Povey bowed, he had no great liking for telling lies and he preferred to act them where possible.
Mr. Abraham Nixon handed a chair to his visitor, and, reseating himself at his desk, picked up a telephone receiver and inquired for Mr. Crooks, asking that gentleman to kindly be sure that they were not disturbed for at least one hour.
At this Edward grew cold with apprehension. It seemed to him that there was something of an ordeal in front of him. Mr. Nixon's first words, however, somewhat reassured him.
"I understand from Mr. Baxendale that you are entirely ignorant of the subject referred to in his letter, Mr. Sydney."
"Entirely, Mr. Nixon, and it is perhaps better to say at once that, however much I desire to help my old friend and to fall in with his wishes, I cannot hold myself liable in any way—cannot commit myself."
Mr. Nixon held up a thin hand.
"A very sensible remark, Mr. Sydney, and one that I should have made myself had I been placed as you are. You are not in any way bound by what I am telling you except in the event of your refusal; in which case I shall enjoin you to secrecy. Pray excuse me a moment."
Selecting a flat key from a ring he took from his pocket, Mr. Nixon left the room, returning in a few minutes with a small deed-box on which was painted in white letters—
GALVA—BAXENDALE
This, Mr. Nixon placed upon a small side table, and selecting a flat key from the bunch on his ring inserted it in the lock.
"It is a curious story that I have to tell you, Mr. Sydney," he began as he pushed open the creaking lid. "I suppose I'm the only person to whom Mr. Baxendale told it. A very reserved and secretive man, Mr. Sydney."
"Very," answered Edward Povey, much relieved to hear it. Then he kept silent as he watched the solicitor remove from the box a few small articles, each carefully sealed up and docketed in a neat handwriting, the purport of which Edward could not make out at the distance. These articles arranged in a row upon his desk, Mr. Nixon leant back in his chair, and, placing the tips of his thin fingers together, began his tale.
"Perhaps you will remember, Mr. Sydney, the era of bloodshed and murder which attacked the little island kingdom of San Pietro some years back, I think in the autumn of '93. It was, in its way, as virulent as the Paris revolution, but San Pietro is a small kingdom, and although quite independent was not able to withstand the pressure of her more powerful neighbours. Spain, being the nearest, has always had a word to say in the San Pietro politics. The result was that the crisis was as short-lived as it was terrible. The reigning family had been put to death at the outburst of the revolution. The king, rather a pleasure-loving sort of person, had enjoyed some popularity among his subjects, but his marriage with an actress whom he had met in Vienna inflamed the ladies of the court, and, through them, their husbands.
"Most of these were officers standing high at court or in the army, and considering their wives insulted by the presence of an actress upon the throne, planned the assassination under the cloak of politics. The result was the terrible doings at the Palace at Corbo on that night in October.
"Baxendale, then a middle-aged man, traveling on business in Spain at the time, took ship across to San Pietro, intending to send first-hand news to a paper he was interested in in New York. Once arrived, however, he found more difficulty in returning. The Dictator whom the people had set up was very rigid in the matter of censorship, and not only could poor Baxendale get no news through, but he himself was politely but firmly told he could not leave the island.
"One afternoon about three or four days after the massacre he was taking a walk through the Sebastin Park, which I understand is on the edge of the capital, and merges from cultivation to the wild track of forest land which lies to the north. Baxendale had walked further than he had intended and was surprised to find of a sudden that the sun was sinking. As he turned to retrace his steps a curious sound came to his ears, that was for all the world like the cry of a child, The forest at this place was very dense, the branches of the tall pines interlacing overhead, whilst the undergrowth was thick enough to hide objects at a few yards.
"Baxendale parted the bushes and forced a way through them in the direction from which the cries seemed to come. The wailing had stopped, and he was telling himself that it was some forest beast he had heard when it was again taken up, and now he made out the low crooning of one who hushes and soothes a baby. At this he moved faster, and in a few moments came upon a tumble-down hut such as is used by the charcoal-burners of the woods.
"He had not been heard, for the crooning still continued and was evidently having the desired effect, as the child's cries had ceased. His light tap at the crazy-hinged door was answered only by the sudden cessation of the voice, and a dead silence. Then he cautiously pushed open the door.
"It was a poor enough place—indeed, little more than a ruin, and, in the dim light, Baxendale told me he could not at first make out any definite object. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, however, he made out the figure of a woman. She was standing facing him; he could not see her face clearly, but her whole attitude was one of defiance, and she seemed to be standing at bay, guarding something behind her. Baxendale could make out a bench on which were rolled a few clothes.
"Just then a ray of the setting sun pierced the branches and illuminated the interior of the hut. On the heap of clothes was a little baby girl about two years of age. The red rays played round the curly head, and Baxendale was smitten to the heart as he looked from the sleeping babe to the woman, who, seeing in Baxendale a friend, had sunk down on the earth floor and was silently weeping."
Mr. Nixon paused, and cleared his throat. He looked at his listener for signs of attention. The latter, who had almost forgotten the part he was playing, in his interest in the tale that was being told to him, nodded his head and asked if Mr. Nixon objected to tobacco. The two men smoked for a few moments in silence, then the solicitor resumed the tale.
"Beyond this I know very little and that little I will tell quickly. Baxendale came into this office in the spring of '98 and told me all this. The little child on wakening had held up her arms to him and smiled. The good fellow could not withstand the mute appeal, and resolved then and there that she should be his charge. Afterwards, when he had got them safely across to England, the woman who was the child's nurse told him the history. She had been afraid to do so earlier for fear it would have altered Baxendale's intentions, and she was too anxious to set her back to San Pietro to risk that.
"The baby girl was the Princess Miranda, only child of the ill-fated king and queen of San Pietro. On the fatal night, the nurse told Baxendale, she had been in the night nursery with the princess and her own niece, little Miranda's foster-sister, a child only a few months older than the princess. She told him of how she had seen the flare of torches and heard the clamour, and how the distracted queen had rushed in shrieking for her baby, and had caught up what she thought was her little one, and with it under her robe had fled to what she fondly considered was a place of safety.
"As events proved, there was no place of safety for that unhappy woman that night, and when the next day the bodies were laid to rest in the royal vault, a little dead child was buried with the queen, but it was not the Princess Miranda, although the monument that was raised by the tardy conscience of the San Pietro people is engraved with her name.
"Since the revolution, the political state of San Pietro has been somewhat uncertain. The people are simple and loyal folk at heart, and it was not long before they discovered the real reason of the uprising. Then they cried loudly for a king again, and Spain, who had only been waiting for this, put Prince Enrico upon the throne. You will have
