William Le Queux - The Day of Temptation

“I wonder,” he went on – “I wonder if any one on Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the girl?” Then he remained silent for a moment. “No. I oughtn’t to go to Italy; it’s far too risky. There’s plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington. Yes, a touch of fever will be a good excuse.” But, after a moment’s further consideration, he added, “Yet, after all, to be ill will be to arouse suspicion. No, I’ll go;” and he pressed the electric bell.

In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered.

“A foreign telegraph form, Smayle,” he said.

The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.

“Take this to the telegraph office in Regent Street,” he said. “I’m leaving this morning, and if anybody calls, tell them I’ve gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, or to the devil, if you like – anyhow, I shan’t be back for a month. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a smile. “Shall I forward any letters?”

“Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.”

At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a moment later, saying —

“Major Maitland, sir.”

“Show him in,” answered his master in a tone of suppressed excitement.

The man disappeared, and a second later the Major entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of the comfortable saddle-bag chairs.

“Well, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed as soon as they were alone. “Why do you risk London after the events of the other night? I never dreamed that I should find you at home.”

“I’m leaving for Italy again by the eleven train,” the other answered. “Have you read this morning’s paper?”

“Of course I have,” answered the Major. “It’s an infernally awkward bit of business for both of us, I’m afraid. That introduction at the station was the greatest mistake possible, for the cabman will no doubt identify us. Besides, he overheard you address me by rank.”

“But the police have no suspicion,” Tristram observed. “At present we are safe enough.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t arrive or depart from Charing Cross for a few months at least,” the Major suggested. “The business is far too ugly for us to run any unnecessary risks, you know.”

“No; I shall make a habit of departing from London Bridge and arriving at Cannon Street. I never have more than hand-baggage with me.”

“Where are you going to-day?”

“To Leghorn again. Right into the very midst of the enemy’s camp,” he laughed.

“Suppose any facts regarding the mystery have been published in the local papers, don’t you think you’d stand a good chance of being arrested? The police in Italy are very arbitrary.”

“They dare not arrest me with despatches in my possession. I have immunity from arrest while on official business,” His Majesty’s messenger answered.

“That may be so,” replied the Major. “But you’d have a considerable difficulty in persuading the police of either London or Leghorn that you were not the amiable young man who arrived at Charing Cross with Vittorina.”

“And you would have similar difficulty, my dear old chap, in convincing the detectives that you were not the person who waited for us on the platform,” the other replied. “You’re so well known about town that, if I were you, I should leave London at once, and not take a return ticket.”

“I leave to-night.”

“By what route?”

“By a rather round-about one,” the Major answered, slowly striking a vesta. “The ordinary Channel passage might disagree with me, you know, so I shall travel this evening to Hull, and sail to-morrow morning for Christiania. Thence I shall get down into Germany via Hamburg.”

“A very neat way of evading observation,” observed the Captain in a tone of admiration.

“I booked my passage a fortnight ago, in case I might require it,” the elder man observed carelessly. “When one desires to cover one’s tracks, the ordinary Channel services are worse than useless. I call the Norwegian the circular route. I’ve used it more than once before. They know me on the Wilson liners.”

Tristram glanced at his watch. “I must be off in five minutes. What will be your address?”

“Portland before long, if I’m not wary,” the other replied, with a grim smile.

“This is no time for joking, Maitland,” Tristram said severely. “Reserve your witticisms for the warders, if you really anticipate chokee. They’ll no doubt appreciate them.”

“Then address me Poste Restante, Brussels. I’m certain to drift to the Europe there sooner or later within the next three months,” the Major said.

“Very well, I must go;” and the King’s messenger quickly obtained his soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat from the hall, filled a silver flask from a decanter, took down the blue ribbon, deftly fastened it around his neck out of sight beneath his cravat, and snatched up his travelling-bag.

“I’m going along to the Foreign Office for despatches. Can I drop you anywhere from my cab?” he asked as they made their way down the stairs together.

“No, my dear fellow,” the Major replied. “I’m going up Bond Street.”

Then, on gaining St. James’s Street, the Captain sprang into a cab, and shouting a cheery adieu to his friend, drove off on the first stage of his tedious thousand-mile journey to the Mediterranean shore.

Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering-place known to Italians as Livorno, is at its brightest and best throughout the month of August. To the English, save those who reside permanently in Florence, Pisa, or Rome, its beauties are unknown. But those who know Italy – and to know Italy is to love it – are well aware that at “cara Livorno,” as the Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea-bathing in Europe, and enjoy a perfectly delightful summer beside the Mediterranean.

It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy or inartistic; for it makes no pretension to being a first-class holiday resort like Nice or Cannes. Still, it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the whole of the seafront, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, and flowing oleanders; it has its wide, airy piazzas, its cathedral, its Grand Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, its little open cabs in which one can drive two miles for the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence halfpenny. Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown rocks into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers at English seaside resorts, and here during the afternoon everybody, clad in ducks and muslins, lounge in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings, while the waves beat with musical cadence up to their very feet. At evening there are gay, well-lit open-air cafés and several theatres, while the musical can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best works performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of one and threepence.

But life at Livorno is purely Tuscan. As yet it is unspoilt by English-speaking tourists; indeed, it is safe to say that not three Cookites set foot within the city in twelve months. In its every aspect the town is beautiful. From the sea it presents a handsome appearance, with its lines of high white houses with their red roofs and closed sun-shutters, backed by the distant blue peaks of the Lucca Mountains, and the serrated spurs of the purple Apennines, while in its sun-whitened streets the dress of the Livornesi, with their well-made skirts of the palest and most delicate tints of blue, grey, and rose, and with their black silk scarves or lace mantillas twisted about their handsome heads, is the most artistic and tasteful in all fair Italy. The men are happy, careless, laughing fellows, muscular, and bronzed by the sun; the women dark-eyed, black-haired, and notable throughout the length and breadth of Europe for their extreme beauty and their grace of carriage.