The Fourth Plague by Edgar Wallace Page A

hostess.
    The man in the doorway was tall; he looked taller, perhaps, because of his slimness. He was clad from head to foot in black, and the big flowing tie at his neck was of the same sober hue. He carried in his hand a black soft felt hat, from which the butler had made several ineffectual attempts to detach him.
    His face was long and thin, sallow and lined; his eyes were big and grey, and steady. They were terribly alive and expressive, Marjorie thought. They gave the impression that the whole process of life was comprehended in their depths. His hair was black and was brushed smoothly behind his ears. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His face was an unusual one, attractive, because of its very character and strength. The mouth was big and sensitive; the ungloved hands were long and white, and as delicate as a surgeon’s.
    He gave a quick glance from one to the other.
    â€œI am so sorry to intrude upon you,” he said. There was no trace of any foreign accent in his voice. “I expected to find Sir Ralph. He is out—yes?”
    He had a quick, alert method of talking. He was eager to the point of anticipating the reply. Before the girl could answer he had gone on.
    â€œHe has kindly asked me to dine to-night. I am so sorry I cannot. I must be back in London in an hour or two. There are one or two interviews of importance which I have arranged.”
    His smile was a dazzling one; it lit up the whole of his face, and changed him from a somewhat morose, funereal figure, to a new and radiant being.
    Marjorie noticed that he was almost handsome in his amusement. The smile came and went like a gleam of sunshine seen through a rift of storm-cloud.
    â€œYou are Miss Marjorie Meagh,” he said, “and you, madam,” with a little bow, “are Lady Morte-Mannery.” His head twisted for a moment inquiringly. That, and the bow, were the only little signs he gave of his continental origin.
    Vera forced a smile to her face. She came forward, a little embarrassed. She had hoped to escape without an introduction and to have developed a convenient headache to keep out of his way.
    â€œI saw you in court,” said Tillizini, quickly. “It was an interesting case, was it not? That poor man!”
    He threw out his arms with a gesture of pity.
    â€œI do not know why you sympathize with him,” said Vera.
    â€œSeven years!” Tillizini shook his head. “It is a long time, Madam, for a man—innocent.”
    Again the little shrug. The tall man paced the room nervously.
    â€œYou have heard his story. He said that he came to this house to meet an individual who would give him a packet.”
    â€œBut surely you do not believe that?” said the other, with amused contempt.
    â€œYes, I believe that,” said Tillizini, calmly and gravely. “Why should I not? The man’s every attitude, every word, spoke eloquently to me, of his sincerity.”
    â€œDo you believe, then, in this mysterious Italian?” said Vera.
    â€œOh, Vera, don’t you remember?” Marjorie broke in suddenly, and with some excitement, “there was an Italian in the town. We saw him the day before the robbery. Don’t you remember?” she asked again. “A very short man, with a long Inverness cape which reached to his heels. We passed him in the car on the Breckley road, and I remarked to you that he was either an Italian or a Spaniard because of the peculiar way he was holding his cigarette.”
    â€œAh, yes!”
    It was Tillizini, tremendously vital, all a-quiver like some delicately strung zither whose strings had been set vibrating by a musician’s hand.
    â€œHe was short and stout, and was dressed in black,” said the girl.
    â€œA moustache—no?” said Tillizini.
    The girl shook her head.
    â€œHe was clean-shaven.”
    â€œYou were going the same direction—yes?”
    Again the girl nodded, with a smile at the man’s eager