"You are a coward in addition to being a spy and a traitor!" I declared. "You would even endeavour to besmirch a woman's fair name."

"Fair name!" he laughed insultingly. "Love like yours, amico mio, is always blind. You English are always so amusingly simple."

"Come," I said, halting suddenly when we had arrived at the small garden in the centre of which the band-stand is placed. As we were some distance away from the promenaders, we could not be overheard. "Enough has pa.s.sed between us. I tell you plainly that it is my intention to end all this and to apply for your arrest as a spy."

"And supposing I do not allow myself to be arrested? Suppose I cross the frontier at once?"

"A telegram to the police at Ventimiglia will prevent you," I answered quite calmly. "You see that city guard yonder?" I said, pointing to a man in uniform standing not far off upon the kerb. "I have only now to demand your arrest, and you will never again enjoy freedom your whole life long."

"But you don't think I should be such a fool as to allow myself to be taken, do you?" he said, his air of defiance still perfect.

He went on chewing the end of his Virginia. "Your description is too well known. You will not be at liberty a single hour after I make my statement to the Prefect." Then I paused, and, looking straight into his evil face, added, "There is, however, yet another way."

"How?"

"A way in which you may avoid arrest--the only way."

"Explain," he said. "This is very interesting."

"By being perfectly frank with me," I replied, "and by making explanation of your work of espionage in London."

"You will never know that," he replied quickly. "Cause my arrest if you wish, but upon the incidents of the past year my lips are sealed, because I know that you can never secure my conviction in Italy."

"Then you still defy me, and refuse to explain anything?"

It was my endeavour to obtain from him the secret of how despatches had so frequently been stolen.

"I will explain nothing," he declared firmly.

"You have no evidence upon which to convict me."

"Very well," I answered slowly and distinctly, "we shall see. You apparently forget that within your photographic camera, which so fortunately fell into my hands, was an undeveloped negative of an important diplomatic doc.u.ment having reference to Italy's position in regard to the Triple Alliance, which you photographed in the Italian Emba.s.sy in Brussels and intended to hand to your employers in Paris? I have a print of it here, in my pocket-book, and I think it will be of considerable interest both to the Italian police and the Italian Government."

His jaw dropped, and the light went out of his dark, sallow countenance.

I saw that if ever the spirit of murder was in this scoundrel's heart it was there at that moment.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

IN WHICH EDITH SPEAKS PLAINLY.

After luncheon, when Miss Foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to take her afternoon nap, Edith managed to escape and accompany me for a walk. The hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly English, who had come South in search of sunshine. The Battle of Flowers was to be fought that day. The little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and irresponsibility that Carnival lends to every Italian town. In Carnival Bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festa is fast and furious, without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at Nice.

Edith had, however, seen the Battle of Flowers at Nice in the previous week, having gone over there for the day. As this was so, we resolved to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. Up a steep road on the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny Ospedaletti we climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered the beautiful olive-groves. Seen through the grey-green trees with their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful, the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand, the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep sapphire of the gla.s.sy sea. Although February, it was like a May day in England, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk in overcoats or wraps was impossible.

"Well," I said at length, when we had halted a second time to turn back and admire the view, "you are displeased with me, Edith? Why am I so unwelcome?"

"You are not unwelcome," she declared quickly. "I am certainly not displeased."

"I begin to think that during the months you've been here you have forgotten those words you uttered to me in Paris, just as you forgot your vow made to me beneath the willows at Ryburgh."

"I have forgotten nothing," she protested. "This is cruel of you, Gerald, to reproach me thus."

"You told me then that you reciprocated my affection, yet you allow this man Bertini to follow you everywhere. He is here."

"Here?" she gasped in alarm, her face pale in an instant. "Are you certain?"

"I have seen and spoken with him this morning."

I did not tell her the nature of our conversation, or how I had given him twelve hours in which to decide whether he preferred to reveal the truth or take the consequences of arrest; neither did I tell her that I had called at the police-office and that the spy was already under close observation, the police believing him to be an undesirable visitor from Monte Carlo.

"You've spoken with him? What did he tell you?"

"Very little of consequence. I know that you are his victim, and I am seeking to release you from the thraldom," I answered gravely.

"Ah!" she cried wistfully, "if you only could! If you only could, then I should commence a new life and be happy! The awful suspense is killing me."

"Suspense of what?"

She was silent for a moment.

"I fear his threats," she faltered. "I know he would have no compunction whatever in causing my ruin when I am no longer of further use to him."

"Now, tell me plainly and honestly, Edith," I asked, looking straight into her white, anxious face. "Do you love him?"

"Love him!" she echoed wildly. "Why, I hate him! Have I not already told you so?"

"But he loves you."

"Of that I am not certain. If he does, it is through no fault whatever of mine. I detest and hate him!"

"Will you not tell me how he managed to obtain this irresistible power over you? Can you not help me in my search for the truth?"

"I must not speak; I dare not, Gerald," she answered in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, as though the very thought of exposure filled her with alarm.

"You fear his revenge?"

She nodded, adding in a low tone, "He knows my secret."

"And I, your lover, do not," I observed reproachfully. "Well," I continued, "answer me truly one question. Tell me whether, when you called upon me on the last occasion in Paris, you stole a letter from my desk--a letter from the Princess von Leutenberg?"

"From the woman who loves you?" she cried huskily. "Yes, I did."

"And you stole it at Bertini's instigation? He told you where it would be found, the colour of the envelope, and the coronet and cipher upon it, did he not?"

She nodded in the affirmative.

"And that same night you met him in a small cafe at Batignolles, and handed him the letter? He was with his accomplice, Rodolphe Wolf."

"It is just as you say," she answered. "But how did you know this?"