“Very precise information, I assure you, my friend,” he cried, his blue eyes dancing. “When one sees a gondola racing to the railway station, with two rowers, so great is the hurry, one may reasonably infer that the gentleman who sits under the felsa smoking a cigarette is on his way to take a train, hein?”
“So you saw Mr. St. Hilary on his way to the railway station?” I said slowly. “And the time?”
“It was not so late as seven, and certainly not before half-past six.”
My worst fears were realized. Pietro had let him slip through his fingers at the eight-thirty train. But at least I would not give this Italian the satisfaction of seeing the consternation the news gave me, and I answered indifferently:
“A little trip to Milan, I suppose. If he had been going far I should certainly have seen him before his departure.”
“But, Mr. Hume,” cried the duke in triumph, “when the gondola is piled high with boxes, is it reasonable to think that our friend simply runs off to Milan? No, no; Naples, perhaps, or Paris, or London.”
“What! You saw his trunks?” I cried.
The duke held up his five fingers.
“So many.”
I turned easily in my seat and looked him over coolly. I had every reason to believe that St. Hilary possessed only two trunks, and that these two trunks were in his room up-stairs.