Pietro gulped with emotion. He swore by all his hopes of heaven and with tears that he loved me dearly. He could not take my money. He would cheerfully murder any enemy of mine out of sheer gratitude for my kindness to him; but he could not take the money. No, no, not for himself, but–for expenses, yes. He pocketed the note with an oily smile.
My directions to him were simple. He was to betake himself to the railway station. He was first of all to assure himself that St. Hilary was not on the eight-thirty train. If he were not on that train, Pietro was to keep watch for him on the landing of the railway station until six o’clock in the evening. If the dealer was on the eight-thirty train, or if he appeared later, Pietro was to go where he went, if that meant to the ends of the earth. But, above all, he was to keep out of sight.
I had still the P. and O. liner and the boat to Trieste to watch. The liner I could take care of myself from St. Hilary’s window, or better still, a seat on the Riva under the hotel awning. She was anchored not a hundred feet away, and I could readily make out every passenger who boarded her. As for the boat to Trieste, it did not go until seven in the evening, and I could recall Pietro from his post at six if necessary; for there was no train between six and nine.
I could do nothing more at present except keep a watchful eye open for St. Hilary, and that, as I have said, I could do as well, or even better, from the Riva below. And now that I was forced to inaction for the present, I was conscious that I had had nothing to eat since the evening before.
I locked St. Hilary’s door after me. I settled myself at a little table under the red-and-white striped awning, where, quite inconspicuous myself, I could see every one who entered or came out of the hotel.
The sun rose higher and higher over San Georgio’s. The golden angel on the campanile grew brighter and brighter, until she seemed a thing alive, quivering in her eagerness to spring into that deep lake of blue. The dazzling whiteness of the pavement toward the Molo gradually became alive with moving spots of variegated color. The teeming life of the broad street amused me for a while. But now that the excitement was passed, now that I was very near despair, though I would not acknowledge it, I found it difficult to be alert. It seemed useless to make any pretence at watching at all. I felt very sleepy.
The heat of the early afternoon became almost intolerable. I struggled and fought against an almost overpowering drowsiness. Suddenly I was wide awake. Duke da Sestos had just come out of Danielli’s. He was walking toward me. He saw me. He raised his hat, and smiled.
CHAPTER XXVIII
“Ah, it is my friend Hume,” he purred. “I had thought that Mr. Hume had left Venice.”
I ignored the left hand he extended negligently toward me. He had as many changes of front as a Russian diplomatist. Then I laughed. His cool effrontery was downright amusing.