University of Virginia Library

THE SIGNET-RING—THE ROBE—THE SECRET
DOOR

The small white ball, which the Duke had absently
clenched in his fingers, fell to the floor, and
every ear heard a ringing sound as it fell, and
every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it
touched the floor. The whole substance had
vanished, and along the floor there rolled a massive
signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.

The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again
grasped the ring; he held it aloft, and shouted with
a tone of amazement and horror—

“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident
into the death-bowl! It bears a crest and
an inscription—look Signior Aldarin—can'st make
out crest or inscription?”

Aldarin replied with a look of horror—

“The crest, 'tis a Winged Leopard—the motto
—`Grasp boldly, and bravely strike!' Both crest
and motto are those of Albarone”—his voice sank
to a deathlike whisper—“Lord Adrian—behold—
it is, it is the signet ring of Albarone!”

Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis—

“Thy question has its answer—let the signet-ring
tell the tale. Adrian, oh, Adrian,” he con
tinued as his voice changed with mingled compassion
and anguish—“what moved thee to this
fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak old man, should
live to see my brother's son accused of that brother's
murder!”

“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded
Adrian, though his chest heaved and swelled with
the tempest aroused in his soul—“Tell me, Sig
nior Aldarin, what were the contents of the `soothing'
potion administered by thee to the late Lord
Julian at day break?”

“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its
composition, and thou can'st witness when I gave
it to my murdered brother.”

“I aided in its composition—it was harmless.—
I saw thee minister the potion to Lord Julian.”

“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone has had access
to this chamber since daybreak”—spoke Adrian,
with his calm eye fixed full on the Signior's visage
—“Now tell me who it was that drugged you bowl
with death?”

“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door
from daybreak until high noon—did a soul enter
the Red-Chamber from the first moment to the
last second of thy watch?”

“Not a living man”—muttered the hoarse voice
of Balvardo from the crowd—“not a soul save the
Ladye Annabel.”

“Search the apartments!” shouted the Duke
“the assassin may be yet lurking in some dark
nook or corner!”

The doors were closed, the search commenced.
Every nook was ransacked, every corner thrown
open to the light, not even the bed of death and
its pillows of down and its hangings of purple was
spared.

While the search was in progress, the Countess
of Albarone awoke from her swoon, and striding
from the recess of an emblazoned window, where
the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant
look over the strange and terrible scene progressing
in the Red-Chamber, she was soon made
aware of the fearful crime charged upon her son,
the signet-ring and the terrible mystery.

“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud
voice, “there is mystery, but—no dishonour!—
Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so
accursed an act!”

“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout
yeoman.

“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors, and the cry
went round the apartment.

“Nor I”—“nor I”—“He is guiltless.”

A wild and prolonged shriek from a nook of the
Red-Chamber near the death-couch sent a sudden
thrill through the group assembled in this terrible
mystery.

Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye
was fixed in the direction from whence issued the
shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was
seen upholding with one trembling hand the folds
of the gorgeous crimson tapestry, while as his aged
face grew livid as death, he pointed with the other
hand to a recess beyond.

“A secret passage—the door, cut into the solid
wall is flung wide open—a robe laid across the
threshold—a robe of crimson faced with gold.”

And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther
aside, and the bright sunshine gleamed over
the panel of the secret door, flung wide open, the
crimson robe thrown over the threshold, but no
beam lighted up the gloom of the passage beyond.

The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward,
she seized the robe, she held it aloft in the
sunbeams, and—every eye beheld the robe of
Adrian Di Albarone!

“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of
Albarone—yonder secret passage leads to thy
sleeping chamber—thy departed sire, myself and
thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has
ever been a secret of our house. Tell me, by yon
murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who flung
this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshhold?”

Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead
and with a cry of horror fell lifeless upon the
floor.