The Mysterious Mr. Miller. Le Queux William
is dead; his mouth is closed.”
“Ah, yes. That is just it. If he lived he might, perhaps, have had compassion upon me.”
“He refused to tell the truth – that you were at his villa at Tivoli on that evening, and therefore could not have been in Rome, eh?”
She halted, glaring at me open-mouthed. She saw that I knew the truth, and after a few moments’ silence with her eyes fixed upon mine, she exclaimed in a low, hoarse voice: —
“He preserved silence because he dared not tell the truth. He was a cur and a coward.”
“And also a thief, it would seem,” I added.
“Yes – you have seen what the papers are saying about him, I suppose? The police are searching for him all over Europe. They have no idea that he is already dead and buried.”
“Perhaps it is as well; otherwise the papers would have fallen into their hands. As it is I took possession of them all and restored them to the Italian Embassy – all but this,” and I drew out her letter of appeal, and, opening it, handed it to her.
She glanced at it, crushed it in her hand with a sigh, her dark eyes still fixed upon mine, as though she were trying to read my innermost thoughts.
“Who are your enemies?” I asked in a kindly tone of sympathy. “Tell me, Miss Miller, what have they alleged against you?”
Her brows again contracted. She set her lips hard but remained silent, determined not to satisfy me regarding the charge against her.
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