MARCIA passed the afternoon in a state of nervous impatience for her
uncle’s return. She said nothing to Mrs. Copley of the man she had
found asleep in the grotto, and the effort to preserve an outward
serenity added no little to her inner trepidation. In vain she tried to
reason with her fear; it was not a subject which responded to logic.
She assured herself over and over again that the man could not be the
same Neapolitan who had warned her uncle; that he was safely in prison;
and that the tattooed crucifix was only the general mark of a secret
society. The assurance did not carry conviction. Her first startled
impression had been too deep to be thrown off lightly, and coming just
then, in the midst of the rioting and lawlessness, the incident carried
additional force. She had lately heard many stories of lonely villas
being broken into, of travellers on the Campagna being waylaid and
robbed, of the vindictiveness of the Camorra, which her uncle had
opposed. The stories were not reassuring; and though she resolutely put
them out of her mind, she found herself thinking of them again and
again. Italy’s elaborate police system, she knew, was not merely for
show.
Mr. Copley and the Melvilles were due at five, but as they had not
appeared by half-past, Mrs. Copley decided that they had missed their
train, and she and Marcia sat down to tea—or, more accurately, to iced
lemonade—without waiting. The table was set under the shade of the
ilex trees where the grove met the upper end of the terrace, and where
any slight breeze that chanced to be stirring would find them out.
Gerald and Gervasio swallowed their allotted glassful and two
_brioches_ with dispatch, and withdrew to the cool shadows of the ilex
grove to play at horse with poor, patient Bianca and the streaming
ribbons of her cap. Mrs. Copley and Marcia took the repast in more
leisurely fashion, with snatches of very intermittent conversation.
Marcia’s eyes wandered in the pauses to the poppy-sprinkled wheat field
and the cypresses beyond.
‘I believe they are coming, after all!’ Mrs. Copley finally exclaimed,
as she shaded her eyes with her hands and looked down across the open
stretch of vineyards to where the Roman road, a yellow ribbon of dust,
divided the fields. ‘Yes, that is the carriage!’
Marcia looked at the moving speck and shook her head. ‘Your eyes are
better than mine, Aunt Katherine, if you can recognize Uncle Howard at
this distance.’
‘The carriage is turning up our road. I am sure it is they. Poor
things! I am afraid they will be nearly dead after the drive in this
heat. Rome must have been unbearable to-day.’ And she hastily
dispatched Pietro to prepare more iced drinks.
Ten minutes later, however, the carriage had resolved itself into a
jangling Campagna wine-cart, and the two resigned themselves to waiting
again. By half-past seven Marcia was growing frankly nervous. Could
anything have happened to her uncle? Should she have told her aunt and
sent some one to meet him with a warning message? Surely no one would
dare to stop the carriage on the open road in broad daylight. A hundred
wild imaginings were chasing through her brain, when finally, close
upon eight, the rumble of wheels sounded on the avenue.
Both Mrs. Copley and Marcia uttered an exclamation of relief. Mrs.
Copley had been worried on the score of the dinner, and Marcia for any
number of reasons which disappeared with the knowledge that her uncle
was safe. They hurried out to the loggia to meet the new-comers, and as
the carriage drew up, not only did the Melvilles and Mr. Copley
descend, but Laurence Sybert as well. At sight of him Marcia hung back,
asking herself, with a quickly beating heart, why he had come.
Mrs. Copley, with the first glance at their faces, interrupted her own
graceful words of welcome to cry: ‘Has anything happened? Why are you
so late?’
They were visibly excited, and did not wait for greetings before
pouring out their news—an attempted assassination of King Humbert on
the Pincian hill that afternoon—Rome under martial law—a plot
discovered to assassinate the premier and other leaders in control.
The two asked questions which no one answered, and all talked at
once—all but Sybert. Marcia noticed that he was unusually silent, and
it struck her that his face had a haggard look. He did not so much as
glance in her direction, except for a bare nod of greeting on his
arrival.
‘Well, well,’ Copley broke into the general babel, ‘it’s a terrible
business. You should see the excitement in Rome! The city is simply
demoralized; but we’ll give you the particulars later. Let us get into
something cool first—we’re all nearly dead. Has it been hot out here?
Rome has been a foretaste of the inferno.’
‘And this young man,’ Melville added, laying a hand on Sybert’s arm,
‘just got back from the Milan riots. Hadn’t slept, any to speak of for
four days, and what does he do this afternoon but sit down at his desk,
determined to make up his back work, Sunday or no Sunday, with the
thermometer where it pleases. Your husband and I had to drag him off by
main force.’
‘Poor Mr. Sybert! you do look worn out. Not slept for four days? Why,
you must be nearly dead! You may go to bed immediately after dinner,
and I shall not have you called till Monday morning.’
‘I’ve been sleeping for the last twenty-four hours, Mrs. Copley, and I
really don’t need any more sleep at present,’ he protested laughingly,
but with a slight air of embarrassment. It was a peculiar trait of
Sybert’s that he never liked to be made the subject of conversation,
which was possibly the reason why he had been made the subject of so
many conversations. This reticence when speaking of himself or his own
feelings, struck the beholder as somewhat puzzling. It had always
puzzled Marcia, and had been one reason why she had been so persistent
in her desire to find out what he was really like.
The party shortly assembled for dinner, the women in the coolest of
light summer gowns, the men in white linen instead of evening dress.
They went into the dining-room without affording Marcia a chance to
catch her uncle alone. The meal did not pass off very gaily.
Assassinations were served with the soup, bread riots with the fish,
and hypothetical robberies and plots with the further courses; while
Pietro presided with a sinister obsequiousness which added darkly to
the effect. In vain Mrs. Copley tried to turn the conversation into
pleasanter channels. The men were too stirred up to talk of anything
else, and the threatened tragedy of the day was rehearsed in all its
bearings.
The assassin had dashed out from the crowd that lined the driveway and
sprung to the side of the royal carriage before any of the bystanders
had realized what was happening. The white-haired aide-de-camp sitting
at his Majesty’s side was the first to see, and springing to his feet,
he struck the man fiercely in the face just as he raised his arm. Had
it not been for the aide-de-camp’s quick action, the man would have
plunged his stiletto into the King’s heart.
Mrs. Copley and Mrs. Melville shuddered, and Marcia leaned forward
listening with wide eyes.
‘Right on the Pincio, mind you.’ Melville in his excitement thumped the
table until the glasses rang. ‘Not a chance of the fellow’s getting
off. Scarcely a chance of his accomplishing his purpose. He knew he
would be taken. Shouted, “_Viva libertà!_” as the soldiers grabbed
him—I swear it beats me what these fellows are after. “_Viva
libertà!_” That’s what they cried when they put the House of Savoy on
the throne, and now they’re trying to pull it off again with the same
cry.’
‘I fear the seeds of revolution are sown pretty thick in Italy,’ said
Copley.
‘Where aren’t there the seeds of revolution to-day?’ Melville groaned.
‘Central Africa is only waiting a government in order to overturn it.’
‘By the way,’ interpolated Copley, ‘the assassin is a friend of
Sybert’s.’
‘A friend of Sybert’s!’ Marcia echoed the words before she considered
their form.
Sybert caught the expression and smiled slightly.
‘Not a very dear friend, Miss Marcia. I first made his acquaintance, I
believe, on the day that you discovered Marcellus.’
‘How did that happen?’ Mrs. Copley asked.
‘I heard him talking in a café.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t hand him over,’ said Melville. ‘You would have
saved the police considerable trouble. It seems they have been watching
him for some time.’
‘I wasn’t handing people over just then,’ Sybert returned dryly.
‘However, I don’t see that the police need complain. It strikes me that
he has handed himself over in about as effectual a way as he possibly
could; he won’t go about any more sticking stilettos into kings. The
Italians are an excitable lot when they once get aroused; they talk
more than is wise—but when it comes to doing they usually back down.
It seems, however, that this fellow had the courage of his convictions.
After all, it was, in a way, rather fine of him, you know.’
‘A pretty poor way,’ Melville frowned.
‘Oh, certainly,’ Sybert acquiesced carelessly. ‘Umberto’s a gentleman.
I don’t care to see him knifed.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ reiterated Melville, ‘is the fellow’s point
of view. No matter how much he may object to kings, he must know that
he can never rid the country of them through assassination; as soon as
one king is out of the way, another stands in line to take his place.
No possible good could come to the man through Humbert’s death, and he
must have known that he had not one chance in a hundred of escaping
himself—I confess his motive is beyond me. The only thing that
explains it to my mind is that the fellow’s crazy, but the police seem
to think he’s entirely sane.’
Sybert leaned back in his chair and studied the flowers in the centre
of the table with a speculative frown.
‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘the man was not crazy. I understand his motive,
though I don’t know that I can make it clear. It was probably in part
mistaken patriotism—but not entirely that. I heard him state it very
clearly, and it struck me at the time that it was doubtless, at bottom,
the motive for most assassinations. His words, as I remember them, were
something like this: “Who is the King? He is only a man. Why is he so
different from me? Am I not a man, too? I am, and before I die the King
shall know it.”’
Sybert raised his eyes and glanced about the table. Copley nodded and
Melville frowned thoughtfully. The two elder ladies were listening with
polite attention, and Marcia was leaning forward with her eyes on his
face. Sybert immediately dropped his own eyes to the flowers again.
‘There you have the matter in a nutshell. Why did he wish to
assassinate the King? As an expression of his own identity. Through a
perfectly natural egotistical impulse for self-assertion. The man had
been oppressed and trampled on all his life. He was conscious of powers
that were undeveloped, of force that he could not use. He was raging
blindly against the weight that was crushing him down. The weight was
society, but its outward symbol was the King. The King had only one
life to lose, and this despised, obscure Neapolitan peasant, the very
lowest of the King’s subjects, had it in his power to take that life
away. It was the man’s one chance of utterance—his one chance of
becoming an individual, of leaving his mark on the age. And, in acting
as he did, he acted not for himself alone, but for the people; for the
inarticulate thousands who are struggling for some mode of expression,
but are bound by cowardice and ignorance and inertia.’
Sybert paused and raised his eyes to Melville’s with a sort of
challenge.
‘If that man had been able to obtain congenial work—work in which he
could take an interest, could express his own identity; if he could
have become a little prosperous, so that he need not fear for his
family’s support; why, then—the King’s life would not have been in
danger to-day. And as long as there is any man left in this kingdom of
Italy,’ he added, ‘who, in spite of honest endeavour, cannot earn
enough to support his family, just so long is the King’s life in
danger.’
‘And there are thousands of such men,’ put in Copley.
Melville uttered a short laugh. ‘By heavens, it’s true!’ he said. ‘The
position of American consul may not carry much glory, but I don’t know
that I care to trade it with Umberto for his kingdom.’
‘Do you suppose the King was scared?’ inquired Marcia. ‘I wonder what
it feels like to wake up every morning and think that maybe before
night you’ll be assassinated.’
‘He didn’t appear to be scared,’ said her uncle. ‘He shrugged his
shoulders when they caught the man, and remarked that this was one of
the perquisites of his trade.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Good for Umberto!’
‘Oh, he’s no coward,’ said Sybert. ‘He knows the price of crowns these
days.’
‘It’s terrible!’ Mrs. Melville breathed. ‘I am thankful they caught the
assassin at least. Society ought to sleep better to-night for having
him removed.’
‘Ah,’ said Sybert, ‘Society can’t be protected that way. The point is
that he leaves others behind to do his work.’
‘The man was from Naples, you say?’ Mrs. Copley asked suddenly.
Her husband read her thoughts and smiled reassuringly. ‘So far as I
have heard, my dear, there was no crucifix tattooed upon his breast.’
Marcia raised her head quickly. ‘Uncle Howard,’ she asked, ‘is that the
mark of a society or of just that special man?’
‘I can’t say, I’m sure, Marcia,’ he returned with a laugh. ‘I suspect
that it’s an original piece of blasphemy on his part, though it may
belong to a cult.’
‘When is his time up?’ she persisted. ‘To get out of prison, I mean.’
‘I don’t know; I really haven’t figured it up. There are enough things
to worry about without troubling over him.’
In her excitement over the King’s attempted assassination she had
almost forgotten the man of the grotto, but her uncle’s careless laugh
brought back her terror. The man might at that very moment be watching
them from the ilex grove. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder
toward the open glass doors which led to the balcony. It was moonlight
again. In contrast to the soft radiance of the marble-paved terrace,
the ilex shadows were black with the sinister blackness of a pall. She
looked down at her plate with a little shiver, and she sat through the
rest of the meal in an agony of impatience to get up and move about.
Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation. They were
talking of the soldiers; a large detachment of carabinieri had been
stationed at Palestrina, and the mountain roads were being patrolled.
The carriage that night had passed two men on horseback stationed at
the turning where the road to Castel Vivalanti branches off from the
Via Prænestina. Mrs. Copley said something about its giving them a
feeling of security at the villa to have so many soldiers near, and
Melville replied that whatever the crimes of the Italian government, it
at least looked after the safety of its guests, Marcia listened with a
sigh of relief, and she rose from the table with an almost easy mind.
They all adjourned to the salon for coffee, and as soon as she could
speak to her uncle without attracting attention she touched him on the
arm.
‘Come out on the loggia just a moment, Uncle Howard; I want to tell you
something.’
He followed her in some surprise. She went down the steps and paused on
the terrace, well out of ear-shot of the salon windows.
‘Uncle Howard, I saw the tattooed man to-day.’
Mr. Copley paused with a match in one hand and a cigar in the other.
‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.
‘Asleep in the ruined grotto.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There was a crucifix tattooed upside down on his breast.’
‘So!’
He examined the pavement in silence a moment, then he raised his head
with an excited little laugh such as a hunter might give when hot on
the scent.
‘Well! I thought I had done for him, but it appears not.’ He strode
over to the salon windows. ‘Sybert—ah, Sybert,’ he called in a low
tone, ‘just step out here a moment.’
Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very deliberately
scratched his match on the balustrade and lighted his cigar. ‘Tell your
story, Marcia,’ he said between puffs.
She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he could take
the information as casually as this, it could not be very serious. She
repeated the account of what she had seen, and the two men exchanged a
silent glance. Copley gave another short laugh.
‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’
‘I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your name you could
expect the honour,’ Sybert growled.
‘What do you mean?’ Marcia asked quickly.
‘Just at present, Miss Marcia, I’m afraid that neither your uncle nor
myself is as popular as our virtues demand.’
‘Oh, there’s no danger,’ said Copley. ‘They wouldn’t dare break into
the house, and of course I sha’n’t be fool enough to walk the
country-side unarmed. The first thing in the morning, I shall send into
Palestrina for some carabinieri to patrol the place. And on Monday the
family can move into Rome instead of waiting till Wednesday. There’s
nothing to be afraid of,’ he added, with a reassuring glance at Marcia.
‘Forewarned is forearmed—we’ll see that the house is locked to-night.’
‘Can you trust the servants?’ Sybert asked.
Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.
‘By Jove! I don’t know that I can. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t
trust that Pietro as far as I could see him. He’s been acting mighty
queer lately.’
Marcia’s eyes suddenly widened in terror, and she recalled one
afternoon when she had caught Pietro in the village talking to
Gervasio’s stepfather, as well as a dozen other little things that she
had not thought of at the time, but which now seemed to have a secret
meaning.
Sybert saw her look of fear and he said lightly: ‘There’s not the
slightest danger, Miss Marcia. We’ll get the soldiers here in the
morning; and for to-night, even if we can’t put much trust in the
butler, there are at least three men in the house who are above
suspicion and who are armed.’ He touched his pocket with a laugh. ‘When
it comes to the point I am a very fair shot, and so is your uncle. You
were wishing a little while ago that something exciting would
happen—if it gives you any pleasure, you can pretend that this is an
adventure.’
‘Oh, yes, Marcia,’ her uncle rejoined. ‘Don’t let the thought of the
tattooed man disturb your sleep. He’s more spectacular than dangerous.’
The others had come out on to the loggia and were exclaiming at the
beauty of the night.
‘Howard,’ Mrs. Copley called, ‘don’t you want to come and make a fourth
at whist?’
‘In a moment,’ he returned. ‘We won’t say anything to the others,’ he
said in a low tone to Marcia and Sybert.
‘There’s no use raising any unnecessary excitement.’
‘Marcia, if you and Mr. Sybert would like to play, we can make it
six-handed euchre instead of whist.’
Sybert glanced down to see that her hand was trembling, and he decided
that to make her sit through a game of cards would be too great a test
of her nerves.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Copley,’ he called back; ‘it’s too fine a night to
pass indoors. Miss Marcia and I will stay out here.’
The proposal was a test of his own nerves, but he had schooled himself
for a good many years to hide his feelings; it was an ordeal he was
used to.
With final exclamations on the beauty of the night, the whist party
returned to the salon. Sybert brought a wicker chair from the loggia
for Marcia, and seated himself on the parapet while he lighted a cigar
with a nonchalance she could not help but admire. Did she but know it,
his nonchalance was only surface deep, though the cause for his inward
tumult had nothing to do with the man of the ruined grotto. They sat in
silence for a time, looking down on the shimmering Campagna. The scene
was as beautiful as on that other night of the early spring, but now it
was full summer. It was so peaceful, so idyllic, so thoroughly the
Italy of poetry and romance, that it seemed absurd to think of plots
and riots in connexion with that landscape. At least Marcia was not
thinking of them now; she was willing to take her uncle at his word and
leave the responsibility to him. The thing that was still burning in
her mind was that unexplained moment by the fountain. It was the first
time she had been alone with Sybert since. How would he act? Would he
simply ignore it, as if it had never happened? He would, of course; and
that would be far worse than if he apologized or congratulated her, for
then she would have a chance to explain. What did he think? she asked
herself for the hundredth time as she covertly scanned his dark,
impassive face. Did he think her engaged to Paul Dessart, or did he
divine the real reason why the young man had so suddenly sailed for
America? Even so, it would not put her in a much better light in his
eyes. He would think she had been playing with Paul and—her face
flushed at the thought—had tried to play with him.
Sybert was the one who broke the silence. ‘I think,’ he said slowly,
‘that I could spot your man with the crucifix this very moment.’ He
pointed with his cigar toward the hill above them, where little
stone-walled Castel Vivalanti was outlined against the sky. ‘If I am
not mistaken, he is in the back room of a _trattoria_ up there, in
company with our friend Tarquinio of the Bed-quilt, who,’ he added
meditatively, ‘is a fool. Those carabinieri are not guarding the roads
for nothing. A number of Neapolitans have come north lately who might
better have stayed at home—Camorrists for the most part—and the
government is after them. This fellow with the crucifix is without
doubt one of them, and in all probability he just happened into the
ruins this afternoon to rest, without having an idea who lived here. At
any rate, I strongly suspect that your uncle it not the hare he’s
hunting. Italy is too busy just at present to take time for private
revenge—though,’ he smiled, ‘I have no wish to spoil your adventure.’
Marcia breathed a little sigh by way of answer, and another silence
fell between them.
‘On such a night as this,’ he said dreamily, ‘did you and I, Miss
Marcia, once take a drive together.’
‘And we didn’t speak a word!’
‘I don’t know that we did,’ he laughed. ‘At least I don’t recall the
conversation.’
From the valley below them there came the sound of a man’s voice
singing a familiar serenade. Only the tune was audible, but the words
they knew:
‘Open your casement, love.
I come as a robber to steal your heart.’
Sybert, listening, watched her from under drooping lids. He was
struggling with a sudden temptation which almost overmastered him. He
thought her engaged to another man, but—why not come as a robber and
steal her heart? In the past few weeks he had seen lifelong hopes come
to nothing; he was wounded and discouraged and in need of human
sympathy, and he had fought his battles alone. During that time of
struggle Marcia had come to occupy a large part of his consciousness.
He had seen in her character undeveloped possibilities—a promise for
the future—and the desire had subtly taken hold of him to be the one
to watch and direct her growth. The new feeling was the more intense,
in that it had taken the place of hopes and interests that were dying.
And then that, too, had been snatched away. Since the night of her
birthday ball he had not doubted for a moment that she was engaged to
Paul Dessart. It had never occurred to him that the scene he had
interrupted was merely her sympathetic fashion of dismissing the young
man. A dozen little things had come back to him that before had had no
significance, and he had accepted the fact without questioning. It
seemed of a piece with the rest of his fate that this should be added
just when it was hardest for him to bear. It was the final touch of
Nemesis that made her work rounded and complete.
And now, as he watched her, he was filled with a sudden fierce
rebellion, an impulse to fight against the fate that was robbing him,
to snatch her away from Paul Dessart. Every instinct of his nature
urged him forward; only honour held him back. He turned away and with
troubled eyes studied the distance. She had chosen freely—whether
wisely or not, the future would prove. He knew that he could not
honourably stretch out so much as his little finger to call her back.
Presently he pulled himself together and began to talk fluently and
easily on purely impersonal themes—of the superiority of the Tyrol
over the Swiss lakes as a summer resort, of the character of the people
in Sicily, of books and art and European politics, and of a dozen
different subjects that Marcia had never heard him mention before. It
was the small talk of the diplomat, of the man who must always be ready
to meet every one on his own ground. Marcia had known that Sybert could
talk on other subjects than Italian politics when he chose, for she had
overheard him at dinners and receptions, but he had never chosen when
with her. In their early intercourse he had scarcely taken the trouble
to talk to her in any but the most perfunctory way, and then suddenly
their relations had no longer demanded formal conversation. They had
somehow jumped over the preliminary period of getting acquainted and
had reached the stage where they could understand each other without
talking. And here he was conversing with her as politely and
impersonally as if they had known each other only half an hour. She
kept up her end of the conversation with monosyllables. She felt
chilled and hurt; he might at least be frank. Whatever he thought of
her, there was no need for this elaborate dissimulation. She had no
need to ask herself to-night if he were watching her. His eyes never
for a moment left the moonlit campagna.
After half an hour or so Mrs. Copley stepped to the window of the salon
to ask Marcia if she did not wish a wrap. It was warm, of course, but
the evening dews were heavy. Marcia scoffed at the absurdity of a wrap
on such an evening, but she rose obediently. They strolled into the
house and paused at the door of the salon. The whist-players were
studying their cards again with anxious brows; it appeared to be a
scientific game.
Marcia shook her head and laughed. ‘On such a night as this to be
playing whist!’
Melville glanced up at her with a little smile. ‘Ah, well, Miss Marcia,
we’re growing old—moonlight and romance were made for the young.’
Sybert smiled rather coldly as he turned away. It struck him that the
remark was singularly malapropos.
Marcia went on up to her room, and throwing about her shoulders a
chiffon scarf, an absurd apology for a wrap, she paused a moment by the
open glass doors of the balcony and stood looking down upon the moonlit
landscape. She felt sore and bruised and hopeless. Sybert was beyond
her; she did not understand him. He had evidently made up his mind, and
nothing would move him; he would give her no chance to put herself
right. She suddenly threw back her head and stiffened her shoulders. If
that were the line he chose to take—very well! She would meet him on
his own ground. She turned back, and on her way downstairs paused a
second at Gerald’s door. It was a family habit to look in on him at all
hours of the night to make sure that he was sleeping and duly covered
up, though to-night it could scarcely be claimed that cover was
necessary. She glanced in, and then, with a quickening of her breath,
took a step farther to make sure. The bed was empty. She stood staring
a moment, not knowing what to think, and the next she was hurrying down
the hall toward the servants’ quarters. She knocked on Bianca’s door,
and finding no one within, called up Granton.
There was no cause for worry, Granton assured her. Master Gerald and
that little Italian brat were probably in the scullery, stealing
raisins and chocolate.
‘Oh,’ said Marcia, with a sigh of relief; ‘but where’s Bianca? She
ought to sit by Gerald till he goes to sleep.
Bianca!—Granton sniffed disdainfully—no one could make head or tail
of Bianca. Her opinion was that the girl was half crazy. She had been
in there that night crying, and telling her how much she liked the
signora and the signorina, and how she hated to leave them.
‘But she isn’t going to leave,’ said Marcia. ‘We’ve decided to take her
with us.’
Granton responded with a disdainful English shrug and the reiterated
opinion that the girl was crazy. Marcia did not stop to argue the
point, but set out for the kitchen by way of the ‘middle staircase,’
creeping along quietly, determined to catch the marauders unawares. Her
caution was superfluous. The rear of the house was entirely deserted.
No sign of a boy, no sign of a servant anywhere about. The doors were
open and the rooms were vacant. She hurried upstairs again in growing
mystification, and turned toward Gervasio’s room. The little fellow was
in bed and sound asleep. What did it mean? she asked herself. What
could have become of Gerald, and where had all the servants gone?
Suddenly a horrible suspicion flashed over her. Gervasio’s
stepfather—could he have stolen Gerald by way of revenge? That was why
Bianca was crying! It was a plot. She had overheard, and they had
threatened to kill her if she told. Perhaps they would hold him for a
ransom. Perhaps—as the sound of her uncle’s careless laugh floated up
from below she caught her breath in a convulsive sob and stretched out
her hand against the wall to steady herself.