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THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 FIRST VOLUME 
 
LOSDOX : PltlXTKIJ BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AXD CO.. XEW-STUEKT SQUAEE 
 
 AXD TARLIAJIEXT STREET 
 
Vou lie! You lie!' 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 ^ iHp0terp of iBonevn Y^tnict 
 
 TO WHICH IS ADDED 
 
 MY LADY'S MONEY 
 
 BY 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 lyjJH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR HOPKINS 
 IN TWO VOLUMES— VOL. L 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1879 
 
 [The right of translation is reserved"] 
 
V 
 
 c 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 I 
 ^ 
 
 25>3 
 
 V 
 
 TO 
 
 MR & MRS SEBASTIAN SCHLESINGER 
 
 tQ IN REMEMBRANXE OF MUCH KINDNESS 
 
 AND OF MANY HAPPY DAY: 
 
PEE FACE. 
 
 The public favour, at home and abroad, has .shown such 
 marked approval of • The Haunted Hotel,' during its 
 periodical appearance, that I may trust the work to speak 
 for itself in the form imder which it now appeals to other 
 circles of readers. 
 
 • The second story was originally published in the 
 Christmas Xumber of the Illustrated London Xeics for 
 1877. Imperative necessity, connected with the question 
 of space, left the friendly and considerate authorities at 
 the Office no other alternative than to print ' My Lady's 
 Money ' in a type which presented serious obstacles 
 (spectacles notwithstanding) to readers who had arrived 
 at a mature time of life. I have now the honour of 
 directing the attention of these ladies and gentlemen to 
 the marked consideration for their convenience exhibited 
 by the printers of the story in its present form. Addino* 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 one word more, in relation to the purely literary side of 
 the question, I would venture to hope that the studies of 
 character in this little work will be found faithfully drawn 
 from Nature — and that all friends of dogs will discover 
 something which is true also of their dogs in the pen-and- 
 ink portrait of ' Tommie.' 
 
 W. C. 
 
 London : October 1 878. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 THE HAUNTED HOTEL. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The First Part 1 
 
 The Second Part 42 
 
 The Third Part 114 
 
 The Fourth Part 136 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE 
 
THE FIRST PART 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 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 %isits to patients at their o^vn 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-hom-s. Tell her what the 
 hours are, and send her away.' 
 
 ' I have told her, sir.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 B 2 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 ' And she won't go.' 
 
 ' Won't go ? ' The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. 
 He was a humourist in liis 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-moiTow. 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 con- 
 sulting-room. When she gets tired of waiting, you know 
 what to tell her. If she asks when I am expected to return, 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 5 
 
 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 glitter- 
 ing 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 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 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 expres- 
 sion of her eyes. Apart from his first emotion of surprise, the 
 feeling she produced in the Doctor may be described as an over- 
 powering 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 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 7 
 
 apathy seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. 
 Forced to speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in the conven- 
 tional 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 stomacli 
 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 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 famous in yoiir 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 pro- 
 fessional 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 extra- 
 ordinary 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 my skin is so delicate, I cannot paint without producing a 
 hideous rash. But that is of no importance. I wanted yoiu 
 opinion given positively. I believed in you, and you have dis- 
 appointed me.' Her head dropped on her breast. ' And so it 
 ends I' she said to herself bitterly. 
 
 The Doctor's sjonpathies 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 
 eagerl}'. ' 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 yom* con- 
 fidence) 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 ! ' 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' 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, ihey 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. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. ii 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' 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 -svise 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 
 
12 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge — 
 he told me the truth. I was natm-ally indignant. He had his 
 excuse ready ; he showed me a letter from the lady herself, releas- 
 ing 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 soitows 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 com- 
 passion ; 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 MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 13 
 
 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 life.' 
 
 The Doctor began to feel interested at last. 
 
 ' Was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appear- 
 ance ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Nothing whatever I ' 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 cliin : these, and nothing more.' 
 
14 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 too much for you ; will you try my smelliug-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 as 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 lam 
 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 
 
1 6 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 
 mind ? ' 
 
 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 convic- 
 tion of the woman's wickedness had forced itself on him. He tried 
 vainly to think of her as a person |to be j^itied — 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 
 
 ' I have already given you my opinion,' he said. ' There is no 
 sign of your intellect being deranged, or being likely to be 
 deran^red, that medical science can discover — as / understand it. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 17 
 
 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 lier into the hall. As the 
 servant closed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity — 
 utterly unworthy of him, and at tlie same time utterly irresistible — 
 
 VOL. 1. C 
 
i8 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 o^ti 
 servant? He had behaved infamously — he had asked an honest 
 man, a man who had served him faithfully for years, to turn spy I 
 >Stung by the bare thought of it, he ran out into the hall again y 
 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 
 ofif 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. ig 
 
 question him. The man reported the result of his errand, without 
 •waiting to be asked. 
 
 ' The lady's name is the Comitess Narona. She lives at ' 
 
 Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknow- 
 ledged 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-com-t ; 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, ' Xo : 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. 
 
 c 3 
 
20 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 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, lie was answered 
 by something like a shout of astonishment. Never (the conclave 
 agreed) had such an absm'd 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 death-like 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 Dalma- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 21 
 
 tian 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 Eivar, 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 inter- 
 ference went for nothing : it was naturally attributed to the spirit 
 of contradiction inherent in his profession. He was asked derisively 
 what he thouoht of tlie circumstances under which the Countess 
 had become engaged to be married; and he made the characteristic 
 answer, that he thouglit 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. 
 
2 2 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Plis 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 
 Homberg of no less a person than Lord Montbarry, and liad 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 
 infomiation intei-polated by themselves. 
 
 ' Herbert John West wick. First Baron Montbarry, of Mont- 
 barry, 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 creatm'e we have been talking 
 about. Heir presumptive, his lordship's next brother, Stephen 
 Eobert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas 
 Harden, 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., 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 23 
 
 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 ^lontbarry — 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 de- 
 scribed 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 
 
24 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 INIontbarry's 
 choice of a wife. 
 
 AVhile 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 
 Wy brow'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. Xot 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. ' / say it I ' 
 he answered. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 25 
 
 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 pro- 
 perty in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed.' 
 
 Montbarry's brother made a sign, admitting that he had no 
 objection to ofifer 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.' 
 
 ' Fom- hundred a year is not all,' was the reply to this. ' My 
 brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds ; and he ha& 
 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.' 
 
26 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 After that, there was no more to be said — so lon^^, 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 Coimtess's position was secure; Montbarry's resolution 
 to be her husband was unshaken. They were bothEoman 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 witli 
 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 wit- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, 27 
 
 iiesses. One of these last was an elderly woman, who might 
 liave been the Countess's companion or maid ; the other was un- 
 doubtedly her brother, Baron Eivar. The bridal party (the bride 
 herself included) wore their ordinary morning costume. Lord 
 ]\IontbaiTy, 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 Eivar, 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 dasliing 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 oflSciating priest was only a 
 harmless, humble-lookiog old man. who went through his duties 
 resignedly, and felt visible rheumatic difficulties every time he bent 
 liis knees. The one remarkable person, the Coimtess lierself, 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 appear- 
 ance 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 disap- 
 
28 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 peared, 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 I ' She whispered those strange words, and retm^ned 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- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 
 
 29 
 
 looking rascal I ' They went on with Montbarry. ' Is he going to 
 take that homd woman with him to Ireland ? ' ' Xot he ! he 
 <?an'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 ? ' 
 
30 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 i 
 
 On the day of the marriage, Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the 
 
 little drawing-room of her London lodgings, bm-ning the letters- 
 
 which had been written to her by Montbarry in the byegone 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 foce, 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 
 
A MYSTEEY OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 31 
 
 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 nm'se 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. Xever 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
32 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 « His letters ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 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 
 
A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 33 
 
 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 Aer 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. vShe 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 chm'ch ? ' 
 
 He resented the question with an expression of indignant 
 surprise. ' Gro 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. 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' 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 yoii defend the Countes?, 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 the 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 I ' 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 
 
A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 35 
 
 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 yoih think, Henry ? I can hardly 
 believe it.' 
 
 ' If you could bring the retribution on him that he has deserved,' 
 Henry AVestwick 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 ]\Irs. 
 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. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 I s!iall cross the Channel by the mail to-night, and see how a few 
 weeks' change will help me.' He took her hand. ' Is there any- 
 thing 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 altering 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 tlie room. The nm'se hobbled after him 
 to the head of the stairs : she had not forgotten the time when the 
 younger brother had been tlie 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 I' 
 
 Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a tm-n 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 cougli. Agnes 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 37 
 
 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 favoiu to grant ? Sit down, and let 
 me liear liow 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 >hook 
 her head and sighed resignedly. ' I have no positive complaint to 
 make against him, INIiss. 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 tlionght your 
 husband liad 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 
 
38 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 recommenda- 
 tion,' she rejoined. ' ^Vhy 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 
 tm-n 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 wMch 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. Agues spoke sliarply. ' Nonsense, Emily I 
 Tell me the name directly — or drop the subject — whichever you 
 like best.' 
 
 Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her hand- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 39 
 
 kerchief 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 3'ou 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 ii'resistibly 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 ^lontbarry 
 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.' 
 
40 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 yom' 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 wliat 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 wi'itten 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 41 
 
 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. Xot 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 INIontbarry'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 cornier. 
 
42 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 TEE SECOND PARI. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 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 tm-ning 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 
 
A AH'STERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 43 
 
 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 Kivar, was already 
 on the Continent. It had been arranged that he was to meet his 
 sister and her husband at Eome. 
 
 One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of 
 Agnes. She faced her position with admii-able 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 Hfe, deceived 
 
44 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 \isit 
 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. AVestwick 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 w^ay 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 fi'iend. The girls hung round her in tears at her 
 departure ; the youngest of them wanted to go back VN^tli Agnes to 
 London. Half in jest, half in earnest, she said to her old friend 
 at parting, ' If your governess leaves you, keep tlie place open 
 for me.' .Mrs. Westwick laughed. The wiser children took it 
 seriously, and promised to let Agnes know. 
 
 On the very day when ^liss Lockwood returned to London, she 
 was recalled to those associations with the past which she was 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 45 
 
 most anxiuus 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.' 
 
 Ag-nes looked at her in astonishment. ' Are you sure of what 
 you are saying ? ' she asked. 
 
 The nurse was quite sure. ' "^"^^h}-, Lord bless you ! the news 
 comes from the couriers' office in Cfolden 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 after- 
 wards — and had received no rej^ly. Feeling uneas\', she had gone 
 to the office in Grolden Square, to inquire if he had been heard of 
 there. The post of the morning had brought a letter to the 
 
46 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 \dsit. 
 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 l3e 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 lea^ing 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 posi- 
 tively assure you that Ferrari was treated with the greatest kindness 
 in this house. We are as much astonished as you are at his extra- 
 ordinary disappearance. If you should hear of him, pray let us 
 know, so that we may at least pay him the money which is due.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 47 
 
 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 countiy, 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 Mont- 
 barry, 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 (fo 
 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 ex- 
 periments in chemistry. The experiments sometimes made a nasty 
 
48 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 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 memo- 
 randum book showed) at a date subsequent to the courier's dis- 
 appearance. 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, 
 ' Wliat 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. 
 
A MYSTER Y OF MODERN VENICE. 49 
 
 ' 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, ^liss, 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, sting}- 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 pur- 
 chasing 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. 
 
 ' ^ly 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. 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 We were to have stopped at G-enoa, but he hurried us on. The 
 same thing at Florence. Here, at Eome, 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 Eivar. My lady pacified 
 them, and made them shake hands.' 
 
 The third, and last letter, was from Venice. 
 
 ' More of my lord's economy I 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 sal ary 
 regularly at the end of eacli 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 rae ! He is an inve- 
 terate 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 51 
 
 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 iind 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 pro- 
 vocations, 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 maid.' 
 
 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 gi-eater 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 cor- 
 
 a2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 respondence 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 
 stall's. 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, INIiss.' 
 
 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. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 53 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The next day, the frieDd 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 corre- 
 spondence connected with that event. ]Mr. Troy read (first) the 
 three letters addressed by Ferrari to his wife ; (secondly) the letter 
 Aviitten 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 extraordi- 
 nary 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,' 3Ir. 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. ITe possessed a keen 
 eye for character, a quaint humour, and a kindly nature which 
 
54 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 ou 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 handkercliief to her eyes. The word 
 ' dead ' was ineflfectual 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 ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 55 
 
 There are limits to human patience — even the patience of a 
 bereaved wife. This cool question irritated ^Irs. Ferrari into ex- 
 pressing 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 tlie 
 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 liave made a good 
 lawyer — you would have taken jmies by tlie scruff of tlieir 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. P\rrari would hardly put their hands 
 in their pockets and send you a thousand pounds. Wlio 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 
 
56 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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. 
 
 ' AMiat 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 j\Ir. Troy un- 
 disguisedly 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 
 j^alace 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. 
 Fen-ari was the first to find it out — and that the guilty persons 
 had reason to fear, not only that he would acquaint Lord JMont- 
 barry 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 conclu- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 57 
 
 sion from the conclusion at which you have arrived. Here is your 
 husband left in this miserable household of three, under very 
 awkward circumstances for Idm, AVhat 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 jpaid 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 ; INIrs. 
 Ferrari's dull drab-coloured complexion became enlivened by a 
 glow of brilliant red. 
 
 ' It's false I ' she cried. ' It's a burning shame to speak of my 
 husband in that way ! ' 
 
 ' I told you I should offend you I ' 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 re- 
 consider that side of his theory which reflected harshly on Ferrari. 
 While she was still speaking, the servant interrupted her by enter- 
 ing the room with a visiting-card. It was the card of Henry 
 Westw^ck ; and there was an ominous request written on it in 
 pencil. ' I bring bad news. Let me see you for a minute down- 
 stairs.' Agnes immediately left the room. 
 
58 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Alone with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy permitted his natural kind- 
 ness 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 re- 
 spect 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 3'ou 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 
 tlieir language, ' You may say what you please ; I will never for- 
 give you to my dying day.' 
 
 Mr. Troy gave it up. He composedly wheeled his chair round, 
 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 59 
 
 to see Ag-nes. 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 for- 
 gotten 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 I ' Islx, 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 Eobert Westwick, 
 Newbury's Hotel, London. It is useless to take the journey. 
 
6o THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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, ^Ir. Troy was struck 
 by the expression of blank fear which showed itself in the woman's 
 face. 
 
 ' ]\Irs. Ferrari,' he said, ' have you heard what Mr. Westwick 
 has just told me?' 
 
 ' Every word of it, sir.' 
 
 ' Have you any questions to ask ? ' 
 
 * Xo, sir.' 
 
 ' You seem to be alarmed,' the lawyer persisted. ' Is it still 
 about your husband ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 6i 
 
 ' I shall never see my husband again, sir. I have thought so 
 all along, as you know. I feel siue 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. "SVestwick. 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. West wick politely. 
 ' I wish you good evening.' 
 
 Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door. 
 * I have heard of yom' trouble, Emily, from 3Iis3 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 INIiss 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 \'iew of her husband's case. 
 
 Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of tlie little 
 drawing-room. There was nothing to keep him in the hou^e, 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 
 
62 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 room. There, in one 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 Montbarrry,' 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. Eather 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 dis- 
 putable of all deaths. ' I wish you hadn't put that question into 
 my head I ' he broke out irritably. ' Ah ! ' said his friend, ' you 
 think the widow will get the money ? So do I ! so do I ! ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 63 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 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 piu:pose 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 
 
64 
 
 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 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 jNIr. Troy's proposal. 
 
 ' INIy interference, innocent as it was,' she wrote, ' has already 
 
 been productive of such deplorable results, that I cannot and dare 
 
 not stir any farther 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 
 
 INTrs. 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 ls\x. Troy I I am very un- 
 
A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 65 
 
 happy, and very unreasonable — but I am only a woman, and you 
 must not expect too much from me.' 
 
 Foiled in this direction, the lawver next advised makino- 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 
 ■\Iontbarry 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 Eivar, 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 cliemistry,' had 
 heard of certain recent discoveries in connection with that 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 science, in tlie United States, and was anxious to investigate them 
 personally. 
 
 These items of news, collected by Mr. Troy, were duly com- 
 municated to jNIrs. 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 for- 
 bade any fm*ther conversation relating to Lord Montbarry's wife, 
 now that Lord Montbarry was no more. ' You have ^Ir. Troy ta 
 advise you,' she said ; ' and you are welcome to what little money 
 I can spare, if money is wanted. All I ask in retm-n is that you 
 will not distress me. I am trying to separate myself from remem- 
 brances ' her voice faltered ; she paused to control herself — 
 
 ' from remembrances,' she resmned, ' which are sadder than e\'er 
 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 1 3th of the month ; and more in- 
 formation of the interesting sort reached !Mr. Troy. The labom's 
 of the insurance commission had come to an end — the Eeport had 
 been received from Venice on that day. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 On the 14:tli 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 coiifidential. 
 
 * 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 Mont- 
 barry'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 om' iustructions, 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 
 
 f2 
 
68 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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 con- 
 venience 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 dis- 
 posal." From first to last we found this gentleman perfectly 
 straightforward, 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. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 69 
 
 ' The only inliabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting- 
 room and bed-room occupied by Baron Kivar, and another room at 
 gome distance from it, which had been the bed-room of the cornier 
 Ferrari. 
 
 ' The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were 
 completely unfurnished, and in a condition of gTeat 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 do\vn 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." 
 
70 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 * 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 Eivar 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 expe- 
 riments 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 ot 
 his death. We found nothing to justify suspicion. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 71 
 
 ' 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 fi*om 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 con- 
 stitution. 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 l^etter 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. Xothing to excite a suspicion of anything wrong has 
 come to our knowledge. 
 
 'As to the departm-e 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 Con- 
 tinent, and wished to get back to her own country. This is not 
 an uncommon result of taking English servants to foreign parts. 
 Lady MontbaiTy has informed us that she abstained from engaging 
 
72 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 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, unques- 
 tionably 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 om- inquiry • 
 AVe 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 tlie 
 keeper of the restaurant who has supplied the meals to the family 
 throughout the period of their residence at the palace. Her cha- 
 racter is most favourably spoken of. Unfortunately, her limited 
 intellio"ence 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 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 73 
 
 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 oui' 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 addi'essed 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 send 
 ing 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 JNIontbarry'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 pro- 
 ducing 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 
 
74 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 vain. From that time forth, not a trace of Fen^ari could be dis- 
 covered. This happened on November 14. 
 
 ' On the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms accom- 
 panying 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 
 1 6th, 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. Baron 
 Eivar, after inquiry at the consul's, secured the services of 
 Doctor Bruno, well known as an eminent physician in Venice; 
 with the additional recommendation of having resided in Eng- 
 land, and having made himself acquainted with English forms of 
 medical practice. 
 
 ' Thus far, our account of his lordship's illness has been derived 
 from statements made by Lady ]\Iontbarry. The narrative ^^all 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 75 
 
 now be most fitly continued in the language of the doctor's own 
 report, herewith subjoined. 
 
 ' " My medical diary informs me that I first saw the English 
 Lord Montbarry, on November 17. He was suffering from a sharp 
 attack of bronchitis. Some precious time had been lost, through 
 his obstinate objection to the presence of a medical man at his 
 bedside. G-enerally speaking, he appeared to be in a delicate state 
 of health. His nervous system was out of order — he was at once 
 timid and contradictory. When I spoke to him in English, he 
 answered in Italian ; and when I tried him in Italian, he went 
 back to English. It mattered little — the malady had already 
 made such progress that he could only speak a few words at a 
 time, and those in a whisper. 
 
 ' " I at once applied the necessary remedies. Copies of my pre- 
 scriptions (with translation into English) accompany the present 
 statement, and are left to speak for themselves. 
 
 ' " For the next three days I was in constant attendance on my 
 patient. He answered to the remedies employed — improving 
 slowly, but decidedly. I could conscientiously assure Lady 
 MontbaiTy that no danger was to be apprehended thus far. She 
 was indeed a most devoted wife. I vainly endeavoured to induce 
 her to accept the services of a competent nurse ; she would allow 
 nobody to attend on her husband but herself. Xight and day 
 this estimable woman was at his bedside. In her brief intervals 
 
76 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 of repose, her brother watched the sick man in her place. This 
 brother was, I must say, very good company, in the intervals when 
 we had time for a little talk. He dabbled in chemistry, down in the 
 horrid under-water vaults of the palace ; and he wanted to show me 
 some of his experiments. I have enough of chemistry in writing 
 prescriptions — and I declined. He took it quite good-humouredly. 
 
 ' " I am straying away from my subject. Let me retm^n to the 
 sick lord. 
 
 ' " Up to the 20th, then, things went well enough. I was 
 quite unprepared for the disastrous change that showed itself, 
 when I paid Lord Montbarry my morning visit on the 21st. He 
 liad relapsed, and seriously relapsed. Examining him to discover 
 the cause, I found symptoms of pneumonia — that is to say, in 
 unmedical language, inflammation of the substance of the lungs. 
 He breathed with difficulty, and was only partially able to relieve 
 himself by coughing. I made the strictest inquiries, and was 
 assured that his medicine had been administered as carefully as 
 usual, and that he had not been exposed to any changes of tem- 
 perature. It was with great reluctance that I added to Lady 
 ^lontbarry's distress ; but I felt bound, when she suggested a con- 
 sultation with another physician, to o^vn that I too thought there 
 was really need for it. 
 
 ' " Her ladyship instructed me to spare no expense, and to get 
 the best medical opinion in Italy. The best opinion was happily 
 within our reach. The first and foremost of Italian physicians, is 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 77 
 
 Torello of Padua. I sent a special messenger for the great man. 
 He arrived on the evening of the 21st, and confirmed my 
 opinion that pneumonia had set in, and that our patient's life was 
 in danger. I told him what my treatment of the case had been, 
 and he approved of it in every particular. He made some valu- 
 able suggestions, and (at Lady Montbarry's express request) he 
 consented to defer his return to Padua until the following 
 morning. 
 
 ' '* We both saw the patient at intervals in the com'se of the 
 night. The disease, steadily advancing, set om* utmost resistance 
 at defiance. In the morning Doctor Torello took his leave. ' I 
 can be of no further use,' he said to me. ' The man is past all 
 help — and he ought to know it.' 
 
 ' " Later in the day I warned my lord, as gently as I could, that 
 his time had come. I am informed that there are serious reasons 
 for my stating what passed between us on this occasion, in detail, 
 and without any reserve. I comply with the request. 
 
 ' " Lord Montbarry received the intelligence of his approaching 
 death with becoming composure, but with a certain doubt. He 
 signed to me to put my ear to his mouth. He whispered faintly, 
 ' Are you sure ? ' It was no time to deceive him ; I said, ' Posi- 
 tively sure.' He waited a little, gaspiug for breath, and then he 
 whispered again, 'Feel under my pillow.' I found under his 
 pillow a letter, sealed and stamped, ready for the post. His next 
 words were just audible and no more — 'Post it yourself.' I 
 
78 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 answered, of course, that I would do so — and I did post the letter 
 with my own hand. I looked at the address. It was directed to 
 a lady in London. The street I cannot remember. The name I 
 can perfectly recall : it was an Italian name — ' Mrs. Ferrari.' 
 
 ' " That night my lord nearly died of asphyxia. I got him 
 through it for the time ; and his eyes showed that he under- 
 stood me when I told him, the next morning, that I had posted 
 the letter. This was his last effort of consciousness. When I 
 saw him again he was sunk in apathy. He lingered in a state of 
 insensibility, supported by stimulants, until the 25th, and died 
 (unconscious to the last) on the evening of that day. 
 
 ' " As to the cause of Ins death, it seems (if I may be excused 
 for saying so) simply absurd to ask the question. Bronchitis, ter- 
 minating in pneumonia — there is no more doubt that this, and 
 this only, was the malady of w^hich he expired, than that two and 
 two make fom\ Doctor Torello's own note of the case is added 
 here to a duplicate of my certificate, in order (as I am informed) 
 to satisfy some English offices in which his lordship's life was in- 
 sured. The English offices must have been founded by that cele- 
 brated saint and doubter, mentioned in the Xew Testament, whose 
 name was Thomas I " 
 
 ' Doctor Bruno's evidence ends here. 
 
 ' Keverting for a moment to our inquiries addressed to Lady 
 I^Iontbarry, w^e have to report that she can give us no information 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 79 
 
 on the subject of the letter which the doctor posted at Lord 
 Montbarry's request, \yhen his lordsliip wrote it? what it con- 
 tained? why he kept it a secret from Lady Montbarry (and 
 from the Baron also) ; and why he should write at all to the wife 
 of his coimer ? these are questions to which we find it simply im- 
 possible to obtain any replies. It seems even useless to say that 
 the matter is open to suspicion. Suspicion implies conjecture of 
 some kind — and the letter under my lord's pillow baffles all con- 
 jecture. Application to 3Irs. Ferrari may perhaps clear up tha 
 mystery. Her residence in London will be easily discovered at 
 the Italian Couriers' Office, Grolden Square. 
 
 ' Having arrived at the close of the present Eeport, we have 
 now to draw your attention to the conclusion which is justified by 
 the results of our investigation. 
 
 ' The plain question before our Directors and ourselves appears 
 to be this : Has the inquiry revealed any extraordinary circum- 
 stances which render the death of Lord Montbarry open to sus- 
 picion ? The inquiry has revealed extraordinary circumstances 
 beyond all doubt — such as the disappearance of Ferrari, the re- 
 markable absence of the customary establishment of servants in 
 the house, and the mysterious letter which his lordsliip asked the 
 doctor to post. But where is the proof that any one of these 
 circumstances is associated — suspiciously and directly associated — 
 with the only event which concerns us, the event of Lord Mont- 
 barry's death ? In the absence of any such proof, and in the face 
 
So THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 of the evidence of two eminent physicians, it is impossible to dis- 
 pute the statement on the certificate that his lordship died a 
 natural death. We are bound, therefore, to report, that there 
 are no valid grounds for refusing the payment of the sum for which 
 the late Lord Montbarry's life was assured. 
 
 ' We shall send these lines to you by the post of to-morrow, 
 December 10; leaving time to receive your further instructions 
 (if any), in reply to our telegram of this evening announcing the 
 conclusion of the inquiry.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 8i 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' Xow, my good creature, whatever you have to say to me, out 
 -with it at once ! I don't want to hurry you needlessly ; but these 
 are business hours, and I have other people's affairs to attend to 
 besides yoiu-s.' 
 
 Addressing Ferrari's wife, with his usual blunt good-humour, 
 in these terms, Mr. Troy registered the lapse of time by a glance 
 at the watch on his desk, and then waited to hear what his client 
 had to say to him. 
 
 ' It's something more, sir, about the letter with the thousand- 
 pound note,' Mrs. Ferrari began. ' I have found out who sent it 
 to me.' 
 
 Mr. Troy started. ' This is news indeed I ' he said. ' Wlio 
 sent you the letter ? ' 
 
 * Lord Montbarry sent it, sir.' 
 
 It was not easy to take ]Mr. Troy by surprise. But Mrs. 
 Ferrari threw him completely off his balance. I^or a wliile he could 
 only look at her in silent surprise. ' Nonsense I ' he said, as soon 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
82 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 as he had recovered himself. ' There is some mistake — it can't 
 be!' 
 
 ' There is no mistake,' Mrs. Ferrari rejoined, in her most posi- 
 tive manner. ' Two gentlemen from the insurance offices called on 
 me this morning, to see the letter. They were completely 
 puzzled — especially when tbey heard of the bank-note insider 
 But they know who sent the letter. His lordship's doctor in 
 Venice posted it at liis lordship's request. Gro to the gentlemen 
 yom'self, sir, if you don't believe me. They were polite enough to 
 ask if I could account for Lord Montbarry writing to me and sen:I- 
 ing me the money. I gave them my opinion directly — I said it 
 was like his lordship's kindness.' 
 
 ' Like his lordship's kindness ? ' Mr. Troy repeated, in blank 
 amazement. 
 
 ' Yes, sir I Lord Montbarry knew me, like all the other 
 members of the family, when I was at school on the estate in 
 Ireland. If he could have done it, he would have protected my 
 poor dear husband. But he was helpless himself in the hands of 
 my lady and the Baron — and the only kind tiling he could do was 
 to provide for me in my widowhood, like the true nobleman he 
 was ! ' 
 
 ' A very pretty explanation ! ' said Mr. Troy. ' What did your 
 visitors from the insurance offices think of it ? ' 
 
 * They asked if I had any proof of my husband's death.' 
 
 ' And what did you say ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. Z'^ 
 
 ' I said, " I give you better than proof, gentlemen ; I give you 
 ray positive opinion." ' 
 
 ' That satisfied them, of course ? ' 
 
 ' They didn't say so in words, sir. They looked at each other — 
 and wished me good-morning.' 
 
 ' Well, Mrs. Ferrari, unless you have some more extraordinary 
 news for me, I think I shall wish you good-morning too. I can 
 take a note of yom' information (very startling information, I 
 own) ; and, in the absence of proof, I can do no more.' 
 
 ' I can pro\ide you with proof, sir — if that is all you want,' said 
 Mrs. Ferrari, with great dignity. 'I only wish to know, first, 
 whether the law justifies me in doing it. You may have seen in 
 the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers, that Lady Mont- 
 barry has arrived in London, at Xewbury's Hotel. I propose to go 
 and see her.' 
 
 ' The deuce you do ! May I ask for what purpose ? ' 
 
 * Mrs. Ferrari answered in a mysterious whisper. ' For the 
 purpose of catching her in a trap ! I shan't send in my name — 
 I shall announce myself as a person on business, and the first words 
 I say to her will be these : " I come, my lady, to acknowledge the 
 receipt of the money sent to Ferrari's widow." Ah ! you may 
 well start, Mr. Troy ! It almost takes you off your giiard, doesn't 
 it ? Make your mind easy, sir ; I shall find the proof tliat every- 
 body asks me for in lier guilty face. Let lier only change colour 
 by the shadow of a shade — let her eyes only drop for half an 
 
 o 2 
 
84 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 instant — I shall discover her ! The one thing I want to know is. 
 does the law permit it ? ' 
 
 ' The law permits it,' Mr. Troy answered gravely ; ' but 
 whether her ladyship will permit it, is quite another question. 
 Have you really courage enough, Mrs. Ferrari, to carry out this 
 notable scheme of yours? You have been described to me, by 
 Miss Lockwood, as rather a nervous, timid sort of person — and, if 
 I may trust my own observation, I should say you justify the 
 description.' 
 
 ' If you had lived in the country, sir, instead of living in 
 London,' Mrs. Ferrari replied, ' you would sometimes have seen 
 even a sheep turn on a dog. I am far from saying that I am a 
 bold woman— quite the reverse. But when I stand in that 
 wretch's presence, and think of my mm'dered husband, the one of 
 us two who is likely to be frightened is not me. I am going there 
 now, sir. You shall hear how it ends. I wish you good- 
 morning.' 
 
 With those brave words the courier's wife gathered her mantle 
 about her, and walked out of the room. 
 
 Mr. Troy smiled — not satirically, but compassionately. ' The 
 little simpleton ! ' he thought to himself. ' If half of what they 
 say of Lady Montbarry is true, Mrs. Ferrari and her trap have but 
 a poor prospect before them. I wonder how it will end ? ' 
 
 All Mr. Troy's experience failed to forewarn him of how it did 
 end. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 85 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In the mean time, Mrs. Ferrari held to her resolution. She went 
 straight from Mr. Troy's office to Newbury's Hotel. 
 
 Lady Montbariy was at home, and alone. But the authorities 
 of the hotel hesitated to distm'b her when they found that the 
 visitor declined to mention her name. Her ladyship's new maid 
 happened to cross the hall while the matter was still in debate. 
 She was a Frenchwoman, and, on being appealed to, she settled 
 the question in the swift, easy, rational French way. 'Madame's 
 appearance was perfectly respectable. INIadame might have 
 reasons for not mentioning her name which ]\Iiladi might approve. 
 In any case, there being no orders forbidding the introduction of a 
 strange lady, the matter clearly rested between Madame and 
 ^Nliladi. AVould ^Madame, therefore, be good enough to follow 
 Miladi's maid up the stairs ? ' 
 
 In spite of her resolution, Mrs. Ferrari's heart beat as if it 
 would burst out of her bosom, when her conductress led her into 
 an ante-room, and knocked at a door opening into a room beyond. 
 But it is remarkable that persons of sensitively-nervous organisa- 
 
86 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 tion are the very persons who are capable of forcing themselves 
 (apparently by the exercise of a spasmodic effort of will) into the 
 performance of acts of the most audacious corn-age. A low, grave 
 voice from the inner room said, ' Come in.' The maid, opening 
 the door, announced, ' A person to see you, Miladi, on business,' 
 and immediately retired. In the one instant while these events 
 passed, timid little Mrs. Ferrari mastered her own throbbing heart ; 
 stepped over the threshold, conscious of her clammy hands, dry 
 lips, and bm'ning head ; and stood in the presence of Lord Mont- 
 barry's widow, to all outward appearance as supremely self-pos- 
 sessed as her ladyship herself. 
 
 It was still early in the afternoon, but the light in the room 
 was dim. The blinds were drawn down. Lady Montbarry sat 
 with her back to the windows, as if even the subdued daylight 
 were disagreeable to her. She had altered sadly for the worse in 
 her personal appearance, since the memorable day when Doctor 
 Wybrow had seen her in his consulting-room. Her beauty was 
 gone — her face had fallen away to mere skin and bone ; the 
 contrast between her ghastly complexion and her steely glitter- 
 ing black eyes was more startling than ever. Eobed in dismal 
 black, relieved only by tlie brilliant whiteness of her widow's cap 
 — reclining in a panther-like suppleness of attitude on a little 
 green sofa — she looked at the stranger who had intruded on 
 her, with a moment's languid curiosity, then dropped her eyes 
 again to the hand-screen which she held between her face and the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 87 
 
 iire. 'I don't know you,' she said. ^Wlmt do you want with 
 me?' 
 
 Mrs. Ferrari tried to answer. Her first burst of courage had 
 already worn itself out. The bold words that she had determined 
 to speak were living words still in her mind, but they died on her 
 lips. 
 
 There was a moment of silence. Lady IMontbarry looked 
 round again at the speechless stranger. 'Are you deaf?' she 
 asked. There was another pause. Lady Montbarry quietly looked 
 back again at the screen, and put another question. 'Do you 
 want money ? ' 
 
 'Money!' That one word roused the sinking spirit of the 
 courier's wife. She recovered her corn-age; she found her voice. 
 ' Look at me, my lady, if you please,' she said, with a sudden out- 
 break of audacity. 
 
 Lady Montbarry looked round for the third time. The fatal 
 ■words passed Mrs. Ferrari's lips. 
 
 ' I come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money 
 sent to Ferrari's widow.' 
 
 Lady ]Montbarry's glittering black eyes rested with steady 
 attention on the woman who had addressed her in those terms. 
 Not the faintest expression of confusion or alarm, not even a mo- 
 mentary flutter of interest stirred the deadly stillness of her face- 
 She reposed as quietly, she held the screen as composedly, as ever. 
 Tlie test had been tried, and had utterly failed. 
 
8S THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 There was another silence. Lady Montbarry considered with 
 herself. The smile that came slowly and went away suddenly — the 
 smile at once so sad and so cruel — showed itself on her thin lips. 
 She lifted her screen, and pointed with it to a seat at the fartlier 
 end of the room. ' Be so good as to take that chair,' she said. 
 
 Helpless under her first bewildering sense of failure — not know- 
 ing what to say or what to do next — Mrs. Ferrari mechanically 
 obeyed. Lady Montbarry, rising on the sofa for the first time, 
 watched her with undisgiiised scrutiny as she crossed the room — then 
 sank back into a reclining position once more. ' No,' she said to 
 herself, 'the woman walks steadily; she is not intoxicated — the 
 only other possibility is that she may be mad.' 
 
 She had spoken loud enough to be heard. Stung by the insult, 
 Mrs. Ferrari instantly answered her : ' I am no more drunk or 
 mad than you are ! ' 
 
 ' No ? ' said Lady Montbarry. ' Then you are only insolent ? 
 Tlie ignorant English mind (I have observed) is apt to be insolent 
 in the exercise of unrestrained English liberty. This is very 
 noticeable to us foreigners among you people in the streets. Of 
 course I can't be insolent to you, in return. I hardly know what 
 to say to you. My maid was imprudent in admitting you so easily 
 to my room. I suppose your respectable appearance misled her. 
 I wonder who you are ? You mentioned tlie name of a courier 
 who left us very strangely. AVas he married by any chance ? 
 Are you his wife ? And do you know where he is ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 89 
 
 Mrs. Ferrari's indignation burst its way through all restraints. 
 She advanced to the sofa ; she feared nothing, in the fervour and 
 rage of her reply. 
 
 ' I am his widow — and you know it, you wicked woman ! Ah \ 
 it was an evil hour when Miss Lockwood recommended my husband 
 to be his lordship's courier ! ' 
 
 Before she could add another word. Lady Montbarry sprang 
 from the sofa with the stealthy suddenness of a cat — seized her by 
 both shoulders — and shook her with the strength and frenzy of a 
 madwoman. ' You lie I you lie I you lie ! ' She dropped her hold 
 at the third repetition of the accusation, and threw up her hands 
 wildly with a gesture of despair. ' Oh, Jesu Maria! is it possible ? ' 
 she cried. ' Can the courier have come to me through that 
 woman ? ' She turned like lightning on Mrs. Ferrari, and stopped 
 her as she was escaping from the room. ' Stay here, you fool — 
 stay here, and answer me I If you cry out, as sure as the heavens 
 are above you, I'll strangle you with my own hands. Sit down 
 again — and fear nothing. Wretch ! It is I who am frightened — 
 frightened out of my senses. Confess that you lied, when you 
 used Miss Lockwood's name just now ! No ! I don't believe you 
 on your oath ; I will believe nobody but Miss Lockwood herself. 
 Where does she live ? Tell me that, you noxious stinging little 
 insect — and you may go.' Terrified as she w^as, Mrs. Ferrari 
 hesitated. Lady Montbarry lifted her hands threateningly, with 
 the long, lean, yellow-white fingers outspread and crooked at the 
 
90 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 tips. Mrs. Ferrari shrank at the sight of them, and gave the 
 address. Lady Montbarry pointed contemptuously to the door — 
 then changed her mind. ' No ! not yet ! you will tell Miss Lock- 
 wood what has happened, and she may refuse to see me. I will go 
 there at once, and you shall go with me. As far as the house — 
 not inside of it. Sit down again. I am going to ring for my 
 maid. Turn your back to the door — your cowardly face is not fit 
 to be seen I ' 
 
 She rang the bell. The maid appeared. 
 
 ^ ]\Iy cloak and bonnet — instantly I ' 
 
 The maid produced the cloak and bonnet from the bed-room. 
 
 ' A cab at the door — before I can count ten ! ' 
 
 The maid vanished. Lady MontbaiTy surveyed herself in tlie 
 glass, and wheeled round again, with her cat-like suddenness, to 
 Mrs. Ferrari. 
 
 ' I look more than half dead already, don't I ? ' she said with a 
 grim outburst of irony. ' Give me yoiu* arm.' 
 
 She took Mrs. Ferrari's arm, and left the room. ' You have 
 nothing to fear, so long as you obey,' she whispered, on the way 
 downstairs. ' You leave me at ]Miss Lockwood's door, and never 
 see me again.' 
 
 In the hall, they were met by the landlady of the hotel. Lady 
 Montbarry graciously presented her companion. ' My good friend 
 Mrs. Ferrari ; I am so glad to have seen her.' The landlady 
 accompanied them to the door. The cab was waiting. ' Gret in 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 91 
 
 first, good Mrs. Ferrari,' said her ladyship ; ' and tell the man 
 where to go.' 
 
 They were driven away^ Lady Montbarry's variable humour 
 changed again. With a low groan of misery, she threw herself 
 back in the cab. Lost in her own dark thoughts, as careless of th e 
 woman whom she had bent to her iron will as if no such person 
 sat by her side, she preserved a sinister silence, until they reached 
 the house where Miss Lockwood lodged. In an instant, she 
 roused lierself to action. She opened the door of the cab, and 
 closed it again on Mrs. Ferrari, before the driver could get off his 
 box. 
 
 ' Take that lady a mile farther on her way home ! ' she said, as 
 she paid the man his fare. The next moment she had knocked at 
 the house-door. 'Is Miss Lockwood at home?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 
 She stepped over the threshold — the door closed on her. 
 ' Which way, ma'am ? ' asked the driver of the cab. 
 Mrs. Ferrari put her hand to her head, and tried to collect her 
 thoughts. Could she leave her friend and benefactress helpless at 
 Lady Montbany's mercy ? She was still vainly endeavouring to 
 decide on the course that she ought to follow — when a gentleman, 
 stopping at ^liss Lockwood's door, happened to look towards the 
 cab-window, and saw her. 
 
 ' Are you going to call on Miss Agnes too ? ' he asked. 
 It was Henry Westwick. Mrs. Ferrari clasped her hands in 
 gratitude as she recognised him. 
 
92 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' G-o in, sir ! ' she cried. ' Gro in, directly. Tliat dreadful 
 woman is with Miss Agnes. Go and protect her ! ' 
 
 ' WTiat woman ? ' Henry asked. 
 
 The answer literally struck him speechless. With amazement 
 and indignation in his face, he looked at ]\Irs. Ferrari as she pro- 
 nounced the hated name of ' Lady Montbarry.' ' I'll see to it,' was 
 all he said. He knocked at the house-door ; and he too, in his turn, 
 was let in. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ' Lady Montbarey,' Miss. 
 
 Agnes was writing a letter, when the servant astonished her 
 by announcing the Visitor's name. Her first impulse was to refuse 
 to see the woman who had intruded on her. But Lady Montbarry 
 had taken care to follow close on the servant's heels. Before 
 Agnes could speak, she had entered the room. 
 
 ' I beg to apologise for my intrusion. Miss Lockwood. I have 
 a question to ask you, in which I am very much interested. No 
 one can answer me but yourself.' In low hesitating tones, with 
 her glittering black eyes bent modestly on the ground, Lady 
 Montbarry opened the interview in those words. 
 
 Without answering, Agnes pointed to a chair. She could do 
 this, and, for the time, she could do no more. All that she had 
 read of the hidden and sinister life in the palace at Venice ; all 
 that she had heard of Montbarry's melancholy death and burial 
 in a foreign land ; all that she knew of the mystery of Ferrari's 
 disappearance, rushed into her mind, when the black-robed 
 figure confronted her, standing just inside the door. The strange 
 
94 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 conduct of Lady Montbarry added a new perplexity to the doubts 
 and misgivings that troubled her. There stood the adventuress 
 whose character had left its mark on society all over Europe- - 
 the Fury who had terrified Mrs. Ferrari at the hotel — inconceivably 
 transformed into a timid, shrinking woman ! Lady Montbarry had 
 not once ventured to look at Agnes, since she had made her way 
 into the room. Advancing to take the chair that had been pointed 
 out to her, she hesitated, put her hand on the rail to support 
 herself, and still remained standing. ' Please give me a moment 
 to compose myself,' she said faintly. Her head sank on her bosom : 
 she stood before Agnes like a conscious culprit before a merciless 
 judge. 
 
 The silence that followed was, literally, the silence of fear on 
 both sides. In the midst of it, the door was opened once more — 
 and Henry Westwick appeared. 
 
 He looked at Lady Montbarry with a moment's steady atten- 
 tion — bowed to her with formal politeness — and passed on in silence. 
 At the sight of her husband's brother, the sinking spirit of the 
 woman sprang to life again. Her drooping figure became erect. 
 Her eyes met Westwick's look, brightly defiant. She returned his 
 bow with an icy smile of contempt. 
 
 Henry crossed the room to Agnes. 
 
 'Is Lady Montbarry here by your invitation?' he asked 
 quietly. 
 
 'No.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 95 
 
 ' Do jou wish to see her ? ' 
 
 ' It is very painful to me to see her.' 
 
 He turned and looked at his sister-in-law. ' Do you hear 
 that ? ' he asked coldly. 
 
 ' I hear it,' she answered, more coldly still. 
 
 ' Your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed." 
 
 ' Your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.' 
 
 With that retort, Lady ^lontbarry approached Agnes. The 
 presence of Henry Westwick seemed at once to relieve and 
 embolden her. ' Permit me to ask my question. Miss Lockwood,' 
 she said, with graceful courtesy. ' It is nothing to embarrass you. 
 When the courier Ferrari applied to my late husband for employ- 
 ment, did you ' Her resolution failed her, before she could 
 
 say more. She sank trembling into the nearest chair, and, after a 
 moment's struggle, composed herself again. ' Did you permit 
 Ferrari,' she resiuned, ' to make sure of being chosen for our 
 courier, by using your name ? ' 
 
 Agnes did not reply with her customary directness. Trifling 
 as it was, the reference to Montbarry, proceeding from that woman 
 of all others, confused and agitated her. 
 
 ' I have known Ferrari's wife for many years,' she began. 
 ' And I take an interest ' 
 
 ' Lady ^lontbarry abruptly lifted her hands with a gesture of 
 entreaty. ' Ah, ^Nliss Lockwood, don't waste time by talking of 
 his wife I Answer my plain question, plainly I ' 
 
96 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' Let me answer her,' Henry whispered. ' I will undertake to 
 speak plainly enough.' 
 
 Agnes refused by a gesture. Lady Montbarry's interruption 
 had roused her sense of what was due to herself. She resumed 
 her reply in plainer terms. 
 
 ' When Ferrari wrote to the late Lord Montbarry,' she said, 
 ' he did certainly mention my name.' 
 
 Even now, she had innocently failed to see the object which 
 her visitor had in view. Lady Montbarry's impatience became 
 ungovernable. She started to her feet, and advanced to Agnes. 
 
 ' Was it with your knowledge and permission that Ferrari used 
 your name ? ' she asked. ' The whole soul of my question is in 
 that. For God's sake answer me — Yes, or No ! ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 That one word struck Lady Montbarry as a blow might have 
 struck her. The fierce life that had animated her face the instant 
 before, faded out of it suddenly, and left her like a woman turned 
 to stone. She stood, mechanically confronting Agnes, with a 
 stillness so wrapt and perfect that not even the breath she drew 
 •was perceptible to the two persons who were looking at her. 
 
 Henry spoke to her roughly. ' Rouse yourself,' he said. ' You 
 have received your answer.' 
 
 She looked round at him. ' I have received my Sentence,' she 
 rejoined — and turned slowly to leave the room. 
 
 To Henry's astonishment, Agnes stopped her. 'Wait a 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 97 
 
 momeut, Lady Montbarry. I have something to ask on my 
 side. 'You have spoken of Ferrari. I wish to speak of him 
 too.' 
 
 Lady Montbarry bent her head in silence. Her hand trembled 
 as she took out her handkerchief, and passed it over her forehead. 
 Agnes detected the trembling, and shrank back a step. ' Is the 
 subject painful to you ? ' she asked timidly. 
 
 Still silent, Lady Montbarry invited her by a wave of the hand 
 to go on. Henry approached, attentively watching his sister-in- 
 law. Agnes went on. 
 
 ' Xo trace of Ferrari has been discovered in England,' she said. 
 * Have you any news of him ? And will you tell me (if you have 
 heard anything), in mercy to his wife ? ' 
 
 Lady Montbarry's thin lips suddenly relaxed into their sad and 
 cruel smile. 
 
 * Why do you ask me about the lost courier ? ' she said. ' You 
 will know what has become of him, Miss Lockwood, when the 
 time is ripe for it.' 
 
 Agnes started. 'I don't understand you,' she said. 'How 
 jfhull I know ? Will some one tell me ? ' 
 
 ' Some one will tell you.' 
 
 Henry could keep silence no longer. ' Perhaps, your ladyship 
 may be the person ? ' he interrupted with ironical politeness. 
 
 She answered him with contemptuous ease. 'You may be 
 right, Mr. Westwick. One day or another, I may be the person 
 
 VOL. T. H 
 
98 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 who tells Miss Lockwood what has become of Ferrari, if * 
 
 She stopped ; with her eyes fixed on Agnes. 
 
 ' If what ? ' Henry asked. 
 
 ' If Miss Lockwood forces me to it.' 
 
 Agnes listened in astonishment. ' Force you to it ? ' she re- 
 peated. ' How can I do that ? Do you mean to say my will is 
 stronger than yom's ? ' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that the candle doesn't burn the moth, 
 when the moth flies into it ? ' Lady JNIontbarry rejoined. ' Have 
 you ever heard of such a thing as the fascination of terror ? I 
 am drawn to you by a fascination of terror. I have no right to 
 visit you, I have no wish to visit you : you are my enemy. For 
 the first time in my life, against my own will, I submit to my 
 enemy. See ! I am waiting because you told me to wait — and 
 the fear of you (I swear it!) creeps through me while I stand 
 here. Oh, don't let me excite your curiosity or your pity \ 
 Follow the example of Mr. Westwick. Be hard and brutal and 
 unforgiving, like him. Grant me my release. Tell me to go.' 
 
 The frank and simple nature of Agnes could discover but one 
 intelligible meaning in this strange outbreak. 
 
 'You are mistaken in thinking me your enemy,' she said. 
 ' The wrong you did me when you gave your hand to Lord Mont- 
 barry was not intentionally done. I forgave you my sufferings in 
 his lifetime. I forgive you even more freely now that he has 
 gone.' 
 
• A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 99 
 
 Henry heard her with mingled emotions of admiration and 
 distress. 'Say no more!' he exclaimed. 'You are too good to 
 her ; she is not worthy of it.' 
 
 The interruption passed unheeded by Lady Montbarry. The 
 simple words in which Agnes had replied seemed to have absorbed 
 the whole attention of this strangely-changeable woman. As she 
 listened, her face settled slowly into an expression of hard and 
 tearless sorrow. There was a marked change in her voice wJien 
 she spoke next. It expressed that last worst resignation which 
 has done with hope. 
 
 ' You good innocent creature,' she said, ' what does your 
 amiable forgiveness matter? What are your poor little wrongs, 
 in the reckoning for greater wrongs which is demanded of me ? 
 I am not trying to frighten you; I am only miserable about 
 myself. Do you know what it is to have a firm presentiment of 
 calamity that is coming to you — and yet to hope that your own 
 positive conviction will not prove true ? When I first met you, 
 before my marriage, and first felt yom* influence over me, I had 
 that hope. It was a starveling sort of hope that lived a lingering 
 life in me until to-day. You struck it dead, when you answered 
 my question about Ferrari.' 
 
 * How have I destroyed your hopes?' Agnes asked. 'What 
 connection is there between my permitting Ferrari to use my 
 name to Lord ]Montbarry, and the strange and dreadful things you 
 are saying to me now ? ' 
 
 H 2 
 
loo THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' The time is near. Miss Lockwood, when you will discover that 
 for yourself. In the mean while, you shall know what my fear of 
 you is, in the plainest words I can find. On the day when I took 
 your hero from you and blighted your life — I am firmly persuaded 
 of it ! — you were made the instrument of the retribution that my 
 sins of many years had deserved. Oh, such things have happened 
 before to-day ! One person has, before now, been the means of 
 innocently ripening the growth of evil in another. You have done 
 that already — and you have more to do yet. You have still to 
 bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is 
 my doom. We shall meet again — here in England, or there in 
 Venice where my husband died — and meet for the last time.' 
 
 In spite of her better sense, in spite of her natural superiority 
 to superstitions of all kinds, Ag*nes was impressed by the terrible 
 earnestness with which those words were spoken. She tm-ned pale 
 as she looked at Henry. ' Do yovb understand her ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Nothing is easier than to understand her,' he replied cor- 
 temptuously. ' She knows what has become of Ferrari ; and she 
 is confusing you in a cloud of nonsense, because she daren't own 
 the truth. Let her go I ' 
 
 If a dog had been under one of the chairs, and had barked. 
 Lady Montbarry could not have proceeded more impenetrably with 
 the last words she had to say to Agnes. 
 
 ' Advise your interesting Mrs. Ferrari to wait a little longer,' she 
 Slid. * You will know what has become of her husband, and you 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. loi 
 
 will tell her. There will be nothing to alarm you. Some trifling 
 event will bring us together the next time — as trifling, I dare say, 
 as the engagement of Ferrari. Sad nonsense, Mr. W'estwick, is 
 it not ? But you make allowances for women ; we all talk nonsense. 
 Good morning. Miss Lockwood.' 
 
 She opened the door — suddenly, as if she was afraid of Ijeiug 
 called back for the second time — and left them. 
 
02 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' Do you think she is mad ? ' Agnes asked. 
 
 ' I think she is simply wicked. False, superstitious, inveterately 
 cruel — but not mad. I believe her main motive in coming here 
 >vas to enjoy the luxury of frightening you.' 
 
 ' She has frightened me. I am ashamed to own it — but so 
 it is.' 
 
 Henry looked at her, hesitated for a moment, and seated him- 
 self on the sofa by her side. 
 
 ^ I am very anxious about you, Agnes,' he said. ' But for the 
 fortunate chance which led me to call here to-day — who knows 
 what that vile woman might not have said or done, if she had 
 found you alone ? My dear, you are leading a sadly unprotected 
 solitary life. I don't like to think of it ; I want to see it changed 
 — especially after what has happened to-day. No ! no ! it is useless 
 to tell me that you have your old nurse. She is too old ; she is 
 not in your rank of life — there is no sufficient protection in the 
 companionship of such a person for a lady in your position. Don't 
 mistake me, Agnes! what I say, I say in the sincerity of my 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 103 
 
 devotion to you.' He paused, and took her hand. She made a 
 feeble effort to withdraw it — and yielded. ' Will the day never 
 come,' he pleaded, ' when the privilege of protecting you may be 
 mine? when you will be the pride and joy of my life, as long as 
 my life lasts ?' He pressed her hand gently. She made no reply. 
 The colour came and went on her face ; her eyes were turned away 
 from him. 'Have I been so unhappy as to offend you?' he 
 asked. 
 
 She answered that — she said, almost in a whisper, ' Xo.' 
 
 ' Have I distressed you ? ' 
 
 ' You have made me think of the sad days that are gone.' She 
 said no more ; she only tried to withdraw her hand from his for 
 the second time. He still held it ; he lifted it to his lips. 
 
 ' Can I never make you think of other days than those — of the 
 happier days to come ? Or, if you must think of the time that is 
 passed, can you not look back to the time when I first loved 
 you?' 
 
 She sighed as he put the question. ' Spare me Henry,' she 
 answered sadly. ' Say no more I ' 
 
 The colour again rose in her cheeks ; her hand trembled in his. 
 She looked lovely, with lier eyes cast down and lier bosom heaving 
 gently. At that moment he would have given everything he had 
 in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her. Some mysterious 
 sympathy, passing from his hand to hers, seemed to tell her what 
 was in his mind. She snatched lier hand away, and suddenly looked 
 
104 
 
 THE iiArxTEP ifO'rrr 
 
 up at \\\\w. The tears were in lier eyes. Slie said nothing; she 
 let her eyes speak for her. Tliey warned liini — without anger> 
 without unkindness — but still they warned him to press her no 
 further that day. 
 
 ' Only tell uie that I am ior«;iveu,' he said, as he rose from the 
 sof^i. 
 
 ' Ves,' she answered quietly, "■ you are forgiven.' 
 
 ' I have not lowered myself in your estimation, Agnes?' 
 
 ' (Ml, no ! ' 
 
 * 1\> you wish nie to leave you?' 
 
 She rose, in her turn, fron\ the sofa, and walked io her writing- 
 table before she replied. The untinished letter whieh she had been 
 writing when Lady IMontbarry interrupted her, lay open on the 
 blot ting-book. As she looked at the letter, and then looked at 
 Henry, the smile that charmed e\erybody showed itself in her 
 face. 
 
 'You must not go just yet,' she said: • I have something to 
 tell you. I hardly know how to express it. The shortest way 
 perhaps will be to let you tiud it out for yourself. You have been 
 speaking of my lonely miproteeted life here. It is not a very 
 happy life, Henry — I own that.* She paused, observing the grow- 
 ing anxiety of his expression as he looked at her, with a shy 
 satisfaction that perplexed him. * Po you know that I have 
 anticipated your idea?' she went on. 'I am going to make a 
 great change in my life — if your brother Stephen and his wife 
 
A M\'S1ERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 105 
 
 will only consent to it.' She opened the desk of the writing-table 
 while she spoke, took a letter out, and handed it to Henry. 
 
 He received it from her mechanically. Vague doubts, which 
 he hardly understood himself, kept him silent. It was impossible 
 that the ' change in her life ' of which she had spoken could mean 
 that she was about to be married — and yet he was conscious of a 
 perfectly unreasonable reluctance to open the letter. Their eyes 
 met; she smiled again. 'Look at the address,' she said. 'You 
 ought to know the handwriting — but I dare say you don't.' 
 
 He looked at the address. It was in the large, irregidar, un- 
 certain writing of a child. He opened the letter instantly. 
 
 ' Dear Aunt Agnes, — Our governess is going away. She has 
 had money left to her, and a house of her own. We have had cake 
 and wine to drink her health. You promised to be our governess 
 if we wanted another. We want you. Mamma knows nothing 
 about this. Please come before Mamma can get another governess. 
 Your loving Lucy, who writes this. Clara and Blanche have tried 
 to write too. But they are too young to do it. They blot the 
 paper.' 
 
 ' Your eldest niece,' Agnes explained, as Henry looked at her 
 in amazement. ' The children used to call me aunt when I was 
 staying with their mother in Ireland, in the autumn. The three 
 girls were my inseparable companions — they are tlie most charm- 
 ing children I know. It is quite true tliat I offertd to be 
 their governess, if they ever wanted one, on the day when I left 
 
io6 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 them to return to London. I was writing to propose it to their 
 mother, just before you came.' 
 
 ' Not seriously ! ' Henry exclaimed. 
 
 Agnes placed her unfinished letter in his hand. Enough of it 
 had been written to show that she did seriously propose to enter 
 the household of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Westwick as governess to 
 their children ! Henry's bewilderment was not to be expressed in 
 words. 
 
 ' They won't believe you are in earnest,' he said. 
 ' AMiy not ? ' Agnes asked quietly. 
 
 ' You are my brother Stephen's cousin ; you are his wife's old 
 friend.' 
 
 ' All the more reason, Henry, for trusting me with the charge 
 of their children.' 
 
 ' But you are their equal ; you are not obliged to get your 
 living by teaching. There is something absurd in your entering 
 their ser^^.ce as a governess ! ' 
 
 < What is there absurd in it ? The children love me ; the 
 mother loves me ; the father has shown me innumerable instances 
 of his true friendship and regard. I am the very woman for the 
 place — and, as to my education, I must have completely forgotten 
 it indeed, if I am not fit to teach three children the eldest of 
 whom is only eleven years old. You say I am their equal. Are 
 there no other women who serve as governesses, and who are the 
 ■equals of the persons whom they serve? Besides, I don't know 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 107 
 
 that I ar\i their equal. Have I not heard that your brother 
 Stephen was the next heir to the title ? Will he not be the new 
 lord ? Never mind answering me I ^ye won't dispute whether I 
 am right or wrong in turning governess — we will wait the event. 
 I am weary of my lonely useless existence here, and eager to 
 make my life more happy and more useful, in the household of 
 all others in which I should like most to have a place. If 
 you will look again, you will see that I have these personal con- 
 siderations still to urge before I finish my letter. You don't 
 know your brother and his wife as well I do, if you doubt their 
 answer. I believe they have courage enough and heart enough to 
 say Yes.' 
 
 Henry submitted without being convinced. 
 
 He was a man who disliked all eccentric departures from custom 
 and routine ; and he felt especially suspicious of the change pro- 
 posed in the life of Agnes. With new interests to occupy her 
 mind, she might be less favourably disposed to listen to him, on 
 the next occasion when he urged his suit. The influence of the 
 ' lonely useless existence ' of which she complained, was distinctly 
 an influence in his favour. While her heart was empty, her heart 
 was accessible. But with his nieces in full possession of it, tlie 
 clouds of doubt overshadowed his prospects. He knew the sex 
 well enough to keep these purely selfisli perplexities to himself. 
 The waiting policy was especially the policy to pursue with a 
 woman as sensitive as Agnes. If he once offended her delicacy he 
 
io3 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 was lost. For the moment he wisely controlled himself and changed 
 the subject. 
 
 ' My little niece's letter has had an effect,' he said, ' which the 
 child never contemplated in writing it. She has just reminded me 
 of one of the objects that I had in calling on you to-day.' 
 
 Agnes looked at the child's letter. ' How does Lucy do that ? '" 
 she asked. 
 
 ' Lucy's governess is not the only lucky person who has had 
 money left her,' Henry answered. 'Is your old nurse in tlie 
 house.' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say that nurse has got a legacy ? ' 
 
 ' She has got a hundred pounds. Send for her, Agues, while I 
 show you the letter.' 
 
 He took a handful of letters from his pocket, and looked 
 through them, while Agnes rang the bell. Eeturning to him, she 
 noticed a printed letter among the rest, which lay open on the 
 table. It was a ' prospectus,' and the title of it was ' Palace Hotel 
 Company of Venice (Limited).' The two words, 'Palace' and 
 ' Venice,' instantly recalled her mind to the unwelcome visit of 
 Lady Montbarry. ' ^Miat is that ? ' she asked, pointing to the 
 title. 
 
 Henry suspended his searcli, and glanced at the prospectus. 
 ' A really promising speculation,' he said. ' Large hotels always 
 pay well, if they are well managed. I know the man who is 
 appointed to be manager of this hotel when it is opened to the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 109 
 
 public ; and I have such entire confidence in him that I have 
 become one of the shareholders of the Company.' 
 
 The reply did not appear to satisfy Agnes. ' Why is the hotel 
 called the " Palace Hotel " ? ' she inquired. 
 
 Henry looked at her, and at once penetrated her motive for 
 asking the question. ' Yes,' he said, ' it is the palace that Mont- 
 barry hired at Venice ; and it has been purchased by the Company 
 to be changed into an hotel.' 
 
 Agnes turned away in silence, and took a chair at the farther 
 end of the room. Henry had disappointed her. His income as 
 a younger son stood in need, as she well knew, of all the additions 
 that he could make to it by successful speculation. But she was 
 unreasonable enough, nevertheless, to disapprove of his attempting 
 to make money already out of the house in which his brother had 
 died. Incapable of understanding this purely sentimental view of a 
 plain matter of business, Henry returned to his papers, in some 
 perplexity at the sudden change in the manner of Agnes towards 
 him. Just as he found the letter of which he was in search, the 
 nurse made her appearance. He glanced at Agnes, expecting that 
 she woidd speak first. She never even looked up when the niu-se 
 came in. It was left to Henry to tell the old woman why the bell 
 had summoned her to the drawing-room. 
 
 ' Well, nurse,' he said, 'you have had a windfall of luck. You 
 have had a legacy left you of a hundred pounds.' 
 
 The nurse showed no outward signs of exultation. She waited 
 
no THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 a little to ^<di the ana oun cement of the legacy well settled in her 
 mind — and then she said quietly, ' Master Henry, who gives me 
 th at money, if you please ? ' 
 
 ' My late brother, Lord Montbarry, gives it to you.' (Agnes 
 instantly looked up, interested in the matter for the first time. 
 Henry went on.) 'His will leaves legacies to the surviving old 
 servants of the family. There is a letter from his lawyers, 
 authorising you to apply to them for the money.' 
 
 In every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all human 
 virtues. In the nurse's class it is extremely rare. Her opinion of 
 the man who had deceived and deserted her mistress remained the 
 same opinion still, perfectly undisturbed by the passing circum- 
 stance of the legacy. 
 
 ' I wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants ? ' she 
 said. ' He would never have heart enough to remember them 
 himself ! ' 
 
 Agnes suddenly interposed. Nature, always abhorring mono- 
 tony, institutes reserves of temper as elements in the composition 
 of the gentlest women living. Even Agnes could, on rare 
 occasions, be angry. The nurse's view of Montbarry's character 
 seemed to have provoked her beyond endurance. 
 
 ' If you have any sense of shame in you,' she broke out, ' you 
 ought to be ashamed of what you have just said ! Your ingrati- 
 tude disgusts me. I leave you to speak with her, Henry — you 
 won't mind it ! ' With this significant intimation that he too had 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. m 
 
 dropped out of his customary place in her good opinion, she left 
 the room. 
 
 The nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with 
 every appearance of feeling rather amused by it than not. When 
 the door had closed, this female philosopher winked at Henry. 
 
 ' There's a power of obstinacy in young women,' she remarked. 
 ' Miss Agnes wouldn't give my lord up as a bad one, even when he 
 jilted her. And now she's sweet on him after he's dead. Say a 
 word against him, and she fires up as you see. All obstinacy ! It 
 will wear out with time. Stick to her, ^Master Henry — stick to 
 her I ' 
 
 ' She doesn't seem to have offended you,' said Henry. 
 
 ' She ? ' the nurse repeated in amazement — ' she offend me ? I 
 like her in her tantrums ; it reminds me of her when she was a 
 baby. Lord bless you ! when I go to bid her good night, she'll 
 give me a big kiss, poor dear — and say. Nurse, I didn't mean it ! 
 About this money, ^Master Henry? If I was younger I should 
 spend it in dress and jewelry. But I'm too old for that. What 
 shall I do with my legacy when I have got it ? ' 
 
 ' Put it out at interest,' Henry suggested. ' Get so much a 
 year for it, you know.' 
 
 ' How much shall I get ? ' the nurse asked. 
 
 ' If you put your hundred pounds into the Funds, you will get 
 between three and four pounds a year.' 
 
 The nurse shook her head. ' Three or four pounds a year ? 
 
112 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 That won't do ! I want more than that. Look here, Master 
 Henry. I don't care about this bit of money — I never did like the 
 man wlio has left it to me, though he loas your brother. If I lost 
 it all to-morrow, I shouldn't break my heart ; I'm well enough off, 
 as it is, for the rest of my days. They say you're a speculator. 
 Put me in for a good thing, there's a dear ! Neck-or-nothing — 
 and thai for the Funds ! ' She snapped her fingers to express her 
 <?ontempt for security of investment at three per cent. 
 
 Henry produced tlie prospectus of the Venetian Hotel 
 ■Company. ' You're a funny old woman,' he said. ' There, you 
 dashing speculator — there is neck-or-nothing for you ! You must 
 l^eep it a secret from Miss Agnes, mind. I'm not at all sure that 
 she would approve of my helping you to this investment.' 
 
 The nurse took out her spectacles. ' Six per cent, guaranteed,' 
 she read ; ' and the Directors have every reason to believe that ten 
 per cent., or more, will be ultimately realised to the shareholders 
 by the hotel.' ' Put me into that, ^Master Henry ! And, wherever 
 you go, for Heaven's sake recommend the hotel to your friends ! ' 
 
 So the nurse, following Henry's mercenary example, had lier 
 pecuniary interest, too, in the house in which Lord Montbarry had 
 died. 
 
 Three days passed before Henry was able to visit Agnes again. 
 In that time, the little cloud between them had entirely passed 
 iiway. Agnes received him with even more than her customary 
 tindness. She was in better spirits than usual. Her letter to 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 113 
 
 Mrs. Stephen Westwick had been answered by return of post ; and 
 her proposal had been joyfully accepted, with one modification. 
 She was to visit the Westwicks for a month — and, if she really 
 liked teaching the children, she was then to be governess, aunt, 
 and cousin, all in one — and was only to go away in an event 
 which her friends in Ireland persisted in contemplating, the event 
 of her marriage. 
 
 ' You see I was right,' she said to Henry. 
 
 He was still incredulous. ' Are you really going ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' I am going next week.' 
 
 ' When shall I see you again ? ' 
 
 ' You know you are always welcome at your brother's house. 
 You can see me when you like.' She held out her hand. ' Pardon 
 me for leaving you — I am beginning to pack up already.' 
 
 Henry tried to kiss her at parting. She drew back directly. 
 
 ' Why not ? I am your cousin,' he said. 
 
 ' I don't like it,' she answered. 
 
 Henry looked at her, and submitted. Her refusal to grant him 
 his privilege as a cousin was a good sign — it was indirectly an act 
 of encouragement to him in the cliaracter of her lover. 
 
 On the first day in the new week, Agnes left London on her 
 way to Ireland. As the event proved, this was not destined to })e 
 the end of her journey. The way to Ireland was only the first 
 stage on a roundabout road — the road that led to the pahice at 
 Venice. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 THE THIRD PART. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1861, Agnes was established at the 
 country-seat of her two friends — now promoted (on the death of 
 the first lord, without offspring) to be the new Lord and Lady 
 Montbarry. The old nurse was not separated from her mistress. 
 A place, suited to her time of life, had been found for her in the 
 pleasant Irish household. She was perfectly happy in her new 
 sphere ; and she spent her first half-year's dividend from the 
 Venice Hotel Company, with characteristic prodigality, in presents 
 for the children. 
 
 Early in the year, also, the Directors of the life insurance offices 
 submitted to circumstances, and paid the ten thousand pounds. 
 Immediately afterwards, the widow of the first Lord Montbarry 
 (otherwise, the dowager Lady Montbarry) left England, with Baron 
 Rivar, for the United States. The Baron's object was announced, in 
 the scientific columns of the newspapers, to be investigation into 
 the present state of experimental chemistry in the great American 
 
A MYSTER Y OF MODERN VENICE. 1 1 
 
 republic. His sister informed inquiring friends that she accom- 
 panied him, in the hope of finding consolation in change of scene 
 after the bereavement that had fallen on her. Hearing this news 
 from Henry Westwick (then paying a visit at his brother's house), 
 Agnes was conscious of a certain sense of relief. 'With the 
 Atlantic between us,' she said, ' surely I have done with that 
 terrible woman now ! ' 
 
 Barely a week passed after those words had been spoken, 
 before an event happened which reminded Agnes of ' the terrible 
 woman ' once more. 
 
 On that day, Henry's engagements had obliged him to return 
 to London. He had ventured, on the morning of his departure, 
 to press his suit once more on Agnes ; and the children, as he had 
 anticipated, proved to be innocent obstacles in the way of his 
 success. On the other hand, he had privately secured a firm ally 
 in his sister-in-law. ' Have a little patience,' the new Lady Mont- 
 barry had said ; ' and leave me to turn the influence of the 
 children in the right direction. If they can persuade her to listen 
 to you — they shall I ' 
 
 The two ladies had accompanied Henry, and some other guests 
 who went away at the same time, to the railway station, and had 
 just driven back to the house, when the servant announced that ' a 
 person of the name of Rolland was waiting to see her ladyship.' 
 
 ' Is it a woman ? ' 
 
 ' ^'es, my lady.' 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Young Lady Montbarry turned to Agnes. 
 
 ' This is the very person,' she said, ' whom your lawyer thought 
 likely to lielp him, when he was trying to trace the lost courier.' 
 
 ' You don't mean the English maid who was with Lady Mont- 
 barry at Venice ? ' 
 
 ' My dear ! don't speak of Montbarry 's horrid widow by the 
 name which is rtxy name now. Stephen and I have arranged to 
 call her by her foreign title, before she was married. I am "Lady 
 Montbarry," and she is " the Countess." In that way there will 
 be no confusion. — Yes, Mrs. Kolland was in my service before she 
 became the Countess's maid. She was a perfectly trustworthy 
 person, with one defect that obliged me to send her away — a 
 sullen temper which led to perpetual complaints of her in the 
 servants' hall. Would you like to see her ? ' 
 
 Agnes accepted the proposal, in the faint hope of getting some 
 information for the courier's wife. The complete defeat of every 
 attempt to trace the lost man had been accepted as final by Mrs, 
 Ferrari. SJie had deliberately arrayed herself in widow's mourn- 
 ing ; and was earning her livelihood in an employment which the 
 unwearied kindness of Agnes had procured for her in London. 
 The last chance of penetrating the mystery of Ferrari's disappear- 
 ance seemed to rest now on what Ferrari's former fellow-servant 
 might be able to tell. With higlily- wrought expectations, Agnes 
 followed her friend into the room in which Mrs. Eolland was 
 waiting. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. ii-j 
 
 A tall bony woman, in the autumn of life, with sunken eyes 
 and iron-grey hair, rose stiffly from her chair, and saluted the 
 ladies with stem submission as they opened the door. A person 
 of unblemished character, evidently — but not without visible 
 drawbacks. Big bushy eyebrows, an awfully deep and solemn 
 voice, a harsh unbending manner, a complete absence in her 
 figiue of the undulating lines characteristic of the sex, presented 
 Virtue in this excellent person under its least alluring aspect. 
 Strangers, on a first introduction to her, were accustomed to 
 wonder why she was not a man. 
 
 ' Are you pretty well, Mrs. Kolland ? ' 
 
 ' I am as well as I can expect to be, my lady, at my time of life.' 
 ' Is there anything I can do for you ? ' 
 
 ' Your ladyship can do me a great favoiu*, if you will please 
 speak to my character while I was in your service. I am offered a 
 place, to wait on an invalid lady who has lately come to live in 
 this neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes — I have heard of her. A Mrs. Carbmy, with a very 
 pretty niece I am told. But, Mrs. Kolland, you left my service 
 some time ago. Mrs. Carbury will surely expect you to refer to 
 the last mistress by whom you were employed.' 
 
 A flash of virtuous indignation irradiated Mrs. Rolland's 
 sunken eyes. She coughed before she answered, as if her ' last 
 mistress ' stuck in her throat. 
 
 ' I have explained to 3Irs. Carbury, my lady, that the person I 
 
nS THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 last served — I really cannot give her her title in your ladyship's 
 presence I — has left England for America. Mrs. Carbury knows 
 that I quitted the person of my own free will, and knows why, 
 and approves of my conduct so far. A word from your ladyship 
 will be amply sufficient to get me the situation.' 
 
 ' Very well, Mrs. Eolland, I have no objection to be your refer- 
 ence, under the circumstances. Mrs. Carbury will find me at 
 home to-morrow until two o'clock.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Carbury is not well enough to leave the house, my lady* 
 Her niece, Miss Haldane, will call and make tlie inquiries, if 
 your ladyship has no objection.' 
 
 'I have not the least objection. The pretty niece carries her 
 own welcome with her. Wait a minute, Mrs. Holland. This lady 
 is !Mi?s Lockwood — my husband's cousin, and my friend. She is 
 anxious to speak to you about the courier who was in the late 
 Lord jNIontbarry's service at Venice.' 
 
 INIrs. Holland's bushy eyebrows frowned in stern disapproval of 
 the new topic of conversation. ' I regret to hear it, my lady,' was 
 all she said. 
 
 'Perhaps, you have not been informed of what happened 
 after you left Venice ? ' Agnes ventured to add. ' Ferrari 
 left the palace secretly ; and he has never been heard of 
 since.' 
 
 ]Mrs. Holland mysteriously closed her eyes — as if to exclude 
 some vision of the lost courier which was of a nature to disturb a 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 119 
 
 respectable woman. 'Xothing that Mr. Ferrari could do would 
 surprise me.' she replied in her deepest bass tones. 
 
 ' You speak rather harshly of him,' said Agnes. 
 
 Mrs. EoUand suddenly opened her eyes again. 'I speak 
 harshly of nobody without reason,' she said. ' Mr. Ferrari be- 
 haved- to me, Miss Lockwood, as no man living has ever behaved — 
 before or .since.' 
 
 'What did he do?' 
 
 Mrs. Holland answered, with a stony stare of horror : — 
 
 ' He took liberties with me.' 
 
 Young Lady Montbarry suddenly tm-ned aside, and put 
 her handkerchief over her mouth in convulsions of suppressed 
 laughter. 
 
 Mrs. Eolland went on, with a grim enjoyment of the bewilder- 
 ment which her reply had produced in Agnes : 'And when I 
 insisted on an apology, Miss, he had the audacity to say that the 
 life at the palace was dull, and he didn't know how else to amuse 
 himself I ' 
 
 ' I am afraid I have hardly made myself understood,' said 
 Agnes. ' I am not speaking to you out of any interest in Ferrari. 
 Are you aware that he is married ? ' 
 
 ' I pity his wife,' said Mrs. RoUand. 
 
 ' She is naturally in great grief about him,' Agnes proceeded. 
 ' She ought to thank God she is rid of him,' ]\Irs. Eolland in- 
 terposed. 
 
I20 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Agnes still persisted. ' I have known Mrs. Ferrari from her 
 childhood, and I am sincerely anxious to help her in this matter. 
 Did you notice anything, while you were at Venice, that would 
 account for her husband's extraordinary disappearance? On wliat 
 sort of terms, for instance, did he live with his master and 
 mistress ? ' 
 
 ' On terms of familiarity with his mistress,' said Mrs. Holland, 
 ' which were simply sickening to a respectable English servant. 
 She used to encourage him to talk to her about all his affairs — 
 how he got on with his wife, and how pressed he was for money, 
 and such like — just as if tliey were equals. Contemptible — that's 
 what J call it.' 
 
 ' And his master ? ' Agnes continued. ' How did Ferrari get 
 on with Lord ]Montbarry ? * 
 
 ' My lord used to live shut up with his studies and his sorrows,' 
 Mrs. Holland answered, with a hard solemnity expressive of 
 respect for his lordship's memory Mr. Ferrari got his money 
 when it was due ; and he cared for nothing else. " If I could 
 afford it, I would leave the place too ; but I can't afford it." 
 Those were the last words he said to me, on the morning when I 
 left the palace. I made no reply. After what had happened (on 
 that other occasion) I was naturally not on speaking terms with 
 Mr. Ferrari.' 
 
 ' Can you really tell me nothing which will throw any light on 
 this matter ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, i2t 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Mrs. EoUand, with an undisguised relish of the 
 disappointment that she was inflicting. 
 
 'There was another member of the family at Venice,' Agnes 
 resumed, determined to sift the question to the bottom while she 
 had the chance. ' There was Baron Rivar.' 
 
 Mrs. Rolland lifted her large hands, covered with rusty black 
 gloves, in mute protest against the introduction of Baron Rivar as 
 a subject of inquiry. ' Are you aware. Miss,' she began, ' that I 
 left my place in consequence of what I observed ?' 
 
 Agnes stopped her there. ' I only wanted to ask,' she ex- 
 plained, ' if anything was said or done by Baron Rivar which 
 might account for Ferrari's strange conduct.' 
 
 ' Nothing that I know of,' said Mrs. Rolland. ' The Baron 
 and Mr. Ferrari (if I may use such an expression) were " birds of 
 a feather," so far as I could see — I mean, one was as unprincipled 
 as the other. I am a just woman ; and I will give you an 
 example. Only the day before I left, I heard the Baron say 
 (through the open door of his room while I was passing along the 
 corridor), " Ferrari, I want a thousand pounds. \Miat would you 
 do for a thousand pounds?" And I heard Mr. Ferrari answer, 
 " Anything, sir, as long as I was not found out." And then they 
 both burst out laughing. I heard no more than that. Judge for 
 yourself. Miss.' 
 
 Agnes reflected for a moment. A thousand pounds was the sum 
 that had been sent to Mrs. Ferrari in the anonymous letter. Was 
 
122 • THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 that enclosiu'e in any way connected, as a result, with the conver- 
 sation between the Baron and Ferrari ? It was useless to press 
 any more inquiries on Mrs. Kolland. She could give no further 
 information which was of the slightest importance to the object in 
 view. There was no alternative but to grant her her dismissal. 
 One more effort had been made to find a trace of the lost man, 
 and once again the effort liad failed. 
 
 They were a family party at the dinner-table that day. The 
 only guest left in the house was a nephew of the new Lord Mont- 
 barry — the eldest son of his sister, Lady Barville. Lady Mont- 
 barry could not resist telling the story of the first (and last) 
 attack made on the virtue of Mrs. Rolland, with a comically-exact 
 imitation of Mrs. Rolland's deep and dismal voice. Being asked 
 by her husband what was the object which had brought that for- 
 midable person to the house, she natiurally mentioned the ex- 
 pected visit of Miss Haldane. Arthur Barville, unusually silent 
 and pre-occupied so far, suddenly struck into the conversation 
 with a burst of enthusiasm. ' Miss Haldane is the most charming 
 girl in all Ireland!' he said. 'I caught sight of her yesterday, 
 over the wall of her garden, as I was riding by. What time is 
 she coming to-morrow ? Before two ? I'll look into the drawings 
 loom by accident — I am dying to be introduced to her ! ' 
 
 Agnes was amused by his enthusiasm. ' Are you in love with 
 Miss Haldane already?' she asked. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 123 
 
 Arthur answered gravely, ' It's no joking matter. I have been 
 all day at the garden wall, waiting to see her again I It depends 
 on Miss Haldane to make me the happiest or the wretchedest man 
 living.' 
 
 ' You foolish boy I How can you talk such nonsense ?' 
 He was talking nonsense undoubtedly. But, if Agnes had only 
 known it, he was doing something more than that. He was inno- 
 cently leading her another stage nearer on the way to Venice. 
 
124 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 As the summer months advanced, the transformation of the 
 Venetian palace into the modern hotel proceeded rapidly towards 
 completion. 
 
 The outside of the building, with its fine Palladian front look- 
 ing on the canal, was wisely left unaltered. Inside, as a matter 
 of necessity, the rooms were almost rebuilt — so far at least as the 
 size and the arrangement of them were concerned. The vast 
 saloons were partitioned off into ' apartments ' containing three or 
 four rooms each. The broad corridors in the upper regions 
 afforded spare space enough for rows of little bedchambers, devoted 
 to servants and to travellers with limited means. Nothing was 
 spared but the solid floors and the finely-carved ceilings. These 
 last, in excellent preservation as to workmanship, merely required 
 cleaning, and regilding here and there, to add greatly to the 
 beauty and importance of the best rooms in the hotel. The only 
 exception to the complete re-organisation of the interior was at 
 one extremity of the edifice, on the first and second floors. Here 
 there happened, in each case, to be rooms of such comparatively 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 125 
 
 moderate size, and so attractively decorated, that the architect 
 suggested leaving them as they were. It was afterwards discovered 
 that these were no other than the apartments formerly occupied 
 by Lord Montbarry (on the first floor), and by Baron Rivar (on 
 the second). The room in which Montbarry had died was still 
 fitted up as a bedroom, and was now distinguished as Number 
 Fourteen. The room above it, in which the Baron had slept, took 
 its place on the hotel-register as Number Thirty-Eight. With the 
 ornaments on the walls and ceilings cleaned and brightened up, 
 and with the heavy old-fashioned beds, chairs, and tables replaced 
 by bright, pretty, and luxm-ious modern furniture, these two 
 promised to be at once the most attractive and the most comfortable 
 bedchambers in the hotel. As for the once-desolate and disused 
 ground floor of the building, it was now transformed, by means of 
 splendid dining-rooms, reception-rooms, billiard-rooms, and smok- 
 ing-rooms, into a palace by itself. Even the dungeon-like vaults 
 beneath, now lighted and ventilated on the most approved modern 
 plan, had been turned as if by magic into kitchens, servants' 
 offices, ice-rooms, and wine cellars, worthy of the splendour of the 
 grandest hotel in Italy, in the now bygone period of seventeen 
 years since. 
 
 Passing from the lapse of the simimer months at Venice, to 
 the lapse of the summer months in Ireland, it is next to be 
 recorded that Mrs. Holland obtained the situation of attendant on 
 the invalid Mrs. Carbury ; and that the fair Miss Haldane, like a 
 
126 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 female Caesar, came, saw, and conquered, on her first day's visit to 
 the new Lord Montbarry's house. 
 
 The ladies were as loud in her praises as Arthur Barville him- 
 self. Lord Montbarry declared that she was the only perfectly 
 pretty woman he had ever seen, who was really unconscious of her 
 own attractions. The old nurse said she looked as if she had just 
 stepped out of a picture, and wanted nothing but a gilt frame 
 round her to make her complete. Miss Haldane, on her side, 
 returned from her first visit to the Montbarrys charmed with her 
 new acquaintances. Later on the same day, Arthur called with 
 an offering of fruit and flowers for Mrs. Carbury, and with instruc- 
 tions to ask if she was well enough to receive Lord and Lady 
 Montbarry and Miss Lockwood on the morrow. In a week's time, 
 the two households were on the friendliest terms. Mrs. Carbury, 
 confined to the sofa by a spinal malady, had been hitherto de- 
 pendent on her niece for one of the few pleasures she could enjoy, 
 the pleasure of having the best new novels read to her as they 
 came out. Discovering this, Arthur volunteered to relieve Miss 
 Haldane, at intervals, in the ofl&ce of reader. He was clever at 
 mechanical contrivances of all sorts, and he introduced improve- 
 mients in !Mrs. Carbury's couch, and in the means of conveying 
 her from the bedchamber to the drawing-room, which alleviated 
 the poor lady's sufferings and brightened her gloomy life. With 
 these claims on the gratitude of the aunt, aided by the personal 
 advantages which he unquestionably possessed, Arthur advanced 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 127 
 
 rapidly in the favour of the charmiDg niece. She was, it is needless 
 to say, perfectly well aware that he was in love with her, while he 
 was himself modestly reticent on the subject — so far as words went. 
 But she was not equally quick in penetrating the nature of her own 
 feelings towards Arthur. Watching the two young people with keen 
 powers of observation, necessarily concentrated on them by the 
 complete seclusion of her life, the invalid lady discovered signs of 
 roused sensibility in Miss Haldane, when Arthur was present, which 
 had never yet shown themselves in her social relations with other 
 admirers eager to pay their addresses to her. Having drawn her 
 own conclusions in private, INlrs. Carbury took the first favourable 
 opportunity (in Arthurs interests) of putting them to the test. 
 
 ' I don't know what I shall do,' she said one day, ' when Arthur 
 goes away.' 
 
 Miss Haldane looked up quickly from l.er work. ' Surely he 
 is not going to leave us ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' My dear ! he has already stayed at his imcle's house a month 
 longer than he intended. His father and mother naturally expect 
 to see him at home again.' 
 
 Miss Haldane met this difficulty with a suggestion, which 
 could only have proceeded from a judgment already disturbed by 
 the ravages of the tender passion. ' Why can't his father and 
 mother go and see him at Lord ^lontbaiTy's ? ' she asked. 'Sir 
 Theodore's place is only thirty miles away, and Lady Barville is 
 Lord Montbarry's si-ter. They needn't stand on ceremonv.' 
 
128 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' They may have other engagementSj' Mrs. Carbury remarked. 
 
 ' My dear aunt, we don't know that ! Suppose you ask 
 Arthur ? ' 
 
 ' Suppose yovb ask him ? ' 
 
 Miss Haldane bent her head again over her work. Suddenly 
 as it was done, her aunt had seen her face — and her face betrayed 
 her. 
 
 When Arthur came the next day, Mrs. Carbury said a word to 
 him in private, while her niece was in the garden. The last new 
 novel lay neglected on the table. Arthur followed Miss Haldane 
 into the garden. The next day he wrote home, enclosing in his 
 letter a photograph of Miss Haldane. Before the end of the week. 
 Sir Theodore and Lady Barville arrived at Lord Montbarry's, and 
 formed their own judgment of the fidelity of the portrait. They 
 had themselves married early in life — and, strange to say, they 
 did not object on principle to the early marriages of other people. 
 The question of age being thus disposed of, the course of true love 
 had no other obstacles to encounter. Miss Haldane was an only 
 child, and was possessed of an ample fortune. Arthur's career at 
 the university had been creditable, but certainly not brilliant 
 enough to present his withdrawal in the light of a disaster. As 
 Sir Theodore's eldest son, his position was already made for him. 
 He was two-and- twenty years of age ; and the young lady was 
 eighteen. There was really no producible reason for keeping the 
 lovers waiting, and no excuse for deferring the wedding-day beyond 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 129 
 
 the first week in September. In the interval while the bride 
 and bridegroom would be necessarily absent on the inevitable tour 
 abroad, a sister of Mrs. Carbury volimteered to stay with her 
 dming the temporary separation from her niece. On the conclu- 
 sion of the honeymoon, the young couple were to return to Ireland, 
 and were to establish themselves in Mrs. Carbury's spacious and 
 comfortable house. 
 
 These arrangements were decided upon early in the month of 
 August. About the same date, the last alterations in the old 
 palace at Venice were completed. The rooms were dried by 
 steam ; the cellars were stocked ; the manager collected round 
 him his army of skilled servants : and the new hotel was advertised 
 all over Europe to open in October. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
I30 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 (miss AGNES LOCKWOOD TO MRS. FERRARI.) 
 
 ' I PROMISED to give you some account, dear Emily, of the 
 marriage of JNir. Arthur Barville and jNIiss Haldane. It took place 
 ten days since. But I have had so many things to look after in 
 the absence of the master and mistress of this house, that I am 
 only able to write to you to-day. 
 
 ' The invitations to the wedding were limited to members of 
 the families, on either side, in consideration of the ill health of 
 Miss Haldane's aunt. On the side of the jNIontbarry family, there 
 w^ere present, besides Lord and Lady Montbarry, Sir Theodore and 
 Lady Barville ; Mrs. Norbury (whom you may remember as his 
 lordship's second sister) ; and Mr. Francis Westwick, and Mr. 
 Henry Westwick. The three children and I attended the ceremony 
 as bridesmaids. We w^ere joined by two young ladies, cousins of 
 the bride and very agreeable girls. Our dresses were white, 
 trimmed with green in honour of Ireland ; and we each had a 
 handsome gold bracelet given to us as a present from the bride- 
 groom. If }ou add to the persons whom I have already men- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 131 
 
 tioned, the elder members of Mrs. Carbury's family, and the old 
 servants in both houses — privileged to drink the healths of the 
 married pair at the lower end of the room — yon will have the list 
 of the company at the wedding-breakfast complete. 
 
 ^ The weather was perfect, and the ceremony (with music) was 
 beautifully performed. As for the bride, no words can describe 
 how lovely she looked^ or how well she went through it all. We 
 were very merry at the breakfast, and the speeches went off on the 
 whole quite well enough. The last speech, before the party broke 
 up, was made by Mr. Henry AYestwick, and was the best of all. 
 He offered a happy suggestion, at the end, which has produced a 
 very unexpected change in my life here. 
 
 ' As well as I remember, lie concluded in these words : — " On 
 one point, we are all agreed — we are sorry that the parting hour is 
 near, and we should be glad to meet again. Why should we not 
 meet again ? This is the autumn time of the year ; we are most 
 of us leaving home for the holidays. What do you say (if you 
 have no engagements that will prevent it) to joining our young 
 married friends before the close of their tour, and renewing the 
 social success of this delightful breakfast by another festival in 
 honour of the honeymoon ? The bride and bridegroom are going 
 to Germany and the Tyrol, on their way to Italy. I propose that 
 we allow them a month to themselves, and that we arrange to meet 
 them afterwards in the North of Italy — say at Venice." 
 
 ' This proposal was received with great applause, which was 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 changed into shouts of laughter by no less a person than my clear 
 old nurse. The moment ]Mr. Westwick pronounced the word 
 " Venice," she started up among the servants at the lower end of 
 the room, and called out at the top of her voice, " Go to our hotel, 
 ladies and gentlemen I We get six per cent, on our money already ; 
 and if you will only crowd the place and call for the best of every- 
 thing, it will be ten per cent, in our pockets in no time. Ask 
 Master Henry ! " 
 
 ' Appealed to in this irresistible manner, Mr. Westwick had no 
 choice but to explain that he was concerned as a shareholder in a 
 new Hotel Company at Venice, and that he had invested a small 
 sum of money for the nurse (not very considerately, as I think) in 
 the speculation. Hearing this, the company, by way of humouring 
 the joke, drank a new toast : — Success to the nurse's hotel, and 
 a speedy rise in the dividend ! 
 
 ' AMien the conversation returned in due time to the more 
 serious question of the proposed meeting at Venice, difficulties 
 began to present themselves, caused of course by invitations for the 
 autumn which many of the guests had already accepted. Only 
 two members of Mrs. Carbury's family were at liberty to keep the 
 proposed appointment. On our side we were more at leisure to do 
 as we pleased. Mr. Henry Westwick decided to go to Venice in 
 advance of the rest, to test the accommodation of the new hotel 
 on the opening day. Mrs. Norbury and ]Mr. Francis Westwick 
 volunteered to follow him ; and, after some persuasion, Lord and 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 133 
 
 Lady Montbarry consented to a species of compromise. His 
 lordship could not conveniently spare time enough for the jouniey 
 to Venice, but he and Lady Montbarry arranged to accompany INIrs. 
 Xorbury and Mr. Francis Westwick as far on their way to Italy as 
 Paris. Five days since, they took their departure to meet their 
 travelling companions in London ; leaving me here in charge of 
 the tliree dear children. They begged hard, of course, to be taken 
 with papa and mamma. But it was thought better not to interrupt 
 the progress of their education, and not to expose them (especially 
 the two younger girls) to the fatigues of travelling. 
 
 ^I have had a charming letter from the bride, tliis morning, 
 dated Cologne. You cannot think how artlessly and prettily she 
 assures me of her happiness. Some people, as they say in L-eland, 
 are born to good luck — and I think xVrthur Barville is one of 
 them. 
 
 ' When you next write, I hope to hear that you are in better 
 health and sj^irits, and that you continue to like your employment. 
 Believe me, sincerely your friend, — A. L.' 
 
 Agnes had just closed and directed her letter, when the eldest 
 of her three pupils entered the room witli the startling announce- 
 ment that Lord Montbarry's travelling-servant had arrived from 
 Paris I Alarmed by the idea that some misfortune had happened, 
 she ran out to meet the man in the hall. Her face told him how 
 seriously he had frightened her, before she could speak. ' There's 
 nothing wrong, ^Nliss,' he hastened to say. ' My lord and my lady 
 
134 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 are enjoying themselves at Paris. They only want you and the 
 young ladies to be with them.' Saying these amazing words, he 
 handed to Agnes a letter from Lady Montbarry. 
 
 ' Dearest Agnes,' (she read), ' 1 am so charmed with the delight- 
 ful change in my life — it is six years, remember, since I last 
 travelled on the Continent — that I have exerted all my fascinations 
 to persuade Lord Montbarry to go on to Venice. And, ^Yhat is 
 more to the pm'pose, I have actually succeeded ! He has just gone 
 to his room to write the necessary letters of excuse in time for the 
 post to England. May you have as good a husband, my dear, when 
 your time comes ! In the mean while, the one thing wanting now 
 to make my happiness complete, is to have you and the darling 
 children with us. Montbarry is just as miserable without them as 
 I am — though he doesn't confess it so freely. You will have no 
 difficulties to trouble you. Louis will deliver these hurried lines, 
 and will take care of you on the journey to Paris. Kiss the 
 children for me a tliousand times — and never mind their education 
 for the present ! Pack up instantly, my dear, and I will be fonder 
 of you than ever. Your affectionate friend, Adela Montbarry.' 
 
 Agnes folded up the letter ; and, feeling the need of composing 
 herself, took refuge for a few minutes in her own room. 
 
 Her first natural sensations of surprise and excitement at the 
 prospect of going to Venice were succeeded by impressions of a less 
 agreeable kind. With the recovery of her customary composure 
 came the unwelcome remembrance of the parting words spoken to 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 135 
 
 her by Montbarry's widow : — ' We shall meet again — here in 
 England, or there in Venice where my husband died — and meet 
 for the last time.' 
 
 It was an odd coincidence, to say the least of it, that the march 
 of events should be unexpectedly taking Agnes to Venice, after 
 those words had been spoken ! Was the woman of the mysterious 
 warnings and the wild black eyes, still thousands of miles away in 
 America ? Or was the march of events taking her unexpectedly, 
 too, on the journey to Venice ? Agues started out of her chair, 
 ashamed of even the momentary concession to superstition which 
 was implied by the mere presence of such questions as these in her 
 mind. 
 
 She rang the bell, and sent for her little pupils, and announced 
 their approaching departure to the household. The noisy delight 
 of the children, the inspiriting effort of packing up in a hurry, 
 roused all her energies. She dismissed her own absurd misgivings 
 from consideration, with the contempt that they deserved. She 
 worked as only women can work, when their hearts are in what 
 they do. The travellers reached Dublin that day, in time for the 
 boat to England. Two days later, they were with Lord and 
 Lady Montbarry at Paris. 
 
136 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 THE FOURTH PABT 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 It was only the twentieth of September, when Agnes and the 
 children reached Paris. Mrs. Norbury and her brother Francis 
 liad then already started on their journey to Italy — at least three 
 weeks before the date at which the new hotel was to open for the 
 reception of travellers. 
 
 The person answerable for this premature departure was Francis 
 Westwick. 
 
 Like his younger brother Henry, he had increased his pecuniary 
 resources by his own enterprise and ingenuity ; with this difference, 
 that his speculations were connected with the Arts. He had made 
 money, in the first instance, by a weekly newspaper; and he had 
 then invested his profits in a London Theatre. This latter enter- 
 prise, admirably conducted, had been rewarded by the public with 
 steady and liberal encouragement. Pondering over a new form of 
 theatrical attraction for the coming winter season, Francis had 
 determined to revive the languid public taste for the ' ballet ' by 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 137 
 
 means of an entertainment of his own invention, combining 
 dramatic interest with dancing. He was now, accordingly, in 
 search of the best dancer (possessed of the indispensable personal 
 attractions) who was to be found in the theatres of the Continent. 
 Hearing from his foreign correspondents of two women who had 
 made successful first appearances, one at Milan and one at Florence, 
 he liad arranged to visit those cities, and to judge of the merits of 
 the dancers for himself, before he joined the bride and bridegroom. 
 His widowed sister, having friends at Florence whom she was 
 anxious to see, readily accompa?iied him. The Montbarrys re- 
 mained at Paris, until it was time to present themselves at the 
 family meeting in Venice. Henry found them still in the French 
 capital, when he arrived from London on his way to the opening of 
 the new hotel. 
 
 Against Lady Montbarry's advice, he took the opportunity of 
 renewing his addresses to Agnes. He could hardly liave chosen a 
 more unpropitious time for pleading his cause with her. The 
 gaieties of Paris (quite incomprehensibly to herself as well as to 
 everyone about her) had a depressing effect on her spirits. She 
 had no illness to complain of ; she shared willingly in the ever- 
 vaiying succession of amusements offered to strangers by the 
 ingenuity of the liveliest peopjle in the world — but nothing roused 
 her : she remained persistently dull and weary through it all. In 
 this frame of mind and body, she was in no humour to receive 
 Henry's ill-timed addresses with favour, or even witli patience : 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 she plainly and positively refused to listen to him. ' Why do you 
 remind me of what I have suffered ? ' she asked petulantly. 
 ' Don't you see that it has left its mark on me for life ? ' 
 
 ' I thought I knew something of women by this time,' Henry 
 said, appealing privately to Lady Montbarry for consolation. 
 ' But Agnes completely puzzles me. It is a year since Montbarry's 
 death ; and she remains as devoted to his memory as if he had 
 died faithful to her — she still feels the loss of him, as none of ns 
 feel it ! ' 
 
 ' She is the truest woman that ever breathed the breath of life,' 
 Lady Montbarry answered. ' Eemember that, and you will under- 
 stand her. Can such a woman as Agnes give her love or refuse it, 
 according to circumstances ? Because the man was unworthy of 
 her, was he less the man of her choice ? The truest and best 
 friend to him (little as he deserved it) in his lifetime, she naturally 
 remains the truest and best friend to his memory now. If you 
 really love her, wait ; and trust to your two best friends — to time 
 and to me. There is my advice ; let your own experience decide 
 whether it is not the best advice that I can offer. Resume your 
 journey to Venice to-morrow : and when you take leave of Agnes, 
 speak to her as cordially as if nothing had happened.' 
 
 Henry wisely followed this advice. Thoroughly understanding 
 him, Agnes made the leave-taking friendly and pleasant on her 
 side. When he stopped at the door for a last look at her, she 
 hurriedly turned her head so that her face was hidden from him. 
 
A MYSTER\ OF MODERN VEXICE. 139 
 
 Was that a good sign? Lady Montbarry, accompanying Henry 
 down the stairs, said, 'Yes, decidedly! Write when you get to 
 Venice. "We shall wait here to receive letters from Arthur and his 
 wife, and we shall time om- departure for Italy accordingly.' 
 
 A week passed, and no letter came from Henry. Some days 
 later, a telegram was received from him. It was despatched from 
 Milan, instead of from Venice ; and it brought this strange 
 message : — ' I have left the hotel. WiU return on the arrival of 
 Arthur and his wife. Address, meanwhile, Albergo Reale, Milan.' 
 
 Preferring Venice before all other cities of Europe, and having 
 arranged to remain there until the family meeting took place, 
 what unexpected event had led Henry to alter his plans ? and why 
 did he state the bare fact, without adding a word of explanation ? 
 Let the narrative follow him — and find the answer to those 
 questions at Venice. 
 
140 THE HAUNTED HOTEL. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to 
 English and American travellers, celebrated the opening of its 
 doors, as a matter of course, by the giving of a grand banquet, and 
 the delivery of a long succession of speeches. 
 
 Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venice 
 in time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars. Observing 
 the splendour of the reception rooms, and taking note especially of 
 the artful mixture of comfort and luxury in the bedchambers, he 
 began to share the old nurse's view of the future, and to contemplate 
 seriously the coming dividend of ten per cent. The hotel was 
 beginning well, at all events. So much interest in the enterprise 
 liad been aroused, at home and abroad, by profuse advertising, 
 that the whole accommodation of the building had been secured 
 by travellers of all nations for the opening night. Henry only 
 obtained one of the small rooms on the upper floor, by a lucky 
 accident — the absence of the gentleman who had written to engage 
 it. He was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed, when 
 another accident altered his prospects for the night, and moved him 
 into another and a better room. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 141 
 
 Ascending on his way to the higher regions as far as the first 
 fioor of the hotel, Henry's attention was attracted by an angry voice 
 protesting, in a strong Xew England accent, against one of the 
 greatest hardships that can be inflicted on a citizen of the United 
 States — the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room. 
 
 The Americans are not only the most hospitable people to be 
 found on the face of the earth — they are (under certain conditions) 
 the most patient and good-tempered people as well. But they are 
 human ; and the limit of American endurance is found in the 
 obsolete institution of a bedroom candle. The American traveller, 
 in the present case, declined to believe that his bedroom was in a 
 completely finished state without a gas-burner. The manager 
 pointed to the fine antique decorations (renewed and regilt) on the 
 walls and the ceiling, and explained that the emanations of burning 
 gas-light would certainly spoil them in the course of a few months. 
 To this the traveller replied that it was possible, but that he did 
 not understand decorations. A bedroom with gas in it was what 
 he was used to, was what he wanted, and was what he was 
 determined to have. The compliant manager volunteered to ask 
 some other gentleman, housed on the inferior upper story (which 
 was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms. Hearing this, and 
 being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber for a large 
 one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman. Tlie excellent 
 American shook hands with him on tlie spot. ' You are a cultured 
 person, sir,' he said ; ' and yoii will no doubt understand the 
 decorations.' 
 
142 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he 
 opened it. The number was Fourteen. 
 
 Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night's rest. 
 In the thoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he slept a& 
 well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest 
 assignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed. 
 The luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tran- 
 quillity of Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well. 
 He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression and 
 discomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike. 
 He went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir, 
 and ordered some breakfast. Another unaccoimtable change in 
 himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. He was 
 absolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette, and cutlets 
 cooked to perfection, he sent away untasted — he, whose appetite 
 never failed him, whose digestion was still equal to any demands 
 on it ! 
 
 The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was 
 rowed to the Lido. 
 
 Out on the airy Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not 
 left the hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. 
 Waking, on reaching the landing-place, he crossed the Lido, and 
 enjoyed a morning's swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poor 
 restaurant on the island, in those days ; but his appetite was now 
 ready for anything ; he eat whatever was offered to him, like a 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 143 
 
 famished man. He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, 
 that he had sent away untasted his excellent breakfast at the 
 hotel. 
 
 Eetuming to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture- 
 galleries and the churches. Towards six o'clock his gondola took 
 him back, with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling 
 acquaintances with whom he had engaged to dine at the table 
 d'hote. 
 
 The dinner was deservedly rewarded witli the highest approval 
 by every guest in the hotel but one. To Henry's astonishment, 
 the appetite with which he had entered the house mysteriously 
 and completely left him when he sat down to table. He could 
 drink some wine, but he could literally eat nothing. * What in 
 the world is the matter with you ? ' his travelling acquaintances 
 asked. He could honestly answer, ' I know no more than you do.' 
 
 ^^^len night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bed- 
 room another trial. The result of the second experiment was a 
 repetition of the result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervad- 
 ing sense of depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless 
 night. And once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his 
 appetite completely failed him I 
 
 This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary 
 to be passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends in 
 the public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager, 
 naturally zealous in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the 
 
144 '^^J^^ HAUNTED HO TEL: 
 
 implied reflection cast on Number Fom-teen. He invited the 
 travellers present to judge for themselves whether Mr. "NVestwick's 
 bedroom was to blame for Mr. Westwick's sleepless nights ; and he 
 especially appealed to a grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the 
 breakfast-table of an English traveller, to take the lead in the in- 
 vestigation. ' This is Doctor Bruno, our first physician in Venice,' 
 he explained. ' I appeal to him to say if there are any unhealthy 
 influences in Mr. Westwick's room.' 
 
 Introduced to Number Fourteen, the doctor looked round him 
 with a certain appearance of interest which was noticed by every- 
 one present. * The last time I was in this room,' he said, ' was on 
 a melancholy occasion. It was before the palace was changed into 
 an hotel. I was in professional attendance on an English noble- 
 man who died here.' One of the persons present inquired the name 
 of the nobleman. Doctor Bruno answered (without the slightest 
 suspicion that he was speaking before a brother of the dead man), 
 ^ Lord Montbarry.' 
 
 Henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to any- 
 body. 
 
 He was not, in any sense of the term, a superstitious man. 
 But he felt, nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance to remain- 
 ing in the hotel. He decided on leaving Venice. To ask for 
 another room would be, as he could plainly see, an offence in the 
 ■eyes of the manager. To remove to another hotel, would be to 
 openly abandon an establishment in the success of which he had a 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERjV VENICE. 145 
 
 pecuniary interest. Leaving a note for Arthur Barville, on his 
 arrival in Venice, in M'hich he merely mentioned that he had gone 
 to look at the Italian lakes, and that a line addressed to his hotel 
 at Milan would bring him back again, he took the afternoon train 
 to Padua — and dined with his usual appetite, and slept as well as 
 ever that night. 
 
 The next day, a gentleman and his wife ^perfect strangers to 
 the Montbarry family), returning to England by way of Venice, 
 arrived at the hotel and occupied Xumber Fourteen. 
 
 Still mindful of the slur that had been cast on one of his best 
 bedchambers, the manager took occasion to ask the travellers the 
 next morning how they liked their room. They left him to judge 
 for himself how well they were satisfied, by remaining a day longer 
 in Venice than they had originally planned to do, solely for the 
 purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to them 
 by the new hotel. ' We have met with nothing like it in Italy,' 
 they said ; ' you may rely on our recommending you to all our 
 friends.' 
 
 On the day when Number Fourteen was again vacant, an 
 English lady travelling alone with her maid arrived at the liotel, 
 saw the room, and at once engaged it. 
 
 The lady was Mrs. Norbury. She had left Francis Westwick 
 at Milan, occupied in negotiating for the appearance at his theatre 
 of the new dancer at the Scala. Not having heard to the contrary, 
 Mrs. Norbury supposed that Arthur Barville and his wife had already 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 arrived at Venice. She was more interested in meeting the young 
 married couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargaining 
 which delayed the engagement of the new dancer ; and she 
 volunteered to make her brother's apologies, if his theatrical 
 business caused him to be late in keeping his appointment at the 
 honeymoon festival. 
 
 ]Mrs. Norbury's experience of Number Fourteen differed entirely 
 from her brother Henry's experience of the room. 
 
 Falling asleep as readily as usual, her repose was disturbed by 
 a succession of frightful dreams ; the central figure in everyone of 
 them being the figure of her dead brother, the first Lord Mont- 
 barry. She saw him starving in a loathsome prison ; she saw him 
 pursued by assassins, and dying under their knives ; she saw him 
 drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water ; she saw him in 
 a bed on fire, burning to death in the flames ; she saw him tempted 
 by a shadowy creature to drink, and dying of the poisonous 
 drauo-ht. The reiterated horror of these dreams had such an effect 
 on her that she rose with the dawn of day, afraid to trust her- 
 self again in bed. In the old times, she had been noted in the 
 family as the one member of it who lived on affectionate terms 
 with Montbarry. His other sister and his brothers were constantly 
 quarrelling '^'ith him. Even his mother owned that her eldest son 
 was of all h';r children the child whom she least liked. Sensible 
 and resolute woman as she was, Mrs. Norbury shuddered with terror 
 as she sat at the window of her room, watching tlie sunrise, and 
 thinking of her dreams. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 147 
 
 She made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maid 
 came in at the usual hour, and noticed how ill she looked. The 
 woman was of so superstitious a temperament that it would have 
 been in the last degree indiscreet to trust her with the truth. Mrs. 
 Norbury merely remarked]that she had not found the bed quite to 
 her liking, on account of the large size of it. She was accustomed 
 at home, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed. Informed of 
 this objection later in the day, the manager regretted that he could 
 only offer to the lady the choice of one other bedchamber, numbered 
 Thirty-eight, and situated immediately over the bedchamber which 
 she desired to leave. Mrs. Xorbury accepted the proposed change 
 of quarters. She was now about to pass lier second night in the 
 room occupied in the old days of the palace by Baron Rivar. 
 
 Once more, she fell asleep as usual. And, once more, the 
 frightful dreams of the first night terrified her ; following each 
 other in the same succession. This time her nerves, already shaken, 
 were not equal to the renewed^torture of terror inflicted on them. 
 She threw on her dressing-gown, and rushed out of her room in 
 the middle of the night. The porter, alarmed by the banging of 
 the door, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in search of 
 the first human being she could find to keep her company. Con- 
 siderably sm'prised at this last new manifestation of the famous 
 ' English eccentricity,' the man looked at the hotel register, and 
 led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by her maid. 
 The maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was not even 
 
148 7 HE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 undressed. She received her mistress quietly. When they were 
 alone, and when Mrs. Norbury had, as a matter of necessity, taken 
 her attendant into her confidence, the woman made a very strange 
 reply. 
 
 * I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants' supper to- 
 night,' she said. ' The valet of one of the gentlemen staying here 
 has heard that the late Lord Montbarry was the last person who 
 lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel. The room 
 he died in, ma'am, was the room you slept in last night. Your 
 room to-night is the room just above it. I said nothing for fear 
 of frightening you. For my own part, I have passed the night as 
 you see, keeping my light in, and reading my Bible. In my 
 opinion, no member of your family can hope to be happy or com- 
 fortable in this house.' 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' 
 
 * Please to let me explain myself, ma'am. When Mr. Henry 
 Westwick was here (I have this from the valet, too) he occupied 
 the room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you. For 
 two nights he never closed his eyes. Without any reason for it 
 (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room) he 
 could not sleep ; he felt so low and so wretched in himself. And 
 what is more, when daytime came, he couldn't even eat while he 
 was under this roof. You may laugh at me, ma'am — but even 
 a servant may draw her own conclusions. It's my conclusion that 
 something happened to my lord, which we none of us know about, 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 149 
 
 when he died in this house. His ghost walks in torment until he 
 can tell it — and the living persons related to him are the persons 
 who feel he is near them. Those persons may yet see him in the 
 time to come. Don't, pray don't stay any longer in this dreadful 
 place ! I wouldn't stay another night here myself — no, not for any- 
 thing that could be offered me I ' 
 
 Mrs. Xorbury at once set her servant's mind at ease on this last 
 point. 
 
 ^ I don't think about it as you do,' she said gravely. ' But I 
 should like to speak to my brother of what has happened. We 
 will go back to Milan.' 
 
 Some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the 
 hotel, by the first train in the forenoon. 
 
 In that interval, Mrs. Xorbury's maid found an opportunity of 
 confidentially informing the valet of what had passed between her 
 mistress and herself. The valet had other friends to whom he 
 related the circumstances in his turn. In due course of time, the 
 narrative, passing from mouth to moutli, reached the ears of the 
 manager. He instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in 
 danger, unless something was done to retrieve the character of the 
 room numbered Fourteen. English travellers, well acquainted with 
 the peerage of their native country, informed him that Henry 
 Westwick and Mrs. Xorbury were by no means the only members 
 of the ]\Iontbarry family. Curiosity might bring more of them 
 to the hotel, after hearing what had liappened. The manager's 
 
I50 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ingenuity easily hit on the obvious means of misleading them, in 
 tliis case. The numbers of all the rooms were enamelled in blue, 
 on white china plates, screwed to the doors. He ordered a new 
 plate to be prepared, bearing the number, '13 A'; and he kept 
 the room empty, after its tenant for the time being had gone away, 
 until the plate was ready. He then re-numbered the room; 
 placing the removed Xumber Fourteen on the door of his own 
 room (on the second floor), which, not being to let, had not pre- 
 viously been numbered at all. By this device, Number Fourteen 
 disappeared at once and for ever from the books of the hotel, as 
 the number of a bedroom to let. 
 
 Having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with 
 travellers, on the subject of the changed numbers, under penalty of 
 being dismissed, the manager composed his mind with the reflection 
 that he had done his duty to his employers. ' Now,' he thought to 
 himself, with an excusable sense of triumph, ' let the whole family 
 come here if they like ! The hotel is a match for them.' 
 
A MYSTERY 01^ MODERN VENICE. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 Before the end of the week, the manager found himself in 
 relations with ' the family' once more. A telegram from Milan 
 announced that Mr. Francis Westwick would arrive in Venice on 
 the next day ; and would be obliged if Number Fourteen, on the 
 first floor, could be reserved for him, in the event of its being 
 vacant at the time. 
 
 The manager paused to consider, before he issued his direc- 
 tions. 
 
 The re-numbered room had been last let to a French gentle- 
 man. It would be occupied on the day of Mr. Francis Westwick's 
 arrival, but it would be empty again on the day after. Would it 
 be well to reserve the room for the special occupation of Mr. 
 Francis? and when he had passed the night unsuspiciously and 
 comfortably in 'Xo. 13 A,' to ask him in the presence of witnesses 
 how he liked his bedchamber ? In this case, if the reputation of 
 the room happened to be called in question again, the answer 
 would vindicate it, on the evidence of a member of the very family 
 which had first given Number Fourteen a bad name. After a little 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 reflection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, and 
 directed that ' 13 A ' should be reserved accordingly. 
 
 On the next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits. 
 
 He had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in 
 Italy ; he had transferred the charge of Mrs. Xorbury to his brother 
 Henry, who had joined him in Milan ; and he was now at full 
 liberty to amuse himself by testing in every possible way the 
 extraordinary influence exercised over his relatives by the new hotel. 
 When his brother and sister first told him what their experience 
 had been, he instantly declared that he would go to Venice in the 
 interest of his theatre. The circumstances related to him con- 
 tained invaluable hints for a ghost-drama. The title occurred to 
 him in the railway : ' The Haunted Hotel.' Post that in red letters 
 six feet high, on a black ground, all over London — and trust the 
 excitable public to crowd into the theatre ! 
 
 Eeceived with the politest attention by the manager, Francis 
 met with a disappointment on entering the hotel. ' Some mistake, 
 sir. No such room on the first floor as Number Fourteen. The 
 room bearing that number is on the second floor, and has been 
 occupied by me, from the day when the hotel opened. Perhaps 
 you meant number 1 3 A, on the first floor ? It will be at your 
 service to-morrow — a charming room. In the mean time, we will 
 do the best we can for you, to-night.' 
 
 A man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably 
 the last man in th? civilized universe who is capable of being im- 
 
A An'^STERY OF MODERN VENICE. 153 
 
 pressed with favourable opinions of his fellow-creatures. Francis 
 privately set the manager down as a humbug, and the story about 
 the numbering of the rooms as a lie. 
 
 On the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant, 
 before the hour of the table d'hote, for the express purpose of 
 questioning the waiter, without being overheard by anybody. 
 The answer led him to the conclusion that ' 1 3 A ' occupied the 
 situation in the hotel which had been described by his brother and 
 sister as the situation of ' 14.' He asked next for the Visitors' 
 List ; and found that the French gentleman who then occupied 
 '13 A,' was the proprietor of a theatre in Paris, personally well 
 known to him. Was the gentleman then in the hotel ? He had 
 gone out, but would certainly return for the table d'hote. When 
 the public dinner was over, Francis entered the room, and was 
 welcomed by his Parisian colleague, literally, with open arms. 
 ' Come and have a cigar in my room,' said the friendly Frenchman. 
 ' I want to hear whether you have really engaged that woman at 
 Milan or not.' In this easy way, Francis found his opportunity 
 of comparing the interior of the room with the description which 
 he had heard of it at Milan. 
 
 Arriving at the door, the Frenchman bethought himself of his 
 travelling companion. 'My scene-painter is here with me,' he 
 said, ' on the look-out for materials. An excellent fellow, who will 
 take it as a kindness if we ask him to join us. I'll tell the porter 
 to send him up when he comes in.' He handed the key of his 
 
154 
 
 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 room to Francie. ' I will be back in a minute. It's at the end of 
 the corridor — 13 A.' 
 
 Francis entered the room alone. There were the decorations 
 on the walls and the ceiling, exactly as they had been described to 
 him ! He had just time to perceive this at a glance, before his 
 attention was diverted to himself and his owm sensations, by a 
 grotesquely disagreeable occurrence which took him completely by 
 surprise. 
 
 He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the 
 room, entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. It was 
 composed (if such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, 
 which were separately-discoverable exhalations nevertheless. This 
 strange blending of odours consisted of something faintly and 
 impleasantly aromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so 
 unutterably sickening that he threw open the window, and put his 
 head out into the fresh air, unable to endure the horribly infected 
 atmosphere for a moment longer. 
 
 The French proprietor joined his English friend, wnth his cigar 
 already lit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his 
 countrymen in general — the sight of an open window. ' You 
 English people are perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air ! ' he 
 exclaimed. ' We shall catch our deaths of cold.' 
 
 Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. ' Are you 
 really not aware of the smell there is in the room ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Smell I ' repeated his brother-manager. ' I smell my own 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 155 
 
 good cigar. Try one yourself. And for Heaven's sake shut the 
 window ! ' 
 
 Francis declined the cigar by a sign. ' Forgive me,' he said. 
 ' I will leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy — I 
 had better go out.' He put his handkerchief over his nose and 
 mouth, and crossed the room to the door. 
 
 The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a 
 state of bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the oppor- 
 tunity of shutting out the fresh air. ' Is it so nasty as that ? ' he 
 asked, with a broad stare of amazement. 
 
 ' Horrible I ' Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. ' I 
 never smelt anything like it in my life I ' 
 
 There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. 
 His employer instantly asked him if he smelt anything. 
 
 ' I smell your cigar. Delicious I Give me one directly ! ' 
 
 ' Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything 
 else — vile, abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never- 
 never-smelt before ? ' 
 
 The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement 
 energy of the language addressed to him. ' The room is as fresh and 
 sweet as a room can be,' be answered. As he spoke, he looked back 
 with astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the 
 corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an ex- 
 pression of undisguised disgust. 
 
 The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and 
 looked at Ijim witli grave and anxious scrutiny. 
 
156 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses 
 as yours, who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more 
 noses, look there ! ' He pointed to two little English girls, at play 
 in the corridor. ' The door of my room is wide open — and you 
 know how fast a smell can travel. Now listen, while I appeal to 
 these innocent noses, in the language of their own dismal island. 
 My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell here — ha ? ' The 
 children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically, ' No.' 
 ' My good Westwick,' the Frenchman resumed, in his own language, 
 ' the conclusion is surely plain ? There is something wrong, very 
 wrong, with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical 
 man.' 
 
 Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut 
 out the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. P'rancis 
 left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. 
 The night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, 
 and to think quietly over what had happened. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Ayoidixg the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly 
 up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the 
 light of the rising moon . 
 
 Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough 
 materialist. The strange effect produced on him by the room — 
 following on the other strange effects produced on the other 
 relatives of his dead brother — exercised no perplexing influence 
 over the mind of this sensible man. ' Perhaps,' he reflected, ' my 
 temperament is more imaginative than I supposed it to be — and 
 this is a trick played on me by my own fancy ? Or, perhaps, my 
 friend is right ; something is physically amiss with me ? I don't 
 feel ill, certainly. But that is no safe criterion sometimes. I am 
 not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night — I can well 
 wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor or 
 not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn't seem likely to supply me 
 with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from an invisible 
 ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback. If I real- 
 ise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of the theatre.' 
 
158 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, 
 he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was 
 observing him with marked attention. ' Am I right in supposing 
 you to be ^Mr. Francis Westwick ? ' the lady asked, at the moment 
 when he looked at her. 
 
 ' That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have 
 the honour of speaking ? ' 
 
 ' We have only met once,' she answered a little evasively, 
 'when yom- late brother introduced me to the members of his 
 family. I wonder if you have quite forgotten my big black eyes 
 and my hideous complexion?' She lifted her veil as she spoke, 
 and turned so that the moonlight rested on her face. 
 
 Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom 
 he most cordially disliked — the widow of his dead brother, the first 
 Lord Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her. His experience 
 on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses 
 who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed him to speak 
 roughly to women who were distasteful to him. ' I remember you,' 
 he said. ' I thought you were in America I ' 
 
 She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner ; she 
 simply stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave 
 
 her. 
 
 ' Let me walk with you for a few minute?,' she quietly replied. 
 ' I have something to say to you.' 
 
 He showed her his cigar. ' I am Fmokirig,' he sai \ 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 159 
 
 * I don't mind smoking.' 
 
 After that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright 
 brutality) but to yield. He did it with the worst possible grace. 
 ' Well ? ' he resumed. ' What do you want of me ?' 
 
 ' You shall hear directly, Mr. West wick. Let me first tell you 
 what my position is. I am alone in the world. To the loss of 
 my husband has now been added another bereavement, the loss of 
 my companion in America, my brother — Baron Rivar.' 
 
 The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had 
 thrown on his assumed relationship to the Countess, were well 
 known to Francis. ' Shot in a gambling-saloon ? ' he asked 
 brutally. 
 
 ' The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,' she said, 
 with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on 
 certain occasions. 'As a native of horse-racing England, you 
 belong to a nation of gamblers. ]My brother died no extraordinary 
 death, Mr. Westwick. He sank, with many other unfortunate 
 people, under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we 
 happened to visit. The calamity of his loss made the United States 
 unendurable to me. I left by the first steamer that sailed from 
 New York — a French vessel which brought me to Havre. I con- 
 tinued my lonely journey to the South of France. And then I 
 went on to Venice.' 
 
 'What does all this matter to me?' Francis thought to liim- 
 self. She pau.-cd, evidently expecting him to say something. ' So 
 you have come to Venice ? ' he said carelessly. ' Why ? ' 
 
i6o THE HAUNTED HOTEL. 
 
 ' Because I couldn't help it,' she answered. 
 Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. ' That sounds 
 odd,' he remarked. ' Why couldn't you help it ? ' 
 
 ^ Women are accustomed to act on impulse,' she explained. 
 ' Suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey ? And 
 yet, this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in. 
 Associations that I detest are connected with it in my miud. If 
 I had a will of my own, I would never see it again. I hate Venice. 
 As you see, however, I am here. When did you meet with such an 
 unreasonable woman before ? Never, I am sure ! ' She stopped, 
 eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone. ' \\lien is 
 Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice ? ' she asked. 
 
 It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but that 
 extraordinary question did it. ' How the devil did you know that 
 Miss Lockwood was coming to Venice ? ' he exclaimed. 
 
 She laughed— a bitter mocking laugh. ' Say, I guessed it ! ' 
 Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious 
 defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick 
 
 temper that was in Francis Westwick. ' Lady Montbarry ! ' 
 
 he began. 
 
 ' Stop there ! ' she interposed. ' Your brother Stephen's wife 
 calls herself Lady Montbarry now. I share my title with no 
 woman. Call me by my name before I committed the fatal mis- 
 take of marrying your brother. Address me, if you please, as 
 Countess Narona.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. i6i 
 
 'Countess Xarona,' Francis resumed, 'if your object in claiming 
 my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong 
 man. Speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.' 
 
 ' If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood's arrival in Venice a 
 secret,' she retorted, ' speak plainly, ]Mr. Westwick, on your side, 
 and say so.' 
 
 Her intention was evidently to irritate him ; and she succeeded. 
 ' Nonsense ! ' he broke out petulantly. ' ]My brother's travelling 
 arrangements are secrets to nobody. He brings Miss Lockwood 
 here, with Lady ^Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well 
 informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice ? ' 
 
 The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She 
 made no reply. The two strangely associated companions, having 
 reached one extremity of the square, were now standing before the 
 church of St. Mark. The moonlight was bright enough to show 
 the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of 
 detail. Even the pigeons of St. INIark were visible, in dark closely 
 packed rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors. 
 
 ' I never saw the old church look so beautiful bv moonliofht ' 
 the Countess said quietly ; speaking, not to Francis, but to lier- 
 self. ' Good-bye, St. Mark's by moonlight ! I shall not see you 
 again.' 
 
 She turned away from the cluu-ch, and saw Francis listening to 
 her with wondering looks. ' Xo,' she resumed, placidly pickino- up 
 the lost thread of the conversation, 'I don't know why Miss 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
i62 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Lockwood is coming liere, I only know that we are to meet in 
 Venice.' 
 
 ' By previous appointment ? ' 
 
 'By Destiny,' she answered, with her head on her breast, and 
 her eyes on the ground. Francis burst out laughing. ' Or if you 
 like it better,' she instantly resumed, ' by what fools call Chance.' 
 Francis answered easily, out of the depths of his strong common 
 sense. ' Chance seems to be taking a queer way of bringing the 
 meeting about,' he said. ' We have all arranged to meet at the 
 Palace Hotel. How is it that your name is not on the Visitors' 
 List? Destiny ought to have brought you to the Palace Hotel 
 too' 
 
 She abruptly pulled down her veil. ' Destiny may do that yet ! ' 
 she said. ' The Palace Hotel ? ' she repeated, speaking once more 
 to herself. ' The old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. 
 The place itself! Jesu Maria I the place itself I ' She paused and 
 laid her hand on her companion's arm. ' Perhaps ]Miss Lockwood 
 is not going there with the rest of you ? ' she burst out with 
 sudden eagerness. ' Are you positively sure she will be at the 
 hotel ? ' 
 
 ' Positively ! Haven't I told you that Miss Lockwood travels 
 with Lord and Lady Monibarry ? and don't you know that she 
 is a member of the family ? Vou will have to move, Countess, to 
 our hotel.' 
 
 She was perfectly impenetrable to the bantering tone in which 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, 163 
 
 he spoke. ' Yes,' she said faintly, ' I shall have to move to your 
 hotel.' Her hand was still on his arm — he could feel her shivering 
 from head to foot while she spoke. Heartily as he disliked and 
 distrusted her, the common instinct of humanity obliged him to 
 ask if she felt cold. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said. ' Cold and faint.' 
 
 ' Cold and faint, Countess, on such a night as this ? ' 
 
 ' The night has nothing to do with it, Mr. AVestwick. How do 
 you suppose the criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman 
 is putting the rope round his neck ? Cold and faint, too, I should 
 think. Excuse my grim fancy. You see, Destiny has got the rope 
 round my neck — and / feel it.' 
 
 She looked about her. They were at that moment close to the 
 famous cafe known as ' Florian's.' ' Take me in there,' she said ; 
 ' I must have something to revive me. You had better not hesitate. 
 You are interested in reviving me. I have not said what I wanted 
 to say to you yet. It's business, and it's connected with your 
 theatre.' 
 
 Wondering inwardly what slie could possibly want with his 
 theatre, Francis reluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situa- 
 tion, and took her into the cafe. He found a quiet corner in which 
 they could take their places without attracting notice. ' What 
 will you have ? ' he inquired resignedly. She gave her own orders 
 to the waiter, without troubling him to speak for her. 
 ' Maraschino. And a pot of tea.' 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 The waiter stared ; Francis stared. The tea was a novelty (in 
 connection with maraschino) to both of them. Careless whetlier 
 she surprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her 
 directions had been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full 
 of the liqueur into a tumbler, and to fill it up from the teapot. 
 ' I can't do it for myself,' she remarked, ' my hand trembles so.' 
 She drank the strange mixture eagerly, hot as it was. ' Maras- 
 chino punch — will you taste some of it ? ' she said. ' I inherit 
 the discovery of this drink. When your English Queen Caroline 
 was on the Continent, my mother was attached to her com't. That 
 much injured Royal Person invented, in her happier hours, maras- 
 chino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my 
 mother shared her tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my 
 mother. Xow, ]Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business 
 is. You are manager of a theatre. Do you want a new play ? ' 
 
 ' I always want a new play — provided it's a good one.' 
 
 ' And you pay, if it's a good one ? * 
 
 ' I pay liberally — in my own interests.' 
 
 ' If I write the play, will you read it ? ' 
 
 Francis hesitated. ' ^yhat has put writing a play into your 
 head ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Mere accident,' she answered. ' I had once occasion to tell 
 my late brother of a visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood, when 
 I was last in England. He took no interest in what happened at 
 the interview, but something struck him in my way of relating it. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 165 
 
 He said, " You describe what passed between you and the lady with 
 the point and contrast of good stage dialogue. You have the 
 dramatic instinct — try if you can write a Jjlay. You might make 
 money." That put it into my head.' 
 
 Those last words seemed to startle Francis. ' Surely you don't 
 want money I ' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' I always want money. My tastes are expensive. I have 
 nothing but my poor little four hundred a year — and the wreck 
 that is left of the other money: about two hundred pounds in 
 circular notes — no more.' 
 
 Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds 
 paid by the insurance offices. ' All those thousands gone already ! ' 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. ' Gone like that I ' 
 she answered coolly, 
 
 ' Baron Rivar ? ' 
 
 She looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black- 
 eyes. 
 
 'My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. I have made 
 you a proposal — and you liave not answered me yet. Don't say 
 Xo, without thinking first. Remember what a life mine has been. 
 I have seen more of the world than most people, playwrights 
 included. I have had strange adventures ; I have heard re- 
 markable stories ; I have observed ; I have remembered. Are 
 there no materials, here in my head, for writing a play — if the 
 
i66 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 opportunity is granted to me ? ' She waited a moment, an d 
 suddenly repeated her strange question about Agnes. ' When i 
 Miss Lockwood expected to be in Venice ? ' 
 
 ' What has that to do with your new play, Countess ? ' 
 The Countess appeared to feel some difficulty in giving that 
 question its fit reply. She mixed another tumbler full of the 
 maraschino punch, and drank one good half of it before she spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' It has everything to do with my new play,' was all she said. 
 ' Answer me.' Francis answered her. 
 
 ' Miss Lockwood may be here in a week. Or, for all I know to 
 the contrary, sooner than that.' 
 
 'Very well. If I am a living woman and a free woman in a 
 week's time — or if I am in possession of my senses in a week's time 
 (don't interrupt me ; I know what I am talking about) — I shall 
 have a sketch or outline of my play ready, as a specimen of what I 
 can do. Once again, will you read it ? ' 
 
 ' I will certainly read it. But, Countess, I don't under- 
 stand ' 
 
 She held up her hand for silence, and finished the second 
 tumbler of maraschino punch. 
 
 ' I am a living enigma — and you want to know tlie right 
 reading of me,' she said. ' Here is the reading, as your English 
 phrase goes, in a nutshell. There is a foolish idea in the minds of 
 many persons that the natives of the warm climates are imagina- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 167 
 
 tive people. There never was a greater raistake. You will find no 
 such unimaginative people anywhere as you find in Italy, Spain, 
 Greece, and the other Southern countries. To anything fanciful, 
 to anything spiritual, their minds are deaf and blind by nature. 
 Now and then, in the course of centuries, a great genius springs up 
 among them ; and he is the exception which proves the rule. Now 
 see I I, though I am no genius — I am, in my little way (as I 
 suppose), an exception too. To my sorrow, I have some of that 
 imagination which is so common among the English and the 
 Germans — so rare among the Italians, the Spaniards, and the rest 
 of them ! And what is the result ? I think it has become a 
 disease in me. I am filled with presentiments which make this 
 wicked life of mine one long terror to me. It doesn't matter, just 
 now", what they are. Enough that they absolutely govern me — 
 they drive me over land and sea at their own horrible will ; they 
 are in me, and torturing me, at this moment I Why don't I resist 
 them ? Ha ! but I do resist them. I am trying (with the help of 
 the good punch) to resist them now. At intervals I cultivate the 
 difficult virtue of sound sense. Sometimes, sound sense makes a. 
 hopeful woman of me. At one time, I had the hope that what 
 seemed, reality to me was only mad delusion, after all — I even 
 asked the question of an English doctor ! At other times, other 
 sensible doubts of myself beset me. Xever mind dwelling on them 
 now — it alw\ays ends in the old terrors and superstitions taking 
 possession of me again. In a week's time, I shall know whether 
 
1 68 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Destiny does indeed decide my future for me, or whether I decide 
 it for myself. In the last case, my resolution is to absorb this self- 
 tormenting fancy of mine in the occupation that I have told you 
 of already. Do you understand me a little Letter now ? And, our 
 business being settled, dear ]Mr. ^Vestwick, shall we get out of this 
 hot room into the nice cool air again ? ' 
 
 They rose to leave the cafe. Francis privately concluded that 
 the maraschino punch offered the only discoverable explanation of 
 what the Coimtess had said to him. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 169 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ' Shall I see you again ? ' she asked, as she held out her hand 
 to take leave. ' It is quite understood between us. I suppose, about 
 the play ? ' 
 
 Francis recalled his extraordinary experience of that evening 
 in the re-numbered room. ' My stay in Veoice is uncertain,' he 
 replied. * If you have anything more to say about this dramatic 
 ventm'e of yours, it may be as well to say it now. Have you 
 decided on a subject already ? I know the public taste in England 
 better than you do — I might save you some waste of time and 
 trouble, if you have not chosen your subject wisely.' 
 
 ' I don't care what subject I write about, so long as I write,' 
 she answered carelessly. ' If you have got a subject in your head, 
 give it to me. I answer for the characters and the dialogue.' 
 
 ' You answer for the characters and the dialogue,' Francis 
 repeated. * That's a bold way of speaking for a beginner I I 
 wonder if I should shake your sublime confidence in yourself, if I 
 suggested the most ticklish subject to handle which is known to 
 the stage ? What do you say. Countess, to entering the lists with 
 
1 70 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Shakespeare, and trying a drama with a ghost in it ? A true story, 
 mind ! founded on events in this very city in which you and I are 
 interested.' 
 
 She caught him by the arm, and drew him away from the 
 crowded colonnade into the solitary middle space of the square. 
 ' Xow tell me I ' she said eagerly. ' Here, where nobody is near us. 
 How am I interested in it ? How ? how ? ' 
 
 Still holding his arm, she shook him in her impatience to hear 
 the coming disclosure. For a moment he hesitated. Thus far, 
 amused by her ignorant belief in herself, he had merely spoken in 
 jest. Xow, for the first time, impressed by her irresistible earnest- 
 ness, he began to consider what he was about from a more serious 
 point of view. With her knowledge of all that had passed in the 
 old palace, before its transformation into an hotel, it was surely 
 possible that she might suggest some explanation of what had 
 happened to his brother, and sister, and himself. Or, failing to do 
 this, she might accidentally reveal some event in her own experience 
 which, acting as a hint to a competent dramatist, might prove to 
 be the making of a pla^^ The prosperity of his theatre was his 
 one serious object in life. 'I may be on the trace of another 
 " Corsican Brothers," ' he thought. ' A new piece of that sort would 
 be ten thousand pounds in my pocket, at least.' 
 
 With these motives (worthy of the single-hearted devotion to 
 dramatic business which made Francis a successful manager) he 
 related, without further hesitation, what his own experience had 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 171 
 
 been, and what the experience of his relatives had been, in the 
 haunted hotel. He even described the outbreak of superstitious 
 terror which had escaped Mrs. Xorbury's ignorant maid. ' Sad 
 stufif, if you look at it reasonably,' he remarked. ' But there is 
 something dramatic in the notion of the ghostly influence making 
 itself felt by the relations in succession, as they one after another 
 enter the fatal room — until the one chosen relative comes who will 
 see the Unearthly Creature, and know the terrible truth. Material 
 for a play, Countess — first-rate material for a play ! ' 
 
 There he paused. She neither moved nor spoke. He stooped 
 and looked closer at her. 
 
 What impression had he produced ? It was an impression 
 which his utmost ingenuity had failed to anticipate. She stood by 
 his side — just as she had stood before Agues when her question 
 about Ferrari was plainly answered at last — like a woman turned 
 to stone. Her eyes were vacant and rigid ; all the life in her face 
 had faded out of it. Francis took her by tlie hand. Her hand 
 was as cold as the pavement that they were standing on. He 
 asked her if she was ill. 
 
 Not a muscle in her moved. He might as well have spoken to 
 the dead. 
 
 ' Surely,' he said, ' you are not foolish enough to take what I 
 have been telling you seriously ? ' 
 
 Her lips moved slowly. As it seemed, she was making an 
 effort to speak to liim. 
 
T72 THE HAUNTED HOlEr ■ 
 
 ' Louder,' he ^aid. ' I can't hear you.' 
 
 She struggled to recover possession of herself. A faint light 
 began to soften the dull cold stare of her eyes. In a moment more 
 she spoke so that he could hear her. 
 
 ' I never thought of the other world,' she murmured, in low dull 
 tones, like a woman talking in her sleep. 
 
 Her mind had gone back to the day of her last memorable 
 interview with Agnes ; she was slowly recalling the confession that 
 had escaped her, the warning words which she had spoken at that 
 past time. Necessarily incapable of understanding this, Francis 
 looked at her in perplexity. She went on in the same dull vacant 
 tone, steadily following out her own train of thought, with her heed- 
 less eyes on his face, and her wandering mind far away from him. 
 
 ' I said some trifling event would bring us together the next 
 time. I was wrong. No trifling event will bring us together. I 
 said I might be the person who told her what had become of 
 Ferrari, if she forced me to it. Shall I feel some other influence 
 than hers ? Will lie, force me to it ? When 8he, sees him, shall / 
 see him too ? ' 
 
 Her head sank a little ; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly ; she 
 heaved a long low weary sigh. Francis put her arm in his, and 
 made an attempt to rouse her. 
 
 ' Come, Countess, you are weary and over-wrought. We have 
 had enough talking to-night. Let me see you safe back to your 
 hotel. Is it far from here ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERX VENICE. 173 
 
 She started when he moved, and obliged her to move with 
 him, as if he had suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep. 
 
 ' Not far,' she said faintly. * The old hotel on the quay. My 
 mind's in a strano-e state : I have foro^otten the name.' 
 
 ' Danieli's ? ' 
 
 ' Yes : ' 
 
 He led her on slowly. She accompanied him in silence as far 
 as the end of the Piazzetta. There, when the full view of the 
 moonlit Lagoon revealed itself, she stopped him as he turned 
 towards the Eiva degli Schiavoni. ' I have something to ask you. 
 I want to wait and think.' 
 
 She recovered her lost idea, after a long pause. 
 
 ' Are you going to sleep in the room to-night ? ' she asked. 
 
 He told her that another traveller was in possession of the room 
 that night. ' But the manager has reserved it for me to-morrow,' 
 he added, ' if I wish to have it.' 
 
 * Xo,' she said. ' You must give it up.' 
 
 ' To whom ? ' 
 
 ' To me : ' 
 
 He started. ' After what I have told you, do you really wL^h 
 to sleep in that room to-morrow night ? ' 
 
 ' I must sleep in it.' 
 
 ' Are you not afraid ? ' 
 
 ' I am horribly afraid.' 
 
 ' So I should have thought, after what I have obseived in you 
 
174 ^HE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 to-night. Why should you take the room ? you are not obliged 
 to occupy it, unless you like/ 
 
 ' I was not obliged to go to Venice, when I left America,' she 
 answered. ' And yet I came here. I must take the room, and 
 keep the room, until — ' She broke off at those words. ' Never 
 mind the rest,' she said. ' It doesn't interest you.' 
 
 It was useless to dispute ^vith her. Francis changed the 
 subject. ' "We can do nothing to-night,' he said. ' I will call 
 on you to-morrow morning, and hear what you think of it 
 then.' 
 
 They moved on again to the hotel. As they approached the 
 door, Francis asked if she was staying in Venice under her own 
 name. 
 
 She shook her head. ' As 3'our brother's widow, I am known 
 here. As Countess Narona, I am known here. I want to be un- 
 known, this time, to strangers in Venice ; I am travelling under 
 a common English name.' She hesitated, and stood still. ' What 
 has come to me ? ' she muttered to herself. ' Some things I 
 remember; and some I forget. I forgot Danieli's — and now I 
 forget my English name.' She drew him hurriedly into the hall 
 of the hotel, on the wall of which hung a list of visitors' names. 
 Running her finger slowly down the list, she pointed to the Englisli 
 name that she had assumed : — ' Mrs. James.' 
 
 ' Remember that when you call to-morrow,' she said. ' My 
 head is heavy. Good night.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 175 
 
 Francis went back to his own liotel, wondering what the events 
 of the next day would bring forth. A new turn in his affairs had 
 taken place in his absence. As he crossed the hall, he was re- 
 quested by one of the servants to walk into the private office. The 
 manager was waiting there with a gravely pre-occupied manner, as 
 if he had something serious to say. He regretted to hear that Islx, 
 Francis Westwick had, like other members of the family, discovered 
 mysterious sources of discomfort in the new hotel. He had been 
 informed in strict confidence of Mr. Westwick's extraordinary 
 objection to the atmosphere of the bedroom upstairs. Without 
 presuming to discuss the matter, he must beg to be excused from 
 reserving the room for Mr. Westwick after what had happened. 
 
 Francis answered sharply, a little ruffled by tlie tone in which 
 the manager had spoken to him. ' I might, very possibly, have 
 declined to sleep in the room, if you had reserved it,' he said. ' Do 
 you wish me to leave the hotel ?' 
 
 The manager saw the error that he had committed, and 
 hastened to repair it. ' Certainly not, sir ! ^Ve will do our best 
 to make you comfortable while you stay with us. I beg your 
 pardon, if I have said anything to offend you. The reputation uf 
 an establishment like this is a matter of very serious importance. 
 May I hope that you will do us the great favour to say nothing 
 about what has happened upstairs ? The two French gentlemen 
 have kindly promised to keep it a secret.' 
 
 This apology left Francis no polite alternative but to grant tlie 
 
176 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 manager's request. ' There is an end to the Countess's wild scheme-,' 
 he thought to himself, as he retired for the night. ' So much the 
 better for the Countess I ' 
 
 He rose late the next morning. Inquiring for his Parisian 
 friends, he was informed that both the French gentlemen had left 
 for Milan. As he crossed the hall, on his way to the restaurant, he 
 noticed the head porter chalking tlie numbers of the rooms on some 
 articles of luggage which were waiting to go upstairs. One trunk 
 attracted his attention by the extraordinary number of old travel- 
 ling labels left on it. The porter was marking it at the moment — 
 and the number was, '13 A.' Francis instantly looked at the card 
 fastened on the lid. It bore the common English name, ' Mrs. 
 James'! He at once inquired about the lady. She had arrived 
 early that morning, and she was then in the Reading Eoom. 
 Looking into the room, he discovered a lady in it alone. Ad- 
 vancing a little nearer, he found himself face to face with the 
 Countess. 
 
 She was seated in a dark corner, with her head down and her 
 arms crossed over her bosom. ' Yes,' she said, in a tone of weary 
 impatience, before Francis could speak to her. ' I thought it best 
 not to wait for you — I determined to get here before anybody else 
 could take the room.' 
 
 ' Have you taken it for long ? ' Francis asked. 
 
 * You told me Miss Lockwood would be here in a week's tin:e. 
 I have taken it for a week.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 177 
 
 ' What has Miss Lockwood to do with it ? ' 
 
 ' She has everythiDg to do with it — she must sleep in the room. 
 I shall give the room up to her when she comes here.' 
 
 Francis began to understand the superstitious purpose that she 
 had in view. ' Are you fan educated woman; really of the same 
 opinion as my sister's maid ! ' he exclaimed. ' Assuming your 
 absurd superstition to be a serious thing, you are taking the wrong 
 means to prove it true. If I and my brother and sister have seen 
 nothing, how should Agnes Lockwood discover what was not re- 
 vealed to Us ? She is only distantly related to the Montbarrys — 
 she is only om^ cousin.' 
 
 ' She was nearer to the heart of the Montbarry who is dead than 
 any of you,' the Countess answered sternly. ' To the last dav of 
 his life, my miserable husband repented his desertion of her. She 
 will see what none of you have seen — she shall have the room.' 
 
 Francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives 
 that animated her. 'I don't see what interest you have in trying 
 this extraordinary experiment,' he said. 
 
 ' It is my interest not to try it I It is my interest to fly from 
 Venice, and never set eyes on Agnes Lockwood or any of your 
 family again ! ' 
 
 ' What prevents you from doing that ? ' 
 
 She started to her feet and looked at him wildly. ' I know no 
 more what prevents me than you do ! ' she burst out. ' Some will 
 that is stronger than mine drives me on to my destruction, in spite 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 of my own self I ' She suddenly sat down again, and waved her hand 
 for him to go. ' Leave me,' she said. ' Leave me to my thoughts.' 
 
 Francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out 
 of her senses. For the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her. 
 The night, so far as he knew, passed quietly. The next morning he 
 breakfasted early, determining to wait in the restaurant for the 
 appearance of the Countess. She came in and ordered her breakfast 
 quietly, looking dull and worn and self-absorbed, as she had looked 
 when he last saw her. He hastened to her table, and asked if any- 
 thing had happened in the night. 
 
 ' Nothing,' she answered. 
 
 * You have rested as well as usual ? ' 
 
 ' Quite as well as usual. Have you had any letters this morn- 
 ing ? Have you heard when she is coming ? ' 
 
 'I have had no letters. Are you really going to stay here? 
 Has your experience of last night not altered the opinion which 
 you expressed to me yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' Not in the least.' 
 
 The momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face 
 when she questioned him about Agnes, died out of it again when 
 he answered her. She looked, she spoke, she eat her breakfast, with 
 a vacant resignation, like a woman who had done with hopes, done 
 with interests, done with everything but the mechanical movements 
 and instincts of life. 
 
 Francis went out, on the customary travellers' pilgrimage to 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 179 
 
 the shrines of Titian and Tintoret. After some hours of absence, 
 he found a letter waiting for him when he got back to the hotel. 
 It was written by his brother Henry, and it recommended him to 
 return to Milan immediately. The proprietor of a French theatre, 
 recently arrived from Venice, was trying to induce the famous 
 dancer whom Francis had engaged to break faith with him and 
 accept a higher salary. 
 
 Having made this startling announcement, Henry proceeded to 
 inform his brother that Lord and Lady Montbarry, with Agnes and 
 the children, would arrive in Venice in three days more. ' They 
 know nothing of our adventures at the hotel,' Henry wrote ; ' and 
 they have telegraphed to the manager for the accommodation that 
 they want. There would be something absurdly superstitious in 
 our giving them a warning which would frighten the ladies and 
 children out of the best hotel in Venice. We shall be a strong 
 party this time — too strong a party for ghosts ! I shall meet the 
 travellers on their arrival, of course, and try my luck again at 
 what you call the Haunted Hotel. Arthur Barville and his wife 
 have already got as far on their way as Trent ; and two of the 
 lady's relations have arranged to accompany them on the journey 
 to Venice.' 
 
 Naturally indignant at the conduct of his Parisian colleague, 
 Francis made his preparations for returning to Milan by the train 
 of that day. 
 
 On his way out, he asked the manager if his brother's telegram 
 
 N 2 
 
I So THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 had been received. The telegram had arrived, and, to the surprise 
 of Francis, the rooms were already reserved. ' I thought you would 
 refuse to let any more of the family into the house,' he said satiric- 
 ally. The manager answered (with the due dash of respect) in 
 the same tone. 'Number 13 A is safe, sir, in the occupation of a 
 stranger. I am the servant of the Company ; and I dare not turn 
 money out of the hotel.' 
 
 Hearing this, Francis said good-bye — and said nothing more. 
 He was ashamed to acknowledge it to himself, but he felt an 
 irresistible curiosity to know what would happen when Agnes 
 arrived at the hotel. Besides, ^Mrs. James' had reposed a con- 
 fidence in him. He got into his gondola, respecting the confidence 
 of ' Mrs. James.' 
 
 Towards evening on the third day. Lord Montbarry and his 
 travelling companions arrived, punctual to their appointmen t. 
 
 ' Mrs. James,' sitting at the window of her room watching for 
 tliem, saw the new Lord land from the gondola first. He handed 
 his wife to the steps. The three children were next committed to 
 his care. Last of all, Agnes appeared in the little black doorway 
 of the gondola cabin, and, taking Lord Montbarry's hand, passed 
 in her turn to the steps. She wore no veil. As she ascended to 
 the door of the hotel, the Countess (eyeing her through an 
 opera-glass) noticed that she paused to look at the outside of 
 the building, and that her face was very pale. 
 
A An'STERY OF MODERN VENICE. i8i 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Lord and Lady Montbarry were received by the housekeeper; 
 the manager being absent for a day or two on business connected 
 with the affairs of the hotel. 
 
 The rooms reserved for the travellers on the first floor were 
 three in number ; consisting of two bedrooms opening into each 
 other, and communicating on the left with a di'a wing- room. 
 Complete so far, the arrangements proved to be less satisfactory in 
 reference to the third bedroom required for Agnes and for the 
 eldest daughter of Lord Montbarry, who usually slept with her on 
 their travels. The bed-chamber on the right of the drawing-room 
 was already occupied by an English widow lady. Other bed- 
 chambers at the other end of the corridor were also let in every 
 case. There was accordingly no alternative but to jjlace at the 
 disposal of Agnes a comfortable room on the second floor. Lady 
 Montbarry vainly complained of this separation of one of the 
 members of her travelling party from the rest. The housekeeper 
 politely hinted that it was impossible for her to ask other travellers 
 to give up their rooms. She could only express her regret, and 
 
1 82 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 assure Miss Lock\^ood tliat her bed-chamber on the second floor 
 was one of the best rooms in that part of the hotel. 
 
 On the retirement of the housekeeper, Lady Montbarry noticed 
 that Agnes had seated herself apart, feeling apparently no interest 
 in the question of the bedrooms. Was she ill? No; she felt a 
 little unnerved by tlie railway journey, and that was all. Hearing 
 this, Lord Montbarry proposed that she should go out with him, 
 and try the experiment of half an hour's walk in the cool evening 
 air. Agnes gladly accepted the suggestion. They directed their 
 steps towards the square of St. Mark, so as to enjoy the breeze 
 blowing over the lagoon. It was the first visit of Agnes to Venice. 
 The fascination of the wonderful city of the waters exerted its full 
 influence over her sensitive nature. The proposed half-hour of 
 the walk had passed away, and was fast expandin g to half an hour 
 more, before Lord Montbarry could persuade his companion to 
 remember that dinner was waiting for them. As they returned, 
 passing under the colonnade, neither of them noticed a lady in 
 deep mourning, loitering in the open space of the square. She 
 started as she recognised Agnes walking with the new Lord 
 Montbarry — hesitated for a moment — and then followed them, 
 at a discreet distance, back to the hotel. 
 
 Lady Montbarry received Agnes in high spirits — with news of 
 an event which liad happened in her absence. 
 
 She had not left the hotel more than ten minutes, before a 
 little note in pencil was brought to Lady Montbarry by the house- 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 183 
 
 keeper. The writer proved to be no less a person than the widow 
 lady who occupied the room on the other side of the drawing- 
 room, which her ladyship had vainly hoped to secure for Agnes. 
 Writing under the name of Mrs. James, the polite widow explained 
 that she had heard from the housekeeper of the disappointment 
 experienced by Lady Montbarry in the matter of the rooms. Mrs. 
 James was quite alone ; and as long as her bed-chamber was airy 
 and comfortable, it mattered nothing to her whether she slept on 
 the first or the second floor of the house. She had accordingly 
 much pleasure in proposing to change rooms with MissLockwood. 
 Her luggage had already been removed, and ^Nliss Lockwood had 
 only to take possession of the room (Xumber 13, A), which was 
 now entirely at her disposal. 
 
 ' I immediately proposed to see ^Irs. James,' Lady Montbarry 
 continued, ' and to thank her personally for her extreme kindness. 
 But I was informed that she had gone out, without leaving word at 
 what horn- she might be expected to return. I have written a 
 little note of thanks, saying that we hope to have the pleasure of 
 personally expressing our sense of Mrs. James's courtesy to-mor- 
 row. In the mean time, Agnes, I have ordered your boxes to be 
 removed downstairs. Go ! — and judge for yourself, my dear, if that 
 good lady has not given up to you the prettiest room in the house ! ' 
 
 With those words. Lady Montbarry left Miss Lockwood to 
 make a hasty toilet for dinner. 
 
 The new room at once produced a favourable impression on 
 
1 84 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Agnes. The large window, opening into a balcony, commanded 
 an admirable view of the canal. The decorations on the walls and 
 ceiling were skilfully copied from the exquisitely graceful designs 
 of Raphael in the Vatican. The massive wardrobe possessed com- 
 partments of unusual size, in which double the number of dresses 
 that Agnes possessed might have been conveniently hung at full 
 length. In the inner corner of the room, near the head of the 
 bedstead, there was a recess which had been turned into a little 
 dressing-room, and which opened by a second door on the inferior 
 staircase of the hotel, commonly used by the servants. Noticing 
 these aspects of the room at a glance, Agnes made the necessary 
 change in her dress, as quickly as possible. On her way back to 
 the drawing-room she was addressed by a chambermaid in the 
 corridor who asked for her key. ' I will put your room tidy for 
 the night. Miss,' the woman said, ' and I will then bring the key 
 back to you in the drawing-room.' 
 
 While the chambermaid was at her work, a solitary lady, 
 loitering about the corridor of the second story, was watching her 
 over the bannisters. After a while, the maid appeared, with her 
 pail in her hand, leaving the room by way of the dressing-room 
 and the back stairs. As she passed out of sight, the lady on the 
 second floor (no other, it is needless to add, than the Countess 
 herself) ran swiftly down the stairs, entered the bed-chamber by 
 the principal door, and hid herself in the empty side compartment 
 of the wardrobe. The chambermaid returned, completed her 
 
A JifYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 185 
 
 work, locked the door of the dressing-room on the inner side, 
 locked the principal entrance-door on leaving the room, and re- 
 turned the key to Agnes in the drawing-room. 
 
 The travellers were just sitting down to their late dinner, when 
 one of the children noticed that Agnes was not wearing her watch. 
 Had she left it in her bed-chamber in the hurry of changing her 
 dress ? She rose from the table at once in search of her watch ; 
 Lady Montbarry advising her, as she went out, to see to the security 
 of her bed-chamber, in the event of there being thieves in the 
 house. Agnes found her watch, forgotten on the toilet table, as 
 she had anticipated. Before leaving the room again she acted on 
 Lady Montbarry's advice, and tried the key in the lock of the 
 dressing-room door. It was properly secured. She left the bed- 
 chamber, locking the main door behind her. 
 
 Immediately on her departure, the Countess, oppressed by the 
 confined air in the wardrobe, ventured on stepping out of her 
 hiding place into the empty room. 
 
 Entering the dressing-room, she listened at the door, until the 
 silence outside informed her that the corridor was empty. Upon 
 this, she unlocked^the door, and, passing out, closed it again softly ; 
 leaving it to all appearance (when viewed on the inner side) as 
 carefully secured as Agnes had seen it when she tried the key in 
 the lock with her own hand. 
 
 While the Montbarry s were still at dinner, Henry Westwick 
 joined them, arriving from Milan. 
 
1 86 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 When he entered the room, and again when he advanced to 
 shake hands with her, Agnes was conscious of a latent feeling 
 which secretly reciprocated Henry's unconcealed pleasure on meet- 
 ing her again. For a moment only, she returned his look ; and 
 in that moment her own observation told her that she had silently 
 encouraged him to hope. She saw it in the sudden glow of happi- 
 ness which overspread his face ; and she confusedly took refuge in 
 the usual conventional inquii'ies . relating to the relatives whom he 
 had left at Milan. 
 
 Taking his place at the table, Henry gave a most amusing ac- 
 count of the position of his brother Francis between the mercenary 
 opera-dancer on one side, and the unscrupulous manager of the 
 French theatre on the other. Matters had proceeded to such ex- 
 tremities, that the law had been called on to interfere, and had 
 decided the dispute in favour of Francis. On winning the victory 
 the English manager had at once left Milan, recalled to London 
 by the affairs of his theatre. He was accompanied on the jom-ney 
 back, as he had been accompanied on the journey out, by his 
 sister. Eesolved, after passing two nights of terror in the 
 Venetian hotel, never to enter it again, Mrs. Norbury asked to 
 be excused from appearing at the family festival, on the ground 
 of ill-health. At her age, travelling fatigued her, and she 
 was glad to take advantage of her brother's escort to return to 
 England. 
 
 While the talk at the dinner-table flowed easily onward, the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 187 
 
 evening-time advanced to night — and it became necessary to tliink 
 of sending the children to bed. 
 
 As Agnes rose to leave the room, accompanied by the eldest 
 girl, she observed with surprise that Henry's manner suddenly 
 changed. He looked serious and pre-occupied ; and when his 
 niece wished him good night, he abruptly said to her, ' Marian, I 
 want to know what part of the hotel you sleep in ? ' Marian, 
 puzzled by the question, answered that she was going to sleep, as 
 usual, with ' Aunt Agnes.' Not satisfied with that reply, Henry 
 next inquired whether the bedroom was near the rooms occupied 
 by the other members of the travelling party. Answering for the 
 child, and wondering what Henry's object could possibly be, Agnes 
 mentioned the polite sacrifice made to her convenience by Mrs. 
 James. ' Thanks to that lady's kindness,' she said, 'Marian and 
 I are only on the other side of the drawing-room.' Henry made 
 no remark ; he looked incomprehensibly discontented as he opened 
 the door for Agnes and her companion to pass out. After wishing 
 them good night, he waited in the corridor until he saw them 
 enter the fatal corner-room — and then he called abruptly to his 
 brother, ' Come out, Stephen, and let us smoke ! ' 
 
 As soon as the two brothers were at liberty to speak togetlier 
 privately, Henry explained the motive which had led to his strange 
 inquiries about the bedrooms. Francis had informed him of the 
 meeting with the Countess at Venice, and of all that had followed 
 it ; and Henry now^ carefully repeated the narrative to his brother 
 
1 88 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 in all its details. ' I am not satisfied,' he added, ' about that 
 woman's purpose in giving up her room. Without alarming the 
 ladies by telling them what I have just told you, can you not warn 
 Agnes to be careful in securing her door ? ' 
 
 Lord Montbarry replied, that the warning had been already 
 given by his wife, and that Agnes might be trusted to take 
 good care of herself and her little bedfellow. For the rest, he 
 looked upon the story of the Countess and her superstitions as a 
 piece of theatrical exaggeration, amusing enough in itself, but 
 unworthy of a moment's serious attention. 
 
 "While the gentlemen were absent from the hotel, the room 
 which had been already associated with so many startling circum- 
 stances, became the scene of another strange event in which Lady 
 Montbarry's eldest child was concerned. 
 
 Little Marian had been got ready for bed as usual, and had (so 
 far) taken hardly any notice of the new room. As she knelt down 
 to say her prayers- she happened to look up at that part of the 
 ceiling above her which was just over the head of the bed. The 
 next instant she alarmed Agnes, by starting to her feet with a cry 
 of terror, and pointing to a small brown spot on one of the white 
 panelled spaces of the carved ceiling. * It's a spot of blood ! ' the 
 child exclaimed. ' Take me away ! I won't sleep here ! ' 
 
 Seeing plainly that it would be useless to reason with her 
 while she was in the room, Agnes hurriedly wrapped Marian in 
 a dressing-gown, and carried her back to her mother in the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 189 
 
 drawing-room. Here, the ladies did their best to soothe and re- 
 assure the trembling girl. The effort proved to be useless ; the im- 
 pression that had been produced on the young and sensitive mind 
 was not to be removed by persuasion. Marian could give no 
 explanation of the panic of terror that had seized her. She was 
 quite unable to say why the spot on the ceiling looked like the 
 colour of a spot of blood. She only knew that she should die of 
 terror if she saw it again. Under these circumstances, but one 
 alternative was left. It was arranged that the child should pass 
 the night in the room occupied by her two younger sisters and the 
 nurse. 
 
 In half an hour more, Marian was peacefully asleep with her 
 arm round her sister's neck. Lady Montbarry went back with 
 Agnes to her room to see the spot on the ceiling which had so 
 strangely frightened the child. It was so small as to be only just 
 perceptible, and it had in all probability been caused by the care- 
 lessness of a workman, or by a dripping from water accidentally 
 spilt on the floor of the room above. 
 
 ' I really cannot understand why Marian should place such a 
 shocking interpretation on such a trifling thing,' Lady Montbarry 
 remarked. 
 
 ' I suspect the nurse is in some way answerable for what has 
 happened,' Agnes suggested. ' She may quite possibly have been 
 telling Marian some tragic nursery story which has left its mis- 
 chievous impression behind it. Persons in her position are sadly 
 
I90 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ignorant of the danger of exciting a child's imagination. You 
 had better caution the nurse to-morrow.' 
 
 Lady Montbarry looked round the room with admiration. ' Is 
 it not prettily decorated ? ' she said. ' I suppose, Agnes, you don't 
 mind sleeping here by yourself ? ' 
 
 Agnes laughed. ' I feel so tired,' she replied, ' that I was 
 thinking of bidding you good-night, instead of going back to the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 Lady Montbarry turned towards the door. ' I see your jewel- 
 case on the table,' she resumed. ' Don't forget to lock the other 
 door there, in the dressing-room.' 
 
 ' I have already seen to it, and tried the key myself,' said 
 Agnes. ' Can I be of any use to you before I go to bed ? ' 
 
 ' Xo, my dear, thank you ; I feel sleepy enough to follow your 
 example. Good night. Agues — and pleasant dreams on your first 
 night in Venice.' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 191 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 Having closed and secured the door on Lady Montbarry's de- 
 parture, Agnes put on her dressing-gown, and, turning to her open 
 boxes, began the business of unpacking. In the hurry of making 
 her toilet for dinner, she had taken the first dress that lay uppermost 
 in the trunk, and had thrown her travelling costume on the bed. 
 She now opened the doors of the wardrobe for the first time, and 
 began to hang her dresses on the hooks in the large compartment 
 on one side. 
 
 After a few minutes only of this occupation, she grew weary of 
 it, and decided on leaving the trunks as they were, until the next 
 morning. The oppressive south wind, which had blown throughout 
 the day, still prevailed at night. The atmosphere of the room felt 
 close ; Agnes threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and, 
 opening the window, stepped into the balcony to look at the view. 
 
 The night was hea\y and overcast : nothing could be distinctly 
 seen. The canal beneath the window looked like a black gulf; 
 the opposite houses were barely visible as a row of shadows, dimly 
 relieved against the starless and moonless sky. At long intervals. 
 
192 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 the warning cry of a belated gondolier was just audible, as he 
 turned the corner of a distant caoal, and called to invisible boats 
 which might be approaching him in the darkness. Now and then, 
 the nearer dip of an oar in the water told of the viewless passage 
 of other gondolas bringing guests back to the hotel. Excepting 
 these rare sounds, the mysterious night-silence of Venice was 
 literally the silence of the grave. 
 
 Leaning on the parapet of the balcony, Agnes looked vacantly 
 into the black void beneath. Her thoughts reverted to the miserable 
 man who had broken his pledged faith to her, and who had died in 
 that house. Some change seemed to have come over her, since her 
 arrival in Venice ; some new influence appeared to be at work. For 
 the first time in her experience of herself, compassion and regret 
 were not the only emotions aroused in her by the remembrance 
 of the dead Montbarry. A keen sense of the wrong that she had 
 suffered, never yet felt by that gentle and forgiving nature, was 
 felt by it now. She found herself thinking of the bygone days 
 of her humiliation almost as harshly as Henry Westwick had 
 thought of them — she who had rebuked him the last time he had 
 spoken slightingly of his brother in her presence ! A sudden fear 
 and doubt of herself, startled her physically as well as morally. 
 She turned from the shadowy abyss of the dark water as if the 
 mystery and the gloom of it had been answerable for the emotions 
 which had taken her by surprise. Abruptly closing the window, she 
 threw aside her shawl, and lit the candles on the mantelpiece, 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 193 
 
 impelled by a sudden craving for light in the solitude of lier 
 room. 
 
 The cheering brightness round her, contrasting with the black 
 gloom outside, restored her spirits. She felt herself enjoying the 
 light like a child ! 
 
 Would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed ? Xo ! 
 The sense of drowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since 
 was gone. She returned to the dull employment of unpacking 
 her boxes. After a few minutes only, the occupation became irk- 
 some to her once more. She sat down by the table, and took up a 
 guide-book. ' Suppose I inform myself,' she thought, ' on the 
 subject of Venice ? ' 
 
 Her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned 
 the first page of it. 
 
 The image of Henry ^Vestwick was the presiding image in her 
 memory now. Recalling the minutest incidents and details of 
 the evening, she could think of nothing which presented him under 
 other than a favourable and interesting aspect. She smiled to 
 herself softly, her colour rose by fine gradations, as she felt the full 
 luxury of dwelling on the perfect truth and modesty of his devo- 
 tion to her. Was the depression of spirits from which she had 
 suffered so persistently on her travels attributable, by any chance, 
 to their long separation from each other — embittered perhaps by 
 her own vain regret when she remembered her harsh reception of 
 him in Paris ? Suddenly conscious of this bold question, and of 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 the self-abandonment which it implied, she returned mechanically 
 to her book, distrusting the unrestrained liberty of her own 
 thoughts. What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness 
 find their hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is 
 alone in her room at night ! With her heart in the tomb of the 
 dead Montbarry, could Agnes even think of another man, and 
 think of love ? How shameful ! how unworthy of her ! For the 
 second time, she tried to interest herself in the guide-book — and 
 once more she tried in vain. Throwing the book aside, she turned 
 desperately to the one resource that was left, to her luggage — re- 
 solved to fatigue herself without mercy, until she was weary 
 enough and sleepy enough to find a safe refuge in bed. 
 
 For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupa- 
 tion of transferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe. 
 The large clock in the hall, striking midnight, reminded her that 
 it was getting late. She sat down for a moment in an arm-chair 
 by the bedside, to rest. 
 
 The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held 
 it — held it disagreeably. Was everybody in bed and asleep but 
 herself ? Surely it was time for her to follow the general example ? 
 With a certain irritable nervous haste, she rose again and un- 
 dressed herself. 'I have lost two hours of rest,' she thought, 
 frowning at the reflection of herself in the glass, as she arranged 
 her hair for the night. ' I shall be good for nothing to-morrow ! ' 
 
 She lit the night-light, and extinguished the candles — with one 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VEXICE. 195 
 
 exception, which she removed to a little table, placed on the side 
 of the bed opposite to the side occupied by the arm-chair. Hav- 
 ing put her travelling-box of matches and the guide-book near the 
 candle, in case she might be sleepless and might want to read, she 
 blew out the light, and laid her head on the pillow. 
 
 The curtains of the bed were looped back to let the air pass 
 freely over her. Lying on her left side, with her face turned 
 away from the table, she could see the arm-chair by the dim 
 night-light. It had a chintz covering — representing large bunches 
 of roses scattered over a pale green ground. She tried to weary 
 herself into drowsiness by counting over and over again the bunches 
 of roses that were visible from her point of view. Twice her 
 attention was distracted from the counting, by sounds outside — by 
 the clock chiming the half-hour past twelve ; and then again, by 
 the fall of a pair of boots on the upper floor, thrown out to be 
 cleaned, with that barbarous disregard of the comfort of others 
 which is observable in humanity when it inhabits an hotel. In 
 the silence that followed these passing disturbances, Agnes went 
 on counting the roses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly. 
 Before long, she confused herself in the figures — tried to begin 
 counting again — thought she would wait a little first — felt her 
 eyelids drooping, and her head reclining lower and lower on the 
 pillow — sighed faintly — and sank into sleep. 
 
 How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. She could 
 only remember, in the after- time, that she woke instantly. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line 
 between insensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap. 
 Without knowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening 
 for she knew not what. Her head was in a whirl ; her heart 
 beat furiously, without any assignable cause. But one trivial 
 event had happened during the interval while she had been asleep. 
 The night-light had gone out ; and the room, as a matter of course, 
 was in total darkness. 
 
 She felt for the match-box, and paused after finding it. A 
 vague sense of confusion was still in her mind. She was in no 
 hurry to light the match. The pause in the darkness was, for the 
 moment, agreeable to her. 
 
 In the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she 
 could ask herself the natural question : — A^Tiat cause had awakened 
 her so suddenly, and had so strangely shaken her nerves ? Had it 
 been the influence of a dream ? She had not dreamed at all — or, 
 to speak more correctly, she had no waking remembrance of having 
 dreamed. The mystery was beyond her fathoming : the darkness 
 began to oppress her. She struck the match on the box, and lit 
 her candle. 
 
 As the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned 
 from the table and looked towards the other side of the bed. 
 
 In the moment when she tm-ned, the chill of a sudden terror 
 gripped her round the heart, as with the clasp of an icy hand. 
 
 She was not alone in her room I 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VhMCE. 197 
 
 There — in the chair at the bedside— there, suddenly revealed 
 under the flow of light from the candle, was the figure of a woman, 
 reclining. Her head lay back over the chair. Her face, turned 
 up to the ceiling, had the eyes closed, as if she was wrapped in a 
 deep sleep. 
 
 The shock of the discovery held Agnes speechless and helpless. 
 Her first conscious action, when she was in some degree mistress 
 of herself again, was to lean over the bed, and to look closer at the 
 woman who had so incomprehensibly stolen into her room in the 
 dead of night. One glance was enough : she started back with a 
 cry of amazement. The person in the chair was no other than the 
 widow of the dead Montbarry — the woman who had w^amed her 
 that they were to meet again, and that the place might be Venice ! 
 
 Her courage returned to her, stimg into action by the natural 
 sense of indignation which the presence of the Countess provoked. 
 
 ' Wake up ! ' she called out. ' How dare you come here ? 
 How did you get in ? Leave the room — or I will call for help ! ' 
 
 She raised her voice at the last words. It produced no effect. 
 Leaning farther over the bed, she boldly took the Coimtess by the 
 shoulder and shook her. Not even this effort succeeded in rousing 
 the sleeping woman. She still lay back in the chair, possessed by 
 a torpor like the torpor of death — insensible to sound, insensible 
 to touch. Was she really sleeping ? Or had she fainted ? 
 
 Agnes looked closer at her. She had not fainted. Her breath- 
 ing was audible, rising and falling in deep heavy gasps. At inter- 
 
193 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 vals she ground ber teeth savagely. Beads of perspiration stood 
 thickly on her forehead. Her clenched hands rose and fell slowly 
 from time to time on her lap. Was she in the agony of a dream ? 
 or was she spiritually conscious of something hidden in the room ? 
 
 The doubt involved in that last question was unendurable. 
 Agnes determined to rouse the servants who kept watch in the 
 hotel at night. 
 
 The bell-handle was fixed to the wall, on the side of the bed by 
 which the table stood. 
 
 She raised herself from the crouching position which she had 
 assumed in looking close at the Countess ; and, turning towards 
 the other side of the bed, stretched out her hand to the bell. At 
 the same instant, she stopped and looked upward. Her hand fell 
 helplessly at her side. She shuddered, and sank back on the pillow. 
 
 What had she seen ? 
 
 She had seen another intruder in her room. 
 
 Midway between ber face and the ceiling, there hovered a 
 human head — severed at the neck, like a head struck from the 
 body by the guillotine. 
 
 Nothing visible, nothing audible, had given her any intelligi- 
 ble warning of its appearance. Silently and suddenly, the head 
 had taken its place above her. No supernatural change had passed 
 over the room, or was perceptible in it now. The dumbly- tortured 
 figure in the chair ; the broad window opposite the foot of the 
 bed, with the black night beyond it ; the candle burning on the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 199 
 
 table — these, and all other objects in the room, remained unaltered. 
 One object more, unutterably horrid, had been added to the rest. 
 That was the only change — no more, no less. 
 
 By the yellow candlelight she saw the head distinctly, hovering 
 in mid-air above her. She looked at it steadfastly, spellbound by 
 the terror that held her. 
 
 The flesh of the face was gone. The shrivelled skin was 
 darkened in hue, like the skin of an Egyptian mummy — except at 
 the neck. There it was of a lighter colour ; there it showed spots 
 and splashes of the hue of that brown spot on the ceiling, which 
 the child's fanciful terror had distorted into the likeness of a spot 
 of blood. Thin remains of a discoloured moustache and whiskers, 
 banging over the upper lip, and over the hollows where the cheeks 
 had once been, made the head just recognisable as the head of a 
 man. Over all the features death and time had done their obliter- 
 ating work. The eyelids were closed. The hair on the skull, 
 discoloured like the hair on the face, had been burnt away in 
 places. The bluish lips, parted in a fixed grin, showed the double 
 row of teeth. By slow degrees, the hovering head (perfectly still 
 when she first saw it) began to descend towards Agnes as she lay 
 beneath. By slow degrees, that strange doubly-blended odour, 
 which the Commissioners had discovered in the vaults of the old 
 palace — which had sickened Francis Westwick in the bed-chamber 
 of the new hotel— spread its fetid exhalations over the room. 
 Downward and downward the hideous apparition made its slow 
 
200 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 progress, until it stopped close over Agnes — stopped, and turned 
 slowly, so that the face of it confronted the upturned face of the 
 woman in the chair. 
 
 There was a pause. Then, a supernatural movement disturbed 
 the rigid repose of the dead face. 
 
 The closed eyelids opened slowly. The eyes revealed them- 
 selves, bright with the glassy film of death — and fixed their dread- 
 ful look on the woman in the chair. 
 
 Agnes saw that look ; saw the eyelids of the living woman 
 open slowly like the eyelids of the dead ; saw her rise, as if in 
 obedience to some silent command — and saw^ no more. 
 
 Her next conscious impression was of the sunlight pouring in 
 at the window ; of the friendly presence of Lady Montbarry at 
 the bedside ; and of the children's wondering faces peeping in at 
 the door. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 201 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ' . . . You have some influence over Agnes. Try what you can 
 do, Henry, to make her take a sensible view of the matter. 
 There is really nothing to make a fuss about. My wife's maid 
 knocked at her door early in the morning, w^ith the customary cup 
 of tea. Getting no answer, she went round to the dressing-room — 
 found the door on that side unlocked — and discovered Agnes on 
 the bed in a fainting fit. With my wife's help, they brought her 
 to herself again ; and she told the extraordinary story which I 
 have just repeated to you. You must have seen for yom'self that 
 she has been over-fatigued, poor thing, by our long railway 
 journeys : her nerves are out of order — and she is just the person to 
 be easily terrified by a dream. She obstinately refuses, however, to 
 accept this rational view. Don't suppose that I have been severe 
 with her ! All that a man can do to humour her I have done. I have 
 written to the Countess (in her assumed name) ofifering to restore the 
 room to her. She writes back, positively declining to return to it. 
 I have accordingly arranged (so as not to have the thing known in 
 the hotel) to occupy the room for one or two nights, and to leave 
 
THE HAUNTED HOTEL 
 
 Agnes to recover her spirits under my wife's care. Is there any- 
 thing more that I can do ? Whatever questions Agnes has asked 
 of me I have answered to the best of my ability ; she knows all 
 that you told me about Francis and the Countess last night. But 
 try as I may I can't quiet her mind. I have given up the attempt 
 in despair, and left her in the drawing-room. Go, like a good 
 fellow, and try what you can do to compose her.' 
 
 In those words, Lord Montbarry stated the case to his brother 
 from the rational point of view. Henry made no remark, he went 
 straight to the drawing-room. 
 
 He found Agues walking rapidly backwards and forwards, 
 flushed and excited. * If you come here to say what your brother 
 has been saying to me,' she broke out, before he could speak, 
 ' spare yourself the trouble. I don't want common sense — I want 
 a true friend who will believe in me.' 
 
 ' I am that friend, Agnes,' Henry answered quietly, ' and you 
 know it.' 
 
 ' You really believe that I am not deluded by a dream ? ' 
 
 ' I know that you are not deluded — in one particular, at least.' 
 
 ' In what particular ? ' 
 
 ' In what you have said of the Countess. It is perfectly 
 true ' 
 
 Agnes stopped him there. ' Why do I only hear this morning 
 that the Countess and Mrs. James are one and the same person ? ' 
 she asked distrustfully. ' ^^^ly was I not told of it last night ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 203 
 
 ' You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms 
 before I reached Venice,' Henry replied. ' I felt strongly tempted 
 to tell you, even then — but your sleeping arrangements for the 
 night were all made ; I should only have inconvenienced and 
 alarmed you. I waited till the morning, after hearing from my 
 brother that you had yourself seen to your security from any 
 intrusion. How that intrusion was accomplished it is impossible 
 to say. I can only declare that the Countess's presence by your 
 bedside last night was no dream of yours. On her own authority 
 I can testify that it was a reality.' 
 
 * On her own authority ? ' Agnes repeated eagerly. ' Have you 
 seen her this morning ? ' 
 
 ' I have seen her not ten minutes since.' 
 
 ' What was she doing ? ' 
 
 ^ She was busily engaged in writing. I could not even get her 
 to look at me until I thought of mentioning your name.' 
 
 ' She remembered me, of course ? ' 
 
 ' She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she 
 wouldn't answer me on any other terms, I questioned her as if I 
 had come direct from you. Then she spoke. She not only 
 admitted that she had the same superstitious motive for placing 
 you in that room which she had acknowledged to Francis — she 
 even owned that she had been by your bedside, watching through 
 the night, " to see what you saw," as she expressed it. Hearing 
 this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how she got into the room. 
 
204 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye; she 
 returned to her writing. " The Baron wants money," she said ; *' I 
 must get on with my play." What she saw or dreamed, while she 
 was in your room last night, it is at present impossible to dis- 
 cover. But judging by my brother's account of her, as well as by 
 what I remember of her myself, some recent influence has been at 
 work which has produced a marked change in this wretched 
 woman for the worse. Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is 
 partially deranged. One proof of it is that she spoke to me of the 
 Baron as if he were still a living man. When Francis saw her, 
 she declared that the Baron was dead, which is the truth. The 
 United States Consul at Milan showed us the announcement of 
 the death in an American newspaper. So far as I can see, such 
 sense as she still possesses seems to be entirely absorbed in one 
 absurd idea — the idea of writing a play for Francis to bring out 
 at his theatre. He admits that he encouraged her to hope she 
 might get money in this way. I think he did wrong. Don't 
 you agree with me ? ' 
 
 Without heeding the question, Agnes rose abruptly from her 
 chair. 
 
 ' Do me one more kindness, Henry,' she said. ' Take me to 
 the Countess at once.' 
 
 Henry hesitated. ' Are you composed enough to see her, after 
 the shock that you have suffered ? ' he asked. 
 
 She trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 205 
 
 deadly pale. But she held to her resolution. ' You have heard of 
 what I saw last night ? ' she said faintly. 
 
 ' Don't speak of it I ' Henry interposed. ' Don't uselessly agitate 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' I must speak ! My mind is full of horrid questions about 
 it. I know I can't identify it — and yet I ask myself over and 
 over again, in whose likeness did it appear ? Was it in the 
 
 likeness of Ferrari ? or was it ? ' she stopped, shuddering. 
 
 •The Countess knows, I must see the Countess!' she resumed 
 vehemently. ' Whether my courage fails me or not, I must 
 make the attempt. Take me to her before I have time to feel 
 afraid of it ! ' 
 
 Henry looked at her anxiously. ' If you are really sure of 
 5'our own resolution,' he said, ' I agree with you — the sooner you 
 see her the better. You remember how strangely she talked of 
 your influence over her, when she forced her way into your room 
 in London ? ' 
 
 ' I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 ' For this reason. In the present state of her mind, I doubt 
 if she will be much longer capable of realizing her wild idea of 
 you as the avenging angel who is to bring her to a reckoning for 
 her evil deeds. It may be well to try what your influence can do 
 while she is still capable of feeling it.' 
 
 He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm 
 and led him in silence to the door. 
 
2o6 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered 
 the Countess's room. 
 
 She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up 
 from the paper, and saw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was 
 the only expression in her wild black eyes. After a few moments, 
 the lost remembrances and associations appeared to return slowly 
 to her mind. The pen dropped from her hand. Haggard and 
 trembling, she looked closer at Agnes, and recognised her at last. 
 ' Has the time come already ? ' she said in low awe-struck tones. 
 'G-ive me a little longer respite, I haven't done my wi'iting 
 yet!' 
 
 She dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands en- 
 treatingly. Agnes was far from having recovered, after the shock 
 that she had suffered in the night : her nerves were far from being 
 equal to the strain that was now laid on them. She was so 
 startled by the change in the Countess, that she was at a loss what 
 to say or to do next. Henry was obliged to speak to her. ' Put 
 your questions while you have the chance,' he said, lower- 
 ing his voice. ' See ! the vacant look is coming over her face 
 again.' 
 
 Agnes tried to rally her courage. ' You were in my room last 
 
 night ' she began. Before she could add a word more, the 
 
 Countess lifted her hands, and wrung them above her head with a 
 low moan of horror. Agnes shrank back, and turned as if to leave 
 the room. Henry stopped her, and whispered to her to try again. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, 207 
 
 She obeyed him after an efifort. ' I slept last night in the room 
 that you gave up to me,' she resumed. ' I saw ' 
 
 The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. ' Xo more of that,' she 
 cried. ' Oh, Jesu Maria ! do you think I want to be told what 
 you saw ? Do you think I don't know what it means for you and 
 for me ? Decide for yourself, Miss. Examine your own mind. 
 Are you well assured that the day of reckoning has come at last ? 
 Are you ready to follow me back, through the crimes of the past, 
 to the secrets of the dead ? ' 
 
 She turned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be 
 answered. Her eyes flashed ; she looked like her old self once more 
 as she spoke. It was only for a moment. The old ardour and 
 impetuosity were nearly worn out. Her head sank ; she sighed 
 heavily as she unlocked a desk w^iich stood on the table. Opening 
 a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with 
 faded writing. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still 
 attached to the leaf, as if it had been torn out of a book. 
 
 ' Can you read Italian ? ' she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes. 
 
 Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head. 
 
 ' The leaf,* the Countess proceeded, ' once belonged to a book in 
 the old library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. 
 By whom it was torn out you have no need to know. For what 
 purpose it w^as torn out you may discover for yourself, if you will. 
 Read it first — at the fifth line from the top of the page.' 
 
 Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. ' Give me 
 
2o8 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 a chair,' she said to Henry ; ' and I will do my best.' He placed 
 
 himself behind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder 
 
 and help her to understand the writing on the leaf. Eendered into 
 
 English, it ran as follows : — 
 
 ' I have now completed my literary survey of the first floor of tbe palace. 
 At the desire of my noble and gracious patron, the lord of this glorious edifice, 
 I next ascend to the second floor, and continue my catalogue or description of 
 the pictures, decorations, and other treasures of art therein contained. Let me 
 begin with the corner room at the western extremity of the palace, called the 
 Koom of the Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. This 
 work is of comparatively recent execution : it dates from the eighteenth century 
 only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every part of it. Still, there 
 is a certain interest which attaches to the mantel-piece : it conceals a cleverly 
 constructed hiding-place, between the floor of the room and the ceiling of the room 
 beneath, which was made during the last evil days of the Inquisition in Venice, 
 and which is reported to have saved an ancestor of my gracious lord pursued by 
 that terrible tribunal. The machinery of this curious place of concealment has 
 been kept in good order by the present lord, as a species of curiosity. He con- 
 descended to show me the method of working it. Approaching the two Carya- 
 tides, rest your hand on the forehead (midway between the eyebrows) of the 
 figure which is on your left as you stand opposite to the fireplace, then press 
 the head inwards as if you were pushing it against the wall behind. By doing 
 this, you set in motion the hidden machinery in the wall which turns the hearth- 
 stone on a pivot, and discloses the hollow place below. There is room enough 
 in it for a man to lie easily at full length. The method of closing the cavity 
 again is equally simple. Place both your hands on the temples of the figure ; 
 pull as if you were pulling it towards you — and the hearthstone will revolve into 
 its proper position again.' 
 
 ' You need read no farther,' said the Countess. ' Be careful to 
 remember what you have read.' 
 
 She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, 
 and led the way to the door. 
 
A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 209 
 
 ' Come I ' she said ; * and see what the mocking Frenchman 
 called " The beginning of the end." ' 
 
 Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair ; she trembled from 
 head to foot. Henry gave her his arm to support her. ' Fear 
 nothing,' he whispered ; ' I shall be with you.' 
 
 The Comitess proceeded along the westward corridor, and 
 stopped at the door numbered Thirty-eight. This was the 
 room which had been inhabited by Baron Rivar in the old 
 days of the palace : it was situated immediately over the 
 bedchamber in which Agnes had passed the night. For the 
 last two days the room had been empty. The absence of 
 luggage in it, when they opened the door, showed that it had not 
 yet been let. 
 
 ' You see ? ' said the Countess, pointing to the carved figiue 
 at the fire-place ; ' and you know what to do. Have I deserved that 
 you should temper justice with mercy ? ' she Vv^ent on in lower tones. 
 ' G-ive me a few hours more to myself. The Baron wants moneys 
 I must get on with my play.' 
 
 She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with 
 her right hand as she pronounced the last words. The efifort of 
 concentrating her weakened mind on other and less familiar topics 
 than the constant want of money in the Baron's lifetime, and the 
 vague prospect of gain from the still unfinished play, had evidently 
 exhausted her poor reserves of strength. When her request had 
 been granted, she addressed no expressions of gratitude to Agnes ; 
 
 YOL. I. P 
 
2 10 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 slie only said, ' P'eel no fear, miss, of my attempting to escape you. 
 AVliere you are, there I must be till the end comes.' 
 
 Her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and 
 stupefied look. She returned to her writing with slow and feeble 
 steps, like the steps of an old woman. 
 
A MYSTER Y OF MODERN VENICE. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXIV. 
 
 Henry and Agnes were left alone in the Room of the Caryatides. 
 
 The person who had written the description of the palace — 
 probably a poor author or artist— had correctly pointed out the 
 defects of the mantel-piece. Bad taste, exhibiting itself on the 
 most costly and splendid scale, was visible in every part of the 
 work. It was nevertheless greatly admired by ignorant travellers 
 of all classes ; partly on account of its imposing size, and partly 
 on account of the number of variously-coloured marbles which the 
 sculptor had contrived to introduce into his design. Photographs 
 of the mantel-piece were exhibited in the public rooms, and found 
 a ready sale among English and American visitors to the hotel. 
 
 Henry led Agnes to the figure on the left, as they stood facing 
 the empty fire-place. ' Shall I try the experiment,' he asked, ' or 
 will you ? ' She abruptly drew her arm away from him, and turned 
 back to the door. ' I can't even look at it,' she said. ' Tliat 
 merciless marble face frightens me I ' 
 
 Henry put his hand on the forehead of the figm-e. ' What is 
 there to alarm you, my dear, in this conventionally classical face ? ' 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 he asked jestingly. Before he could press the head inwards, 
 Agnes hurriedly opened the door. ' Wait till I am out of the 
 room ! ' she cried. ' The bare idea of what you may find there 
 horrifies me I ' She looked back into the room as she crossed the 
 threshold. * I won't leave you altogether,' she said, ' I will wait 
 outside.' 
 
 She closed the door. Left by himself, Henry lifted his hand 
 once more to the marble forehead of the figure. 
 
 For the second time, he was checked on the point of setting 
 the machinery of the hiding-place in motion. On this occasion, 
 the interruption came from an outbreak of friendly voices in the 
 corridor. A woman's voice exclaimed, ' Dearest Agnes, how glad 
 I am to see you again ! ' A man's voice followed, offering to in- 
 troduce some friend to ' Miss Lockwood.' A third voice (which 
 Henry recognised as the voice of the manager of the hotel) became 
 audible next, directing the housekeeper to show the ladies and 
 gentlemen the vacant apartments at the other end of the corridor. 
 ' If more accommodation is wanted,' the manager went on, ' I have 
 a charming room to let here.' He opened the door as he spoke, 
 and found himself face to face with Henry Westwick. 
 
 ' This is indeed an agreeable surprise, sir I ' said the manager 
 cheerfully. ' You are admiring our famous chimney-piece, I see. 
 May I ask, Mr. Westwick, how you find yom'self in the hotel, this 
 time ? Have the supernatural influences affected your appetite 
 again ? ' 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, 213 
 
 ' The supernatural influences have spared me, this time,' Henry 
 answered. ' Perhaps you may yet find that they have affected 
 some other member of the family.' He spoke gravely, resenting 
 the familiar tone in which the manager had referred to his previous 
 visit to the hotel. 'Have you just returned?' he asked, by way 
 of changing the topic. 
 
 ' Just this minute, sir. I had the honour of travelling in the 
 same train with friends of yours who have arrived at the hotel — 
 Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Barville, and their travelling companions. 
 Miss Lockwood is with them, looking at the rooms. They vdW 
 be here before long, if they find it convenient to have an extra 
 room at their disposal.' 
 
 This announcement decided Henry on exploring the hiding- 
 place, before the interruption occurred. It had crossed his mind, 
 when Agnes left him, that he ought perhaps to have a witness, in 
 the not very probable event of some alarming discovery taking 
 place. The too-familiar manager, suspecting nothing, was there 
 at his disposal. He turned again to the Caryan figure, maliciously 
 resolving to make the manager his mtness. 
 
 ' I am delighted to hear that our friends have arrived at last,' 
 he said. ' Before I shake hands with them, let me ask you a 
 question about this queer work of art here. I see photographs of 
 it downstairs. Are they for sale ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, Mr. Westwick ! ' 
 
 'Do you think the chimney-piece is as solid as it looks?' 
 
214 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 Henry proceeded. ' When you came in, I was just wondering 
 whether this figure here had not accidentally got loosened from 
 the wall behind it.' He laid his hand on the marble forehead, 
 for the third time. ' To my eye, it looks a little out of the per^ 
 pendicular. I almost fancied I could jog the head just now, when 
 I touched it.' He pressed the head inwards as he said those 
 words. 
 
 A sound of jarring iron was instantly audible behind the wall. 
 The solid hearthstone in front of the fire-place turned slowly at the 
 feet of the two men, and disclosed a dark cavity below. At the 
 same moment, the strange and sickening combination of odours, 
 hitherto associated with the vaults of the old palace and with the 
 bedchamber beneath, now floated up from the open recess, and 
 filled the room. 
 
 The manager started back. ' Grood God, Mr. Westwick I ' he 
 exclaimed, ' what does this mean ? ' 
 
 Kemembering, not only what his brother Francis had felt in 
 the room beneath, but what the experience of Agnes had been on 
 the previous night, Henry was determined to be on his guard. ' I 
 am as much surprised as you are,' was his only reply. 
 
 ' Wait for me one moment, sir,' said the manager. ' I must 
 stop the ladies and gentlemen outside from coming in.' 
 
 He hurried away — not forgetting to close the door after him. 
 Henry opened the window, and waited there breathing the purer 
 air. Vague apprehensions of the next discovery to come, filled 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 215 
 
 his mind for the first time. He was doubly resolved, now, not to 
 stir a step in the investigation without a witness. 
 
 The manager returned with a wax taper in his hand, which he 
 lighted as soon as he entered the room. 
 
 ' We need fear no interruption now,' he said. ' Be so kind, 
 Mr. Westwick, as to hold the light. It is "uny business to find 
 out what this extraordinary discovery means.' 
 
 Henry held the taper. Looking into the cavity, by the dim 
 and flickering light, they both detected a dark object at the 
 bottom of it. ' I think I can reach the thing,' the manager 
 remarked, 'if I lie down, and put my hand into the hole.' 
 
 He knelt on the floor — and hesitated. ' Might I ask you, sir, 
 to give me my gloves ? ' he said. ' They are in my hat, on the 
 chair behind you.' 
 
 Henry gave him the gloves. ' I don't know what I may be 
 going to take hold of,' the manager explained, smiling rather 
 uneasily as he put on his right glove. 
 
 He stretched himself at full length on the floor, and passed his 
 right arm into the cavity. ' I can't say exactly what I have got 
 hold of,' he said. ' But I have got it.' 
 
 Half raising himself, he drew his hand out. 
 
 The next instant, he started to his feet with a shriek of terror. 
 A human head dropped from his nerveless grasp on the floor, and 
 rolled to Henry's feet. It was the hideous head that Agnes had 
 seen hovering above her, in the vision of the night ! 
 
2i6 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 The two men looked at each other, both struck speechless by 
 the same emotion of horror. The manager was the first to control 
 himself. ' See to the door, for God's sake ! ' he said. ' Some of 
 the people outside may have heard me.' 
 
 Henry moved mechanically to the door. 
 
 Even when he had his hand on the key, ready to turn it in the 
 lock in case of necessity, he still looked back at the appalling 
 object on the floor. There was no possibility of identifying those 
 decayed and distorted features with any living creature whom he 
 liad seen — and yet, he was conscious of feeling a vague and awful 
 doubt which shook him to the soul. The questions which had 
 tortured the mind of Agnes, were now }iis questions too. He 
 asked himself, ' In whose likeness might I have recognised it be- 
 fore the decay set in ? The likeness of Ferrari ? or the likeness 
 of ? ' He paused trembling, as Agnes had paused trembling be- 
 fore him. Agnes ! The name, of all women's names the dearest to 
 him, w^as a terror to him now ! What was he to say to her ? What 
 might be the consequence if he trusted her with the terrible truth ? 
 
 No footsteps approached the door ; no voices were audible 
 outside. The travellers were still occupied in the rooms at the 
 eastern end of the corridor. 
 
 In the brief interval that had passed, the manager had suffi- 
 ciently recovered himself to be able to think once more of the 
 first and foremost interests of his life — the interests of the hotel. 
 He approached Henry anxiously. 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE, 
 
 ' If this frightful discovery becomes known,' he said, ' the 
 closing of the hotel and the ruin of the Company will be the 
 inevitable results. I feel sure that I can trust your discretion, 
 sir, so far ? ' -^ 
 
 ' You can certainly trust me,' Henry answered. ' But surely 
 discretion has its limits,' he added, ' after such a discovery as we 
 have made ? ' 
 
 The manager understood that the duty which they owed to the 
 community, as honest and law-abiding men, was the duty to which 
 Henry now referred. ' I will at once find the means,' he said, ' of 
 conveying the remains privately out of the house, and I will myself 
 place them in the care of the police authorities. Will you leave 
 the room with me ? or do you not object to keep watch here, and 
 help me when I retmTi ? ' 
 
 While he was speaking, the voices of the travellers made 
 themselves heard again at the end of the corridor. Henry 
 instantly consented to wait in the room. He shrank from facing 
 the inevitable meeting with Agnes if he showed himself in the 
 corridor at that moment. 
 
 The manager hastened liis departure, in the hope of escaping 
 notice. He was discovered by his guests before he could reach 
 the head of the stairs. Henry heard the voices plainly as he 
 turned the key. While the terrible di'ama of discovery was in 
 progress on one side of the door, trivial questions about the amuse- 
 ments of Venice, and facetious discussions on the relative merits 
 
2i8 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 of French and Italian cookery, were proceeding on the other. 
 Little by little, the sound of the talking grew fainter. The 
 visitors, having arranged their plans of amusement for the day, 
 were on their way out of the hotel. In a minute or two, there 
 was silence once more. 
 
 Henry turned to the window, thinking to relieve his mind by 
 looking at the bright view over the canal. He soon grew wearied 
 of the familiar scene. The morbid fascination which seems to be 
 exercised by all horrible sights, drew him back again to the ghastly 
 object on the floor. 
 
 Dream or reality, how had Agnes survived the sight of it ? 
 As the question passed through his mind, he noticed for the first 
 time something lying on the floor near the head. Looking closer, 
 he perceived a thin little plate of gold, with three false teeth 
 attached to it, which had apparently dropped out (loosened by the 
 shock) when the manager let the head fall on the floor. 
 
 The importance of this discovery, and the necessity of not too 
 readily communicating it to others, instantly struck Henry. Here 
 surely was a chance — if any chance remained — of identifying the 
 shocking relic of humanity which lay before him, the dumb witness 
 of a crime ! Acting on this idea, he took possession of the teeth, 
 purposing to use them as a last means of inquiry when other 
 attempts at investigation had been tried and had failed. 
 
 He went back again to the window : the solitude of the room 
 began to weigh on his spirits. As he looked out again at the 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 219 
 
 view, there was a soft knock at the door. He hastened to open 
 it — and checked himself in the act. A doubt occurred to him. 
 Was it the manager who had knocked ? He called out, ' ^^^lo is 
 there ? ' 
 
 The voice of Agnes answered him. ' Have you anything to 
 tell me, Henry ? ' 
 
 He was hardly able to reply. ' Not just now,' he said, ecu- 
 fusedly. ' Forgive me if I don't open the door. I will speak to 
 you a little later.' 
 
 The sweet voice made itself heard again, pleading with him 
 piteously. ' Don't leave me alone, Henry ! I can't go back to 
 the happy people downstairs.' 
 
 How could he resist that appeal? He heard her sigh — he 
 heard the rustling of her dress as she moved away in despair. The 
 very thing that he had shrunk from doing but a few minutes since 
 was the thing that he did now I He joined Agnes in the corridor. 
 She turned as she heard him, and pointed, trembling, in the direc- 
 tion of the closed room. ' Is it so terrible as that ? ' she asked 
 faintly. 
 
 He put his arm round her to support her. A thought came 
 to him as he looked at her, waiting in doubt and fear for his reply. 
 ' You shall know what I have discovered,' he said, ' if you will first 
 put on your hat and cloak, and come out with me.' 
 
 She was naturally surprised. ' Can you tell me your object in 
 going out ? ' she asked. 
 
2 20 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 He owned what his object was unreservedly. ' I want, before 
 all things,' he said, ' to satisfy your mind and mine, on the subject 
 of Montbarry's death. I am going to take you to the doctor who 
 attended him in his illness, and to the consul who followed him to 
 the grave.' 
 
 Her eyes rested on Henry gTatefully. ' Oh, how well you 
 understand me I ' she said. The manager joined them at the same 
 moment, on his way up the stairs. Henry gave him the key of 
 the room, and then called to the servants in the hall to have a 
 gondola ready at the steps. ' Are you leaving the hotel ? ' the 
 manager asked. ' In search of evidence,' Henry whispered, point- 
 ing to the key. * If the authorities want me, I shall be back in an 
 hour.' 
 
A MYSTERY OT MODERN VENICE. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The day had advanced to evening. Lord ^lontbarry and the 
 bridal party had gone to the Opera. Agnes alone, pleading the 
 excuse of fatigue, remained at the hotel. Having kept up appear- 
 ances by accompanying his friends to the theatre, Henry AVest- 
 wick slipped away after the first act, and joined Agnes in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 ' Have you thought of what I said to you earlier in the day ? ' 
 he asked, taking a chair at her side. ' Do you agree ^vith me 
 that the one dreadful doubt which oppressed us both is at least 
 set at rest ? ' 
 
 Agnes shook her head sadly. ' I wish I could agree with you, 
 Henry — I wish I could honestly say that my mind is at ease.' 
 
 The answer would have discouraged most men. Henry's patience 
 (where Agnes was concerned) was equal to any demands on it. 
 
 ' If you will only look back at the events of the day,' he said, 
 ' you must surely admit that we have not been completely baffled. 
 Remember how Dr. Bruno disposed of our doubts: — "After thirty 
 years of medical practice, do you think I am likely to mistake 
 
222 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 the symptoms of death by bronchitis?" If ever there was an 
 unanswerable question, there it is I Was the consul's testimony 
 doubtful in any part of it ? He called at the palace to offer his 
 services, after hearing of Lord Montbarry's death ; he arrived at 
 the time when the coffin was in the house ; he himself saw the 
 ■corpse placed in it, and the lid screwed down. The evidence of 
 the priest is equally beyond dispute. He remained in the room 
 with the coffin, reciting the prayers for the dead, until the funeral 
 left the palace. Bear all these statements in mind, Agnes ; and 
 how can you deny that the question of Montbarry's death ar.d 
 l3urial is a question set at rest ? We have really but one doubt 
 left : we have still to ask ourselves whether tlie remains which I 
 discovered are the remains of the lost cornier, or not. There is 
 the case, as I understand it. Have I stated it fairly ? ' 
 
 Agues could not deny that he had stated it fairly. 
 
 ' Then what prevents you from experiencing the same sense 
 •of relief that I feel ? ' Henry asked. 
 
 ' What I saw last night prevents me,' Agues answered. ' When 
 we spoke of this subject, after our inquiries were over, you re- 
 proached me with taking what you called the superstitious view. 
 I don't quite admit that — but I do acknowledge that I should find 
 the superstitious view intelligible if I lieard it expressed by some 
 other person. Eemembering what your brother and I once were to 
 each other in the bygone time, I can understand the apparition 
 making itself visible to ]\Ie, to claim the mercy of Christian bm'ial, 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 223 
 
 and the vengeance due to a crime. I can even perceive some 
 faint possibility of truth in the explanation which you described 
 as the mesmeric theory — that what I saw might be the result of 
 magnetic influence communicated to me, as I lay between the re- 
 mains of the murdered husband above me and the guilty wife 
 suffering the tortures of remorse at my bedside. But what I do 
 not understand is, that I should have passed through that dreadful 
 ordeal ; having no previous knowledge of the murdered man in 
 his lifetime, or only knowing him (if you suppose that I saw the 
 apparition of Ferrari) through the interest which I took in his 
 wife. I can't dispute your reasoning, Henry. But I feel in my 
 heart of hearts that you are deceived. Xothing will shake my 
 belief that we are still as far from having discovered the dreadful 
 truth as ever.' 
 
 Henry made no further attempt to dispute with her. She had 
 impressed him with a certain reluctant respect for her own opinion, 
 in spite of himself. 
 
 ' Have you thought of any better way of ai-riving at the 
 truth ? ' he asked. ' Who is to help us ? Xo doubt there is the 
 Countess, who has the clue to the mystery in her own hands. But, 
 in the present state of her mind, is her testimony to be trusted — 
 even if she were willing to speak ? Judging by my own ex- 
 perience, I should say decidedly not.' 
 
 ' You don't mean that you have seen her again ? ' Agnes eagerly 
 interposed. 
 
2 24 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' Yes. I disturbed her once more over her endless writing ; 
 and I insisted on her speaking out plainly.' 
 
 ' Then you told her what you found when you opened the 
 hiding-place ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I did ! ' Henry replied. ' I said that I held her 
 responsible for the discovery, though I had not mentioned her con- 
 nection with it to the authorities as yet. She went on with her 
 writing as if I had spoken in an unknown tongue I I was equally 
 obstinate, on my side. I told her plainly that the head had been 
 placed under the care of the police, and that the manager and I had 
 signed our declarations and given our evidence. She paid not the 
 slightest heed to me. By way of tempting her to speak, I added 
 that the whole investigation was to be kept a secret, and that she 
 might depend on my discretion. For the moment I thought I 
 had succeeded. She looked up from her writing mth a passing 
 flash of curiosity, and said, " What are they going to do with 
 it ? " — meaning, I suppose, the head. I answered that it was to 
 be privately buried, after photographs of it had first been taken. 
 I even went the length of communicating the opinion of the 
 surgeon consulted, that some chemical means of arresting decom- 
 position had been used, and had only partially succeeded — and I 
 asked her point-blank if the surgeon was right ? The trap was 
 not a bad one — but it completely failed. She said in the coolest 
 manner, " Now you are here, I should like to consult you about 
 my play ; I am at a loss for some new incidents." Mind ! there 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 225 
 
 was nothing satirical in this. She was really eager to read her 
 wonderful work to me — evidently supposing that I took a special 
 interest in such things, because my brother is the manager of a 
 theatre ! I left her, making the first excuse that occurred to me. 
 So far as I am concerned, I can do nothing with her. But it is 
 possible that your influence may succeed with her again, as it has 
 succeeded already. Will you make the attempt, to satisfy your 
 own mind ? She is still upstairs ; and I am quite ready to ac- 
 company you.' 
 
 Agnes shuddered at the bare suggestion of another interview 
 with the Countess. 
 
 ' I can't ! I daren't I ' she exclaimed. ' After what has hap- 
 pened in that horrible room, she is more repellent to me than ever. 
 Don't ask me to do it, Henry ! Feel my hand — you have turned 
 me as cold as death only with talking of it ! ' 
 
 She was not exaggerating the terror that possessed her. Henry 
 hastened to change the subject. 
 
 ' Let us talk of something more interesting,' he said. ' I have 
 a question to ask you about yourself. Am I right in believing 
 that the sooner you get away from Venice the happier you will be ? ' 
 
 ' Eight ? ' she repeated excitedly. ' You are more than right ! 
 No words can say how I long to be away from this horrible place. 
 But you know how I am situated — you heard what Lord Mout- 
 barry said at dinner-time ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 ' Suppose he has altered his plans, since dinner-time ? ' Henry 
 suggested. 
 
 Agnes looked surprised. ' I thought he had received letters 
 from England which obliged him to leave Venice to-morrow,' she 
 said. 
 
 'Quite true,' Henry admitted. 'He had arranged to start 
 for England to-morrow, and to leave you and Lady Montbarry 
 and the children to enjoy your holiday in Venice, under my care. 
 Circumstances have occurred, however, which have forced him to 
 alter his plans. He must take you all back with him to-morrow, 
 because I am not able to assume the charge of you. I am obliged 
 to give up my holiday in Italy, and return to England too.' 
 
 Agnes looked at him in some little perplexity : she was not 
 quite sure whether she understood him or not. ' Are you really 
 obliged to go back ? ' she asked. 
 
 Henry smiled as he answered her. 'Keep the secret,' he said, 
 ' or Montbarry will never forgive me I ' 
 
 She read the rest in his face. ' Oh I ' she exclaimed, blushing 
 brightly, ' you have not given up your pleasant holiday in Italy 
 on my account ? ' 
 
 ^ I shall go back with you to England, Agnes. That will be 
 holiday enough for me.' 
 
 She took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of giatitude. 
 ' How good you are to me ! ' she murmured tenderly. ' AMiat 
 should I have done in the troubles that have come to me, without 
 
A MYSTER V OF MODERN VENICE. 227 
 
 your sympathy? I can't tell you, Henry, how I feel your 
 kindness.' 
 
 She tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. He gently 
 stopped her. ' Agnes,' he said, ' are you beginning to understand 
 how truly I love you ? ' 
 
 That simple question found its own way to her heart. She 
 owned the whole truth, without saying a word. She looked at him 
 — and then looked away again. 
 
 He drew her nearer to him. ' My own darling I ' he whispered — 
 and kissed her. Softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered, 
 and touched his lips in return. Then her head drooped. She put 
 her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom. They 
 spoke no more. 
 
 The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it was 
 mercilessly broken by a knock at the door. 
 
 Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano ; 
 the instrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible, when 
 she seated herself on the music-stool, for any person entering the 
 room to see her face, Henry called out irritably, ' Come in.' 
 
 The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it 
 asked a strange question. 
 
 ' Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone ? ' 
 
 Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She 
 hurried to a second door, which communicated with one of the 
 
228 THE HAUNTED HOTEL: 
 
 bed-rooms. ' Don't let her come near me ! ' she whispered nerv- 
 ously. ' Good night, Henry I good night ! ' 
 
 If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the 
 Countess to the uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made 
 the effort without remorse. As it was, he only repeated, more irrit- 
 ably than ever, ' Come in ! ' 
 
 She entered the room slowly with her everlasting manuscript 
 in her hand. Her step was unsteady ; a dark flush appeared on 
 her face, in place of its customary pallor ; her eyes were bloodshot 
 and widely dilated. In approaching Henry, she showed a strange 
 incapability of calculating her distances — she struck against the 
 table near which he happened to be sitting. When she spoke, her 
 articulation was confused, and her pronunciation of some of the 
 longer words was hardly intelligible. Most men would have 
 suspected her of being under the influence of some intoxicating 
 liquor. Henry took a truer view — he said, as he placed a chair 
 for her, ' Countess, I am afraid you have been working too hard : 
 you look as if you wanted rest.' 
 
 She put her hand to her head. 'My invention has gone,' 
 she said. ' I can't write my fourth act. It's all a blank — all a blank !' 
 
 Henry advised her to wait till the next day. ' Go to bed,' he 
 suggested ; ' and try to sleep.' 
 
 She waved her hand impatiently. ' I must finish the play,' 
 she answered. ' I only want a hint from you. You must know 
 something about plays. Your brother has got a theatre. You 
 
A MYSTERY OF MODERN VENICE. 229 
 
 must often have heard him talk about fourth and fifth acts — you 
 must have seen rehearsals, and all the rest of it.' She abruptly- 
 thrust the manuscript into Henry's hand. ' I can't read it 
 to you,' she said ; ' I feel giddy when I look at my own writing. 
 Just run your eye over it, there's a gocd fellow — and give me 
 a hint.' 
 
 Henry glanced at the manuscript. He happened to look at 
 the list of the persons of the drama. As he read the list he started 
 and turned abruptly to the Countess, intending to ask her for some 
 explanation. The words were suspended on his lips. It was but 
 too plainly useless to speak to her. Her head lay back on the rail 
 of the chair. She seemed to be half asleep abeady. The flush 
 on her face had deepened : she looked like a woman who was in 
 danger of having a fit. 
 
 He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to 
 send one of the chambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to par- 
 tially rouse the Countess ; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy 
 way. ' Have you read it? ' she asked. 
 
 It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her. ' I 
 will read it willingly,' said Henry, ' if you will go upstairs to bed. 
 You shall hear what I think of it to-morrow morning. Our heads 
 will be clearer, we shall be better able to make the fourth act in 
 the morning.' 
 
 The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. ' I am 
 afraid the lady is ill,' Henry whispered. * Take her up to her 
 
230 THE HAUNTED HOTEL, 
 
 room.' The woman looked at the Countess and whispered back, 
 ' Shall we send for a doctor, sir ? ' 
 
 Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking the 
 manager's opinion. There was great difficulty in persuading her 
 to rise, and accept the support of the chambermaid's arm. It was 
 only by reiterated promises to read the play that night, and to 
 make the fourth act in the morning, that Henry prevailed on the 
 Countess to return to her room. 
 
 Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity in 
 relation to the manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading a 
 line here and a line there. Suddenly he changed colour as he read 
 — and looked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered. 
 ' Grood God ! what does this mean ? ' he said to himself. 
 
 His eyes tm-ned nervously to the door by which Agnes had 
 left him. She might return to the drawing-room ; she might 
 want to see what the Countess had written. He looked back 
 again at the passage which had startled him — considered with 
 himself for a moment — and, snatching up the unfinished play, 
 suddenly and softly left the room. 
 
 END OF THE FIEST VOLUME. 
 
 ftistrood' <{■ Co., Pfi?iters, Xeir Street Square, London. 
 
Ociober, 1878. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS'S 
 
 Hist of JSoofes. 
 
 
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 Illustrated by G. Du Maurier and C. S. Rands. 
 The Frozen Deep. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Illustrated by G. Du Maurier and J. Mahoney. 
 The Law and the Lady. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Illustrated by S. L. Fildes and Sydney Hall. 
 The Two Destinies. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 %• Also a POPULAR EDITION of WILKIE COLLINS'S 
 NOVELS, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2S. each. 
 
 Felicia. By m. Betham-Edwards. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by W. Bowles. ^ , , . . 
 
 'M noble rtoz'cl. Its teaching is elevated, its story is sympathetic, and the kind 
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 poetry than/ram prose fiction. Fe^ works in modem fiction stand as high tn our 
 estimation as t/iis."—SusDAV Times. 
 
 Olympia. By r. e. francillon. 
 
26 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 The Piccadilly Novels — continued. 
 Under the Grceniuood Tree. By Thomas Hardy. 
 
 Fated to be Free. By Jean Lxgelow. 
 
 The Queen of Conjianght. By Harriett jay. 
 
 The Dark Colleen. By Harriett Jay. 
 
 "■ A novel zvhich possesses tJte rare and valuable quality of no-jelty. . . . The 
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 Patricia Keniball. By e. Lynn Linton. 
 
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 The Waterdale Neighbours. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 My Enenifs Daughter. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Linlcy^ RocJlford. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. ^ By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. ^ By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 The Evil Eye, and other Stories. By Katharine s.macquoid. 
 
 Illustrated by Thomas R. Macquoid and Percy Macquoid. 
 
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 Oakshott Castle. By henry Kingsley. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by Shirley Hodson. 
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CHATTO &» WIND US, PICCADILLY. 27 
 
 The Piccadilly Novels — contiimed. 
 
 Fallen Forttmes, By James Payn. 
 
 Halves. By James Payn. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by J, Mahoney. 
 
 Walter 's Word. By James Payn. 
 
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 What He Cost Her. By James Payn. 
 
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 Gny Waterman. By John Saunders. 
 
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 Ready-Money Mortiboy, By W. Besant and James Rice. 
 
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28 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 NEW VOLUMES OF THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
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 Miss MisantJu'ope. 
 
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CHATTO (Sr* WIND US, PICCADILLY. 29 
 
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 The Monks of Thelema. 
 
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 The Hannted Hotel ; and My Lady's 
 
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 Onr Lady of Tears. 
 
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BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
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 My Miscellanies. B^ Wilkie Collins; 
 
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 Man and Wife. B^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ 
 
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 My Enemy s Daughter. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 L in ley Rochford. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 A n Idle Excursion. By mark Twain. 
 
 The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. By mark Twain. 
 
 Pleasure Trip on the Continent of Europe, mark Twain. 
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 Guy Waterman. By John Saunders. 
 
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 Surly Tim. By the Author of " That Lass o' Lowrie's." 
 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. By Thomas hardy. 
 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 
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 Pleasant Ways in Science. 
 
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32 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
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34 
 
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CHATTO ^ WIND US, PICCADILLY. 35 
 
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