively assure you
that Ferrari was treated with the greatest kindness in this house.
We are as much astonished as you are at his extraordinary disappearance.
If you should hear of him, pray let us know, so that we may at least
pay him the money which is due.'

After one or two more questions (quite readily answered) relating to
the date and the time of day at which Ferrari had left the palace,
the courier took his leave.

He at once entered on the necessary investigations--without the slightest
result so far as Ferrari was concerned. Nobody had seen him.
Nobody appeared to have been taken into his confidence.
Nobody knew anything (that is to say, anything of the slightest importance)
even about persons so distinguished as Lord and Lady Montbarry.
It was reported that her ladyship's English maid had left her,
before the disappearance of Ferrari, to return to her relatives in her
own country, and that Lady Montbarry had taken no steps to supply
her place. His lordship was described as being in delicate health.
He lived in the strictest retirement--nobody was admitted to him,
not even his own countrymen. A stupid old woman was discovered
who did the housework at the palace, arriving in the morning and
going away again at night. She had never seen the lost courier--
she had never even seen Lord Montbarry, who was then confined
to his room. Her ladyship, 'a most gracious and adorable mistress,'
was in constant attendance on her noble husband. There was no
other servant then in the house (so far as the old woman knew)
but herself. The meals were sent in from a restaurant. My lord,
it was said, disliked strangers. My lord's brother-in-law, the Baron,
was generally shut up in a remote part of the palace, occupied
(the gracious mistress said) with experiments in chemistry.
The experiments sometimes made a nasty smell. A doctor had latterly been
called in to his lordship--an Italian doctor, long resident in Venice.
Inquiries being addressed to this gentleman (a physician of undoubted
capacity and respectability), it turned out that he also had never
seen Ferrari, having been summoned to the palace (as his memorandum
book showed) at a date subsequent to the courier's disappearance.
The doctor described Lord Montbarry's malady as bronchitis.
So far, there was no reason to feel any anxiety, though the
attack was a sharp one. If alarming symptoms should appear,
he had arranged with her ladyship to call in another physician.
For the rest, it was impossible to speak too highly of my lady;
night and day, she was at her lord's bedside.

With these particulars began and ended the discoveries made by Ferrari's
courier-friend. The police were on the look-out for the lost man--
and that was the only hope which could be held forth for the present,
to Ferrari's wife.

'What do you think of it, Miss?' the poor woman asked eagerly.
'What would you advise me to do?'

Agnes was at a loss how to answer her; it was an effort even to
listen to what Emily was saying. The references in the courier's
letter to Montbarry--the report of his illness, the melancholy
picture of his secluded life--had reopened the old wound.
She was not even thinking of the lost Ferrari; her mind was at Venice,
by the sick man's bedside.

'I hardly know what to say,' she answered. 'I have had no experience
in serious matters of this kind.'

'Do you think it would help you, Miss, if you read my husband's
letters to me? There are only three of them--they won't take long
to read.'

Agnes compassionately read the letters.

They were not written in a very tender tone. 'Dear Emily,'
and 'Yours affectionately'--these conventional phrases,
were the only phrases of endearment which they contained.
In the first letter, Lord Montbarry was not very favourably spoken
of:--'We leave Paris to-morrow. I don't much like my lord.
He is proud and cold, and, between ourselves, stingy in money matters.
I have had to dispute such trifles as a few centimes in the hotel bill;
and twice already, some sharp remarks have passed between
the newly-married couple, in consequence of her ladyship's freedom
in purchasing pretty tempting things at the shops in Paris.
"I can't afford it; you must keep to your allowance." She has had to
hear those words already. For my part, I like her. She has the nice,
easy foreign manners--she talks to me as if I was a human being
like herself.'

The second letter was dated from Rome.

'My lord's caprices' (Ferrari wrote) 'have kept us perpetually
on the move. He is becoming incurably restless. I suspect he is
uneasy in his mind. Painful recollections, I should say--I find him
constantly reading old letters, when her ladyship is not present.
We were to have stopped at Genoa, but he hurried us on. The same
thing at Florence. Here, at Rome, my lady insists on resting.
Her brother has met us at this place. There has been a quarrel already
(the lady's maid tells me) between my lord and the Baron. The latter
wanted to borrow money of the former. His lordship refused in language
which offended Baron Rivar. My lady pacified them, and made them
shake hands.'

The third, and last letter, was from Venice.

'More of my lord's economy! Instead of staying at the hotel,
we have hired a damp, mouldy, rambling old palace. My lady insists
on having the best suites of rooms wherever we go--and the palace
comes cheaper for a two months' term. My lord tried to get it
for longer; he says the quiet of Venice is good for his nerves.
But a foreign speculator has secured the palace, and is going to turn
it into an hotel. The Baron is still with us, and there have been
more disagreements about money matters. I don't like the Baron--
and I don't find the attractions of my lady grow on me. She was much
nicer before the Baron joined us. My lord is a punctual paymaster;
it's a matter of honour with him; he hates parting with his money,
but he does it because he has given his word. I receive my salary
regularly at the end of each month--not a franc extra, though I
have done many things which are not part of a courier's proper work.
Fancy the Baron trying to borrow money of me! he is an inveterate gambler.
I didn't believe it when my lady's maid first told me so--
but I have seen enough since to satisfy me that she was right.
I have seen other things besides, which--well! which don't increase
my respect for my lady and the Baron. The maid says she means to give
warning to leave. She is a respectable British female, and doesn't
take things quite so easily as I do. It is a dull life here.
No going into company--no company at home--not a creature sees my lord--
not even the consul, or the banker. When he goes out, he goes alone,
and generally towards nightfall. Indoors, he shuts himself up
in his own room with his books, and sees as little of his wife and
the Baron as possible. I fancy things are coming to a crisis here.
If my lord's suspicions are once awakened, the consequences will
be terrible. Under certain provocations, the noble Montbarry
is a man who would stick at nothing. However, the pay is good--
and I can't afford to talk of leaving the place, like my lady's

Agnes handed back the letters--so suggestive of the penalty paid
already for his own infatuation by the man who had deserted her!--
with feelings of shame and distress, which made her no fit counsellor
for the helpless woman who depended on her advice.

'The one thing I can suggest,' she said, after first speaking some
kind words of comfort and hope, 'is that we should consult a person
of greater experience than ours. Suppose I write and ask my lawyer
(who is also my friend and trustee) to come and advise us to-morrow
after his business hours?'

Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. An hour
was arranged for the meeting on the next day; the correspondence
was left under the care of Agnes; and the courier's wife took her leave.

Weary and heartsick, Agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and
compose herself. The careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea.
Her quaint gossip about herself and her occupations while Agnes had
been away, acted as a relief to her mistress's overburdened mind.
They were still talking quietly, when they were startled by a loud
knock at the house door. Hurried footsteps ascended the stairs.
The door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently;
the courier's wife rushed in like a mad woman. 'He's dead!
They've murdered him!' Those wild words were all she could say.
She dropped on her knees at the foot of the sofa--held out her hand
with something clasped in it--and fell back in a swoon.

The nurse, signing to Agnes to open the window, took the necessary
measures to restore the fainting woman. 'What's this?' she exclaimed.
'Here's a letter in her hand. See what it is, Miss.'

The open envelope was addressed (evidently in a feigned hand-writing)
to 'Mrs. Ferrari.' The post-mark was 'Venice.' The contents of the
envelope were a sheet of foreign note-paper, and a folded enclosure.

On the note-paper, one line only was written. It was again
in a feigned handwriting, and it contained these words:

'To console you for the loss of your husband'

Agnes opened the enclosure next.

It was a Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.


The next day, the friend and legal adviser of Agnes Lockwood,
Mr. Troy, called on her by appointment in the evening.

Mrs. Ferrari--still persisting in the conviction of her husband's death--
had sufficiently recovered to be present at the consultation.
Assisted by Agnes, she told the lawyer the little that was
known relating to Ferrari's disappearance, and then produced
the correspondence connected with that event. Mr. Troy read
(first) the three letters addressed by Ferrari to his wife;
(secondly) the letter written by Ferrari's courier-friend,
describing his visit to the palace and his interview with
Lady Montbarry; and (thirdly) the one line of anonymous writing
which had accompanied the extraordinary gift of a thousand pounds
to Ferrari's wife.

Well known, at a later period, as the lawyer who acted for Lady Lydiard,
in the case of theft, generally described as the case of 'My Lady's Money,'
Mr. Troy was not only a man of learning and experience in his profession--
he was also a man who had seen something of society at home and abroad.
He possessed a keen eye for character, a quaint humour, and a kindly
nature which had not been deteriorated even by a lawyer's professional
experience of mankind. With all these personal advantages, it is
a question, nevertheless, whether he was the fittest adviser whom
Agnes could have chosen under the circumstances. Little Mrs. Ferrari,
with many domestic merits, was an essentially commonplace woman.
Mr. Troy was the last person living who was likely to attract
her sympathies--he was the exact opposite of a commonplace man.

'She looks very ill, poor thing!' In these words the lawyer
opened the business of the evening, referring to Mrs. Ferrari
as unceremoniously as if she had been out of the room.

'She has suffered a terrible shock,' Agnes answered.

Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari, and looked at her again,
with the interest due to the victim of a shock. He drummed absently
with his fingers on the table. At last he spoke to her.

'My good lady, you don't really believe that your husband is dead?'

Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word 'dead' was
ineffectual to express her feelings. 'Murdered!' she said sternly,
behind her handkerchief.

'Why? And by whom?' Mr. Troy asked.

Mrs. Ferrari seemed to have some difficulty in answering.
'You have read my husband's letters, sir,' she began. 'I believe
he discovered--' She got as far as that, and there she stopped.

'What did he discover?'

There are limits to human patience--even the patience of a bereaved wife.
This cool question irritated Mrs. Ferrari into expressing herself
plainly at last.

'He discovered Lady Montbarry and the Baron!' she answered,
with a burst of hysterical vehemence. 'The Baron is no more
that vile woman's brother than I am. The wickedness of those two
wretches came to my poor dear husband's knowledge. The lady's maid
left her place on account of it. If Ferrari had gone away too,
he would have been alive at this moment. They have killed him.
I say they have killed him, to prevent it from getting to Lord
Montbarry's ears.' So, in short sharp sentences, and in louder
and louder accents, Mrs. Ferrari stated her opinion of the case.

Still keeping his own view in reserve, Mr. Troy listened
with an expression of satirical approval.

'Very strongly stated, Mrs. Ferrari,' he said. 'You build up your
sentences well; you clinch your conclusions in a workmanlike manner.
If you had been a man, you would have made a good lawyer--
you would have taken juries by the scruff of their necks.
Complete the case, my good lady--complete the case.
Tell us next who sent you this letter, enclosing the bank-note.
The "two wretches" who murdered Mr. Ferrari would hardly put
their hands in their pockets and send you a thousand pounds.
Who is it--eh? I see the post-mark on the letter is "Venice."
Have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart,
and a purse to correspond, who has been let into the secret and who wishes
to console you anonymously?'

It was not easy to reply to this. Mrs. Ferrari began to feel
the first inward approaches of something like hatred towards Mr. Troy.
'I don't understand you, sir,' she answered. 'I don't think this is
a joking matter.'

Agnes interfered, for the first time. She drew her chair a little
nearer to her legal counsellor and friend.

'What is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?'
she asked.

'I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you,' Mr. Troy answered.

'No, sir, you won't!' cried Mrs. Ferrari, hating Mr. Troy
undisguisedly by this time.

The lawyer leaned back in his chair. 'Very well,' he said, in his
most good-humoured manner. 'Let's have it out. Observe, madam,
I don't dispute your view of the position of affairs at the palace
in Venice. You have your husband's letters to justify you;
and you have also the significant fact that Lady Montbarry's
maid did really leave the house. We will say, then, that Lord
Montbarry has presumably been made the victim of a foul wrong--
that Mr. Ferrari was the first to find it out--and that the guilty
persons had reason to fear, not only that he would acquaint Lord
Montbarry with his discovery, but that he would be a principal witness
against them if the scandal was made public in a court of law.
Now mark! Admitting all this, I draw a totally different
conclusion from the conclusion at which you have arrived.
Here is your husband left in this miserable household of three,
under very awkward circumstances for him. What does he do?
But for the bank-note and the written message sent to you with it,
I should say that he had wisely withdrawn himself from association
with a disgraceful discovery and exposure, by taking secretly to flight.
The money modifies this view--unfavourably so far as Mr. Ferrari
is concerned. I still believe he is keeping out of the way. But I
now say he is paid for keeping out of the way--and that bank-note there
on the table is the price of his absence, sent by the guilty persons to
his wife.'

Mrs. Ferrari's watery grey eyes brightened suddenly; Mrs. Ferrari's
dull drab-coloured complexion became enlivened by a glow of brilliant red.

'It's false!' she cried. 'It's a burning shame to speak of my
husband in that way!'

'I told you I should offend you!' said Mr. Troy.

Agnes interposed once more--in the interests of peace. She took
the offended wife's hand; she appealed to the lawyer to reconsider
that side of his theory which reflected harshly on Ferrari.
While she was still speaking, the servant interrupted her by entering
the room with a visiting-card. It was the card of Henry Westwick;
and there was an ominous request written on it in pencil.
'I bring bad news. Let me see you for a minute downstairs.'
Agnes immediately left the room.

Alone with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy permitted his natural kindness
of heart to show itself on the surface at last. He tried to make
his peace with the courier's wife.

'You have every claim, my good soul, to resent a reflection cast upon
your husband,' he began. 'I may even say that I respect you for speaking
so warmly in his defence. At the same time, remember, that I am bound,
in such a serious matter as this, to tell you what is really in my mind.
I can have no intention of offending you, seeing that I am a total
stranger to you and to Mr. Ferrari. A thousand pounds is a large
sum of money; and a poor man may excusably be tempted by it
to do nothing worse than to keep out of the way for a while.
My only interest, acting on your behalf, is to get at the truth.
If you will give me time, I see no reason to despair of finding your
husband yet.'

Ferrari's wife listened, without being convinced: her narrow little mind,
filled to its extreme capacity by her unfavourable opinion of Mr. Troy,
had no room left for the process of correcting its first impression.
'I am much obliged to you, sir,' was all she said. Her eyes were
more communicative--her eyes added, in their language, 'You may say
what you please; I will never forgive you to my dying day.'

Mr. Troy gave it up. He composedly wheeled his chair around,
put his hands in his pockets, and looked out of window.

After an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened.

Mr. Troy wheeled round again briskly to the table, expecting to see Agnes.
To his surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect stranger to him--
a gentleman, in the prime of life, with a marked expression of pain
and embarrassment on his handsome face. He looked at Mr. Troy,
and bowed gravely.

'I am so unfortunate as to have brought news to Miss Agnes Lockwood
which has greatly distressed her,' he said. 'She has retired to her room.
I am requested to make her excuses, and to speak to you in her place.'

Having introduced himself in those terms, he noticed Mrs. Ferrari,
and held out his hand to her kindly. 'It is some years since we
last met, Emily,' he said. 'I am afraid you have almost forgotten
the "Master Henry" of old times.' Emily, in some little confusion,
made her acknowledgments, and begged to know if she could be of any
use to Miss Lockwood. 'The old nurse is with her,' Henry answered;
'they will be better left together.' He turned once more to Mr. Troy.
'I ought to tell you,' he said, 'that my name is Henry Westwick. I am
the younger brother of the late Lord Montbarry.'

'The late Lord Montbarry!' Mr. Troy exclaimed.

'My brother died at Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram.'
With that startling answer, he handed the paper to Mr. Troy.

The message was in these words:

'Lady Montbarry, Venice. To Stephen Robert Westwick,
Newbury's Hotel, London. It is useless to take the journey.
Lord Montbarry died of bronchitis, at 8.40 this evening.
All needful details by post.'

'Was this expected, sir?' the lawyer asked.

'I cannot say that it has taken us entirely by surprise, Henry answered.
'My brother Stephen (who is now the head of the family) received a
telegram three days since, informing him that alarming symptoms had
declared themselves, and that a second physician had been called in.
He telegraphed back to say that he had left Ireland for London,
on his way to Venice, and to direct that any further message
might be sent to his hotel. The reply came in a second telegram.
It announced that Lord Montbarry was in a state of insensibility,
and that, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody.
My brother was advised to wait in London for later information.
The third telegram is now in your hands. That is all I know, up to the
present time.'

Happening to look at the courier's wife, Mr. Troy was struck
by the expression of blank fear which showed itself in the woman's face.

'Mrs. Ferrari,' he said, 'have you heard what Mr. Westwick has
just told me?'

'Every word of it, sir.'

'Have you any questions to ask?'

'No, sir.'

'You seem to be alarmed,' the lawyer persisted. 'Is it still
about your husband?'

'I shall never see my husband again, sir. I have thought so all along,
as you know. I feel sure of it now.'

'Sure of it, after what you have just heard?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Can you tell me why?'

'No, sir. It's a feeling I have. I can't tell why.'

'Oh, a feeling?' Mr. Troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate contempt.
'When it comes to feelings, my good soul--!' He left the sentence
unfinished, and rose to take his leave of Mr. Westwick. The truth is,
he began to feel puzzled himself, and he did not choose to let
Mrs. Ferrari see it. 'Accept the expression of my sympathy, sir,'
he said to Mr. Westwick politely. 'I wish you good evening.'

Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door.
'I have heard of your trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there
anything I can do to help you?'

'Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I had better go home after
what has happened? I will call to-morrow, and see if I can be of
any use to Miss Agnes. I am very sorry for her.' She stole away,
with her formal curtsey, her noiseless step, and her obstinate
resolution to take the gloomiest view of her husband's case.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room.
There was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he lingered in it.
It was something to be even near Agnes--to see the things belonging
to her that were scattered about the room. There, in the corner,
was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table by its side.
On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite
finished yet. The book she had been reading lay on the sofa,
with her tiny pencil-case in it to mark the place at which she
had left off. One after another, he looked at the objects that
reminded him of the woman whom he loved--took them up tenderly--
and laid them down again with a sigh. Ah, how far, how unattainably
far from him, she was still! 'She will never forget Montbarry,'
he thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. 'Not one of us
feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch--how she
loved him!'

In the street, as Henry closed the house-door, he was stopped
by a passing acquaintance--a wearisome inquisitive man--
doubly unwelcome to him, at that moment. 'Sad news, Westwick,
this about your brother. Rather an unexpected death, wasn't it?
We never heard at the club that Montbarry's lungs were weak.
What will the insurance offices do?'

Henry started; he had never thought of his brother's life insurance.
What could the offices do but pay? A death by bronchitis, certified by
two physicians, was surely the least disputable of all deaths. 'I wish
you hadn't put that question into my head!' he broke out irritably.
'Ah!' said his friend, 'you think the widow will get the money?
So do I! so do I!'


Some days later, the insurance offices (two in number)
received the formal announcement of Lord Montbarry's death,
from her ladyship's London solicitors. The sum insured in each
office was five thousand pounds--on which one year's premium only
had been paid. In the face of such a pecuniary emergency as this,
the Directors thought it desirable to consider their position.
The medical advisers of the two offices, who had recommended
the insurance of Lord Montbarry's life, were called into council
over their own reports. The result excited some interest
among persons connected with the business of life insurance.
Without absolutely declining to pay the money, the two offices
(acting in concert) decided on sending a commission of inquiry
to Venice, 'for the purpose of obtaining further information.'

Mr. Troy received the earliest intelligence of what was going on.
He wrote at once to communicate his news to Agnes; adding, what he
considered to be a valuable hint, in these words:

'You are intimately acquainted, I know, with Lady Barville, the late
Lord Montbarry's eldest sister. The solicitors employed by her
husband are also the solicitors to one of the two insurance offices.
There may possibly be something in the report of the commission
of inquiry touching on Ferrari's disappearance. Ordinary persons
would not be permitted, of course, to see such a document.
But a sister of the late lord is so near a relative as to be an exception
to general rules. If Sir Theodore Barville puts it on that footing,
the lawyers, even if they do not allow his wife to look at the report,
will at least answer any discreet questions she may ask referring
to it. Let me hear what you think of this suggestion, at your
earliest convenience.'

The reply was received by return of post. Agnes declined to avail
herself of Mr. Troy's proposal.

'My interference, innocent as it was,' she wrote, 'has already
been productive of such deplorable results, that I cannot
and dare not stir any further in the case of Ferrari.
If I had not consented to let that unfortunate man refer to me
by name, the late Lord Montbarry would never have engaged him,
and his wife would have been spared the misery and suspense from
which she is suffering now. I would not even look at the report
to which you allude if it was placed in my hands--I have heard more
than enough already of that hideous life in the palace at Venice.
If Mrs. Ferrari chooses to address herself to Lady Barville
(with your assistance), that is of course quite another thing.
But, even in this case, I must make it a positive condition
that my name shall not be mentioned. Forgive me, dear Mr. Troy!
I am very unhappy, and very unreasonable--but I am only a woman,
and you must not expect too much from me.'

Foiled in this direction, the lawyer next advised making the attempt
to discover the present address of Lady Montbarry's English maid.
This excellent suggestion had one drawback: it could only be
carried out by spending money--and there was no money to spend.
Mrs. Ferrari shrank from the bare idea of making any use
of the thousand-pound note. It had been deposited in the safe
keeping of a bank. If it was even mentioned in her hearing,
she shuddered and referred to it, with melodramatic fervour, as 'my
husband's blood-money!'

So, under stress of circumstances, the attempt to solve the mystery
of Ferrari's disappearance was suspended for a while.

It was the last month of the year 1860. The commission of inquiry
was already at work; having begun its investigations on December 6.
On the 10th, the term for which the late Lord Montbarry had hired
the Venetian palace, expired. News by telegram reached the insurance
offices that Lady Montbarry had been advised by her lawyers to leave
for London with as little delay as possible. Baron Rivar, it was believed,
would accompany her to England, but would not remain in that country,
unless his services were absolutely required by her ladyship.
The Baron, 'well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry,'
had heard of certain recent discoveries in connection with that
science in the United States, and was anxious to investigate
them personally.

These items of news, collected by Mr. Troy, were duly communicated
to Mrs. Ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent,
a too frequent, visitor at the lawyer's office. She attempted
to relate what she had heard to her good friend and protectress.
Agnes steadily refused to listen, and positively forbade any further
conversation relating to Lord Montbarry's wife, now that Lord
Montbarry was no more. 'You have Mr. Troy to advise you,' she said;
'and you are welcome to what little money I can spare, if money
is wanted. All I ask in return is that you will not distress me.
I am trying to separate myself from remembrances--'her voice faltered;
she paused to control herself--'from remembrances,' she resumed,
'which are sadder than ever since I have heard of Lord Montbarry's death.
Help me by your silence to recover my spirits, if I can. Let me
hear nothing more, until I can rejoice with you that your husband
is found.'

Time advanced to the 13th of the month; and more information of the
interesting sort reached Mr. Troy. The labours of the insurance commission
had come to an end--the report had been received from Venice on that day.


On the 14th the Directors and their legal advisers met for the
reading of the report, with closed doors. These were the terms
in which the Commissioners related the results of their inquiry:
'Private and confidential.

'We have the honour to inform our Directors that we arrived in Venice
on December 6, 1860. On the same day we proceeded to the palace
inhabited by Lord Montbarry at the time of his last illness and death.

'We were received with all possible courtesy by Lady Montbarry's brother,
Baron Rivar. "My sister was her husband's only attendant throughout
his illness," the Baron informed us. "She is overwhelmed by grief
and fatigue--or she would have been here to receive you personally.
What are your wishes, gentlemen? and what can I do for you in her
ladyship's place?"

'In accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death
and burial of Lord Montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more
complete information relating to his illness, and to the circumstances
which had attended it, than could be conveyed in writing.
We explained that the law provided for the lapse of a certain
interval of time before the payment of the sum assured, and we
expressed our wish to conduct the inquiry with the most respectful
consideration for her ladyship's feelings, and for the convenience
of any other members of the family inhabiting the house.

'To this the Baron replied, "I am the only member of the family
living here, and I and the palace are entirely at your disposal."
From first to last we found this gentleman perfectly straighforward,
and most amiably willing to assist us.

'With the one exception of her ladyship's room, we went over
the whole of the palace the same day. It is an immense place
only partially furnished. The first floor and part of the second
floor were the portions of it that had been inhabited by Lord
Montbarry and the members of the household. We saw the bedchamber,
at one extremity of the palace, in which his lordship died,
and the small room communicating with it, which he used as a study.
Next to this was a large apartment or hall, the doors of which
he habitually kept locked, his object being (as we were informed)
to pursue his studies uninterruptedly in perfect solitude.
On the other side of the large hall were the bedchamber occupied
by her ladyship, and the dressing-room in which the maid slept
previous to her departure for England. Beyond these were the dining
and reception rooms, opening into an antechamber, which gave access
to the grand staircase of the palace.

'The only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room
and bedroom occupied by Baron Rivar, and another room at some
distance from it, which had been the bedroom of the courier Ferrari.

'The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were
completely unfurnished, and in a condition of great neglect.
We inquired if there was anything to be seen below the basement--
and we were at once informed that there were vaults beneath,
which we were at perfect liberty to visit.

'We went down, so as to leave no part of the palace unexplored.
The vaults were, it was believed, used as dungeons in the old times--
say, some centuries since. Air and light were only partially admitted
to these dismal places by two long shafts of winding construction,
which communicated with the back yard of the palace, and the openings
of which, high above the ground, were protected by iron gratings.
The stone stairs leading down into the vaults could be closed at
will by a heavy trap-door in the back hall, which we found open.
The Baron himself led the way down the stairs. We remarked that it might
be awkward if that trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us.
The Baron smiled at the idea. "Don't be alarmed, gentlemen," he said;
"the door is safe. I had an interest in seeing to it myself,
when we first inhabited the palace. My favourite study is the study
of experimental chemistry--and my workshop, since we have been in Venice,
is down here."

'These last words explained a curious smell in the vaults,
which we noticed the moment we entered them. We can only describe
the smell by saying that it was of a twofold sort--faintly aromatic,
as it were, in its first effect, but with some after-odour very
sickening in our nostrils. The Baron's furnaces and retorts,
and other things, were all there to speak for themselves,
together with some packages of chemicals, having the name and address
of the person who had supplied them plainly visible on their labels.
"Not a pleasant place for study," Baron Rivar observed, "but my sister
is timid. She has a horror of chemical smells and explosions--
and she has banished me to these lower regions, so that my experiments
may neither be smelt nor heard." He held out his hands, on which we
had noticed that he wore gloves in the house. "Accidents will
happen sometimes," he said, "no matter how careful a man may be.
I burnt my hands severely in trying a new combination the other day,
and they are only recovering now."

'We mention these otherwise unimportant incidents, in order to show
that our exploration of the palace was not impeded by any attempt
at concealment. We were even admitted to her ladyship's own room--
on a subsequent occasion, when she went out to take the air.
Our instructions recommended us to examine his lordship's residence,
because the extreme privacy of his life at Venice, and the
remarkable departure of the only two servants in the house,
might have some suspicious connection with the nature of his death.
We found nothing to justify suspicion.

'As to his lordship's retired way of life, we have conversed on
the subject with the consul and the banker--the only two strangers
who held any communication with him. He called once at the bank
to obtain money on his letter of credit, and excused himself from
accepting an invitation to visit the banker at his private residence,
on the ground of delicate health. His lordship wrote to the same
effect on sending his card to the consul, to excuse himself
from personally returning that gentleman's visit to the palace.
We have seen the letter, and we beg to offer the following copy of it.
"Many years passed in India have injured my constitution.
I have ceased to go into society; the one occupation of my life
now is the study of Oriental literature. The air of Italy is better
for me than the air of England, or I should never have left home.
Pray accept the apologies of a student and an invalid. The active
part of my life is at an end." The self-seclusion of his lordship
seems to us to be explained in these brief lines. We have not,
however, on that account spared our inquiries in other directions.
Nothing to excite a suspicion of anything wrong has come to
our knowledge.

'As to the departure of the lady's maid, we have seen the woman's
receipt for her wages, in which it is expressly stated that she
left Lady Montbarry's service because she disliked the Continent,
and wished to get back to her own country. This is not an
uncommon result of taking English servants to foreign parts.
Lady Montbarry has informed us that she abstained from engaging
another maid in consequence of the extreme dislike which his lordship
expressed to having strangers in the house, in the state of his health
at that time.

'The disappearance of the courier Ferrari is, in itself,
unquestionably a suspicious circumstance. Neither her ladyship nor
the Baron can explain it; and no investigation that we could make
has thrown the smallest light on this event, or has justified us in
associating it, directly or indirectly, with the object of our inquiry.
We have even gone the length of examining the portmanteau which
Ferrari left behind him. It contains nothing but clothes and linen--
no money, and not even a scrap of paper in the pockets of the clothes.
The portmanteau remains in charge of the police.

'We have also found opportunities of speaking privately to the old
woman who attends to the rooms occupied by her ladyship and the Baron.
She was recommended to fill this situation by the keeper of the restaurant
who has supplied the meals to the family throughout the period
of their residence at the palace. Her character is most favourably
spoken of. Unfortunately, her limited intelligence makes her of no
value as a witness. We were patient and careful in questioning her,
and we found her perfectly willing to answer us; but we could
elicit nothing which is worth including in the present report.

'On the second day of our inquiries, we had the honour of an interview
with Lady Montbarry. Her ladyship looked miserably worn and ill,
and seemed to be quite at a loss to understand what we wanted with her.
Baron Rivar, who introduced us, explained the nature of our errand
in Venice, and took pains to assure her that it was a purely formal duty
on which we were engaged. Having satisfied her ladyship on this point,
he discreetly left the room.

'The questions which we addressed to Lady Montbarry related mainly,
of course, to his lordship's illness. The answers, given with great
nervousness of manner, but without the slightest appearance of reserve,
informed us of the facts that follow:

'Lord Montbarry had been out of order for some time past--
nervous and irritable. He first complained of having taken cold on
November 13 last; he passed a wakeful and feverish night, and remained
in bed the next day. Her ladyship proposed sending for medical advice.
He refused to allow her to do this, saying that he could quite easily
be his own doctor in such a trifling matter as a cold. Some hot lemonade
was made at his request, with a view to producing perspiration.
Lady Montbarry's maid having left her at that time, the courier Ferrari
(then the only servant in the house) went out to buy the lemons.
Her ladyship made the drink with her own hands. It was successful
in producing perspiration--and Lord Montbarry had some hours of
sleep afterwards. Later in the day, having need of Ferrari's services,
Lady Montbarry rang for him. The bell was not answered.
Baron Rivar searched for the man, in the palace and out of it, in vain.
From that time forth not a trace of Ferrari could be discovered.
This happened on November 14.

'On the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms accompanying his
lordship's cold returned. They were in part perhaps attributable to
the annoyance and alarm caused by Ferrari's mysterious disappearance.
It had been impossible to conceal the circumstance, as his lordship
rang repeatedly for the courier; insisting that the man should
relieve Lady Montbarry and the Baron by taking their places during
the night at his bedside.

'On the 15th (the day on which the old woman first came
to do the housework), his lordship complained of sore throat,
and of a feeling of oppression on the chest. On this day,
and again on the 16th, her ladyship and the Baron entreated him
to see a doctor. He still refused. "I don't want strange faces
about me; my cold will run its course, in spite of the doctor,"--
that was his answer. On the 17th he was so much worse that it
was decided to send for medical help whether he liked it or not.

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