THERE is one class of antiques that still defies the forger, namely, the parchment manuscripts of the Middle Ages, and such books being my particular hobby, I am always on the look-out for them. The wonderful specimens of caligraphy which turn up from time to time in odd places in Italy are often very valuable, more especially if they contain painted miniatures or coloured illumination.

       One day last March my trusted Italian servant Francesco — a man who, by the way, spent some years as a Franciscan monk, but finding the monastery irksome, left it in order to marry — entered my study with deep apologies for disturbing me, but explaining that a priest had called and wished to see me privately.

       "Privately!" I exclaimed. "Hasn't he given his name?"

       "No, signore. He merely said he must see you."

       "Begging, I suppose?"

       "I think not, signore. He is a stranger, but is not seeking alms."

       A few minutes later an old and shabby man was ushered in. His frayed cassock was brown with age, his beard unshaven, and the tiny piece of Roman purple at the throat was black and greasy. The Italian priest as a rule is not a particularly cleanly person, attributable perhaps to the absence of feminine influence.

       With a thousand apologies for disturbing the signor cavaliere, he introduced himself as the Reverendo Pietro Moretti, proposto of Mogliano, near Venice, and said he desired to consult me in strictest confidence.

       "The fact is, signore, I have discovered a secret. I know that you are interested in ancient records in the same manner as I am myself, and I thought you would perhaps like to hear of the curious discovery I have just made."

       "Certainly," I said, greatly interested.

       "Well, for many years I have pursued my palæographical studies in the national archives of Milan, Venice, Florence, and also in the Vatican. Living close to Venice, I have naturally spent more time there than elsewhere, and have made a thorough study of the secret archives of the Republic in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries."

       "Lanansky has already written upon that subject," I remarked.

       "My intention is," said Don Pietro, "to supplement his book. It is far from complete. He only touched the fringe of the subject, and does not expose the secrets of the Council of Ten and their dealings with those official assassins who, at their orders, poisoned the enemies of the Republic. The hundreds of secret documents I have copied will, when published, arouse a large amount of interest, I feel sure. These secret documents were found six months ago locked in four large iron chests in the roof of the ducal palace, and were handed to me by the municipality to decipher and classify. Last week I finished the work, but among them I discovered one parchment record which is of especial interest — a copy of which I have here." And he drew from his old cassock a folded sheet of foolscap, which, on being opened, I saw was covered with writing in a neat, almost microscopic hand.

       "It is a report," he went on, "written to the Council of Ten in October, 1571, by one Marco Valopano, a Venetian spy, stating that he had carried out the orders of the Council, and claiming the reward of ten thousand ducats and the safe conduct promised him for the secret assassination of the Duke Ludovico di Mantua and his wife Beatrice, the celebrated beauty, who had travelled from Rome to Venice at the invitation of the Republic, in order to attend the elaborate reception of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara. The event, we know, was a very important one, for no fewer than seven palaces were engaged to accommodate him and his suite, and at the ball given in his honour there were one hundred and twenty ladies entirely enveloped in robes of cloth-of-gold and blazing with jewels from head to foot. The fêtes were the most magnificent ever given in Venice, but several of the guests had been invited by the Council for the sole purpose of secretly getting rid of them, as enemies of the Republic. Among those who innocently walked into the trap so cunningly prepared were the Duke and Duchess of Mantua. Read the assassin's report for yourself." And he handed it to me.

       In eagerness I ran through the evenly written lines in Italian. It commenced: "Illustrissimi et Excellentissimi Signori," and certainly revealed a very strange and tragic tale.

       It was a bald narrative of how, in accordance with the secret instructions received from the Council, Valopano had followed the Duke and Duchess on their departure from Venice to visit the Grand Duke Francesco di Medici at Florence, and it continued as follows:

       "I have the honour to report to your excellencies that the duke and duchess travelled incognito with an escort of only six armed men, fearing that if their identity were known they might be attacked by bandits, on account of the duchess's jewels, which she had worn at your excellencies' receptions. Not knowing which road they would take, and therefore unable to go in advance of them, I was compelled to follow them across to Genoa, where they stayed eight days, and thence they took the sea-road. I at once slipped past them in the night, and went on in front to make my arrangements. Five days later, at six o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, October 3rd, while the carriage was going slowly up the hill through Montelupo, twenty miles from Florence, the village priest, recognising the travellers, stopped and made his obeisance to them. Then he offered the horsemen a flask of wine, which was gladly accepted. The duke and duchess were also prevailed upon to accept a flask of vin santo, which is a speciality of Montelupo, and, thanking the donor, they drove on. Half an hour later, however, at a point on the lonely road that runs close beside the Arno, near the Masso delle Fate (the Fairy's Rock), the whole party were suddenly seized by cramps and convulsions, the carriage was stopped, and the eight persons expired in terrible agony within a quarter of an hour of each other. The hospitable priest was your servant, and in the wine I had placed the secret powder which your excellencies' inquisitors had handed to me, and which proved to possess all the powers claimed for it. The evening being dark, I managed to throw the bodies of the duke and duchess and others into the river; then, securing the jewels, as ordered, I buried them, as your excellencies directed, at a spot forty foot-paces from the rock at right angles with the river, where they await recovery by the emissary of the inquisitors of the State. The spot will be found by measuring fourteen palms from the base of the small black rock that stands behind the Masso."

       "You will notice that the date is 1571," the old priest remarked. "As it is the most recent of any of those that had been hidden away with it, I conclude that the document must have remained lost from the time when it was received."

       "Then you believe that the jewels may still be hidden at this spot, which, if the record is correct, is upon my property?"

       "Exactly, signore," was the old priest's reply in a confidential tone. "I only regret," he added, "that I am not permitted to bring you the original document; but you are well aware of the stringent rules of the National Archives — that no document is allowed to be taken out."

       "Well," I said, much interested in the suggestion that the buried jewels were actually upon my own land, "this is certainly very interesting. I wonder if they still remain hidden?"

       "Ah! that is the question. The emeralds and rubies of Beatrice di Mantua were of enormous value," said the old priest. "Even amid all the wealth and magnificence of Venice under the Republic, the jewels in question were remarked at the reception at the ducal palace by at least two chroniclers, Foscolo and Dolfin, both of whom declare that the duchess's rubies were the finest ever seen in Venice. The Council, on condemning her and her husband to death in secret, because they feared their influence with the Medici at Florence, evidently intended that jewels of such great price should not fall into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer like Marco Valopano."

       "But they may have been discovered," I remarked doubtfully, for although I was an ardent collector of antiques, I was inclined to believe that a person of Valopano's character, the paid assassin of the Republic, would not allow such valuable jewels to remain there unclaimed. I re-read the copy of the secret record carefully, and explained my misgivings to the quiet-mannered old fellow who sat with his hands spread out upon his shabby cassock.

       "I quite agree, signore. The jewels may be hidden there, or they may not. Yet I think we ought to search."

       "Most certainly," I said.

       "In that case I would suggest that we come to an agreement that if the jewels are found you pay me a certain sum of money for the secret information," he said. "Of course," he added, "if they are not found, I desire nothing."

       His request struck me as a just one. He was ready to sell the secret. The jewels might certainly be hidden behind the Masso delle Fate, and if they were found he was certainly entitled to some reward. Unlike the law of treasure trove in England, the Italian law rendered to me all that was found upon my property, providing I did not discover a salt-mine.

       After some discussion, therefore, we arranged that if the jewels were discovered, I was to pay him the sum often thousand francs (£400), irrespective of their value. As he pointed out, the value of such remarkable gems must be very considerable, and I, too, was convinced that by a payment of ten thousand francs I was making a very good bargain.

       We drank coffee and smoked our long Toscanos, while Francesco went to call in a notary who lived about a mile distant, and an hour later the contract was drawn up and duly signed.

       Once or twice I caught my visitor regarding me strangely when he believed I was not looking. He was, I thought, about to wheedle charity out of me for his parish with that clever diplomacy which is the virtue of every good priest.

       I must confess, however, that the record had greatly excited me. The suspicion that the historic jewels of Beatrice di Mantua were concealed behind that huge boulder on my own land was suffic1ent to arouse my eagerness to search; therefore the old priest returned after luncheon next day, and, armed with spade and picks, we drove to the spot beside the Arno, about three miles distant on the road to Empoli.

       I had suggested taking Francesco, but Don Pietro had impressed the utmost secrecy upon me. The merest rumour would, he said, arouse the whole neighbourhood, and we should soon be surrounded by crowds of idlers. At last, however, we reached the spot where the white high-road, running beside the river, took a sudden bend beneath the huge overhanging rock. On one side of the road was the Arno, and on the other a forest stretching down the sloping hill to the roadway itself — my own bandita, or game preserve.

       After some difficulty and a good deal of measuring, we decided upon a spot as that indicated by the record, and there we both commenced to dig.

       Until long after the bells of Montelupo and Capraja — those two old high-up picturesque villages opposite each other on the Arno — had rung the angelus, we worked on in eager expectancy; indeed, until the or' di notte tolled and it grew too dark to properly examine each shovelful of earth. Then we gave up, and he returned to Florence, refusing to accept my proffered hospitality, for he was a strangely reserved man.

       Next day and the next we continued to work on, until Don Pietro began to express doubt that the jewels remained there. The hired assassin Valopino had, he believed, returned and recovered them. I, however, was determined not to abandon all hope before we had thoroughly examined the whole ground in the vicinity of the rock. The old priest had received a telegram recalling him to Venice, as his bishop was to visit his parish; therefore on the night of the morrow he would be compelled to leave me.

       Early next morning we were on the ground again, and worked with scarcely any intermission, the old fellow, minus his cassock, digging doggedly with a strength I had never suspected. Just before four o'clock I made an amazing discovery. My spade suddenly turned up something that glittered, and, drawing it from the earth, I found, to my satisfaction, that it was a large and magnificent Byzantine cross set with big emeralds!

       There was truth in the assassin's report. The treasure was actually buried there!

       Both of us went down upon our knees, and eagerly searched the loose soil with our hands, until there, sure enough, one by one we drew forth gold ornaments of priceless value set with magnificent stones — dirty, of course, but of a value far exceeding my expectations. Don Pietro drew out the chief object — a magnificent collar of rubies roughly set in gold of the cinquecento, and within half an hour we had discovered more jewellery than I could hold in both hands.

       "Well, signore," exclaimed the old fellow at last, wiping his brow, "I hope you are satisfied with your bargain with me?"

       "Quite," I replied. "I must admit that I have the best of it."

       And, full of delight, I drove him back to my house, my jacket pockets filled with the gold and gems of the unfortunate duchess.

       The treasure was, indeed, a splendid one, for when at home I took a soft brush and commenced to remove the dirt, I saw what priceless gems they were as they shone and glittered in the lamp-light — those very gems that had seen all the pomp of the Doges, that brilliant and dazzling display unequalled in all the world.

       Don Pietro was to leave for Venice by the eight o'clock train, and he himself suggested the idea of joining it at Signa, instead of returning to Florence. Therefore we sat down to dinner together — a little late, for we had been examining our splendid find.

       Francesco had just served the fish, as the old priest, who had become strangely agitated when I suggested that I should give him a cheque for the amount agreed, remarked, "I should much prefer bank-notes, signore, if you could give me them."

       "If you can remain till to-morrow, I can get the money from the bank in Florence," I responded. "It is, of course, too late now."

       "Ah! I regret that is impossible, signore," he said, with a strange look at me. "I must be at home by to-morrow night to meet the bishop. Indeed, I must leave almost at once in order to catch my train," he added, with a sigh, glancing at his great old silver watch.

       I therefore rose from table and went into the study, where I wrote out a cheque and receipt, which I carried back for him to sign. He scribbled his name across the stamp, and, with thanks, placed the cheque carefully in his big old wallet. Then he hastily swallowed the remainder of what was on his plate, for the cart was already at the door to take him down to the station.

       When I had risen from the table to write the cheque, I had not tasted the fish, but my English fox-terrier "Spot" was worrying; therefore, in order to appease him, I took a piece from my plate and threw it to him, as was my habit.

       I shook the old priest's hand, and he promised to return and visit me in a month or so, when he came again to Tuscany. Then I stood out upon the terrace watching the cart disappear in the darkness of the cypress avenue.

       On returning to finish my dinner, I found, to my utter dismay, my poor little terrier lying upon his back in convulsions, and even as I stood there the poor animal, with an imploring look at me, shivered two or three times, and then expired.

       This struck me as very strange. Surely there could be nothing wrong with the fish? At any rate, so upset was I at the loss of my favourite that I ate none of it, and very fortunately I refrained, for its effect that same night upon a stray cat who had come to the kitchen door to eat the bits was as fatal as upon my pet. And yet Don Pietro had eaten some and pronounced it excellent!

       I therefore collected the remains, corked them in a bottle, and sent them by Francesco to the analyst in Florence.

       In the afternoon, when I had removed all the dirt from the treasure that had so fortunately come into my possession, I packed it all into a hand-bag, and took it to my friend Sarto, the well-known Hebrew dealer in antique gems, who has a little shop on that quaint mediæval bridge, the Ponte Vecchio.

       When I drew them forth one by one and placed them on the baize-covered table of his little hack room overlooking the river, the old dealer's eyes opened very widely.

       "Now," I said with triumph, "what do you think is the value of these, eh?"

       The Jew adjusted his glasses and carried the collar of rubies to the light, scrutinising it carefully, and weighing it in his hand; then the Byzantine cross and the other ornaments one after the other.

       "And if I may be so bold as to ask, signor cavaliere," he said, "pray how much did you give for these?"

       " I found them — found them on my own property out at Montelupo," I answered. "They were once the property of Beatrice di Mantua."

       The dealer smiled curiously, and answered, "Ah, it is a good thing you found them — I mean, that you did not buy them."

       "Why?"

       "Well, because they are all, without one exception, false."

       "False!" I gasped. "Impossible!"

       "They are. These settings are merely plated stuff, made probably in the present year by Marini, in the Via Maggi, who makes false antiques for the dealers. They bear his mark, you see — that tiny 'M' on a shield. Go to him. He can tell you all about them. As for the stones, they're only bits of coloured glass. The value of the whole batch is worth, perhaps, twenty francs, not more."

       I was utterly dumbfounded. I related the curious story; whereupon he said, "Ah, the stuff was simply buried a few days beforehand. It was a neat trick, to say the least. Let us go and see Marini."

       A quarter of an hour later, the forger of false antiques, having examined his own manufactures, said, "Yes, I made these to the order of two men who came here a month ago saying they were dealers. They paid forty-eight francs for them. One was an old man with grey hair and a pimply face, while the other was about twenty, and had a rather gentlemanly air."

       I at once recognised the old man as the bogus priest, and drove to the bank to try to stop my cheque.

       Alas! it had been presented and paid at half-past nine that morning, showing that the swindler had not gone to Venice at all, but had returned to Florence and obtained the money as soon as the bank opened.

       The analyst's report was just as amazing as that of the dealer in gems.

       "That fish submitted to me," he wrote, "contains some unknown compound of an extremely poisonous nature, with which it has been impregnated undoubtedly with a view of destroying life. In some respects it resembles nitrite of amyl, but in others its mode of action is different. It must therefore be treated as a poison unknown to toxicologists."

       The instant I read the report the truth dawned upon me. The plot was a dastardly one. Finding that he could not obtain the money in notes, the crafty adventurer had feared that I should discover the fraud before he could cash the cheque; therefore he had actually placed some poison upon the fish on my plate during my absence in the study, in order that by my sudden death he would have time to cash the cheque and escape with the proceeds of his ingenious trickery.

       Inquiries afterwards revealed that a man, answering the description of the bogus priest, had for some time frequented the Archives of Venice, and therefore I am firmly convinced that he had learned from one of those old parchment records of the inquisitors of the State that actually exist, the mode of preparing and using that secret poison so effectively employed by the dreaded Council of Ten during the sixteenth century. His copy of the alleged document was, of course, ingeniously contrived in order to interest me in the search for the supposed treasure, and had it not been for the death of my terrier, I should undoubtedly have lost my life as well as my money.

       I have, however, the satisfaction of knowing that the police in Parma arrested the fellow — whose real name proved to be Finzi, an adventurer with a long and remarkable record — together with his young accomplice Gorelli, while endeavouring to obtain money from a certain wealthy count by a similar fraud.

       Two months ago they were both condemned at the criminal courts at Parma, the younger to ten years' penal servitude, while the bogus priest — the man with the secret — was, after my evidence, given a life sentence.

(THE END)