The man lifted his hat, bowed and softly said: “Bees a-note a da fraid, Signora de Virginia. Eesa nota-a do you-a da harm. I come to da meet-a you.”
His easy, respectful manner reassured her. Relieved, she said: “Then it was you who sent me the note this morning?”
“He, he, he, he,” he chuckled low, but exultantly. “Eesa tole-a da self a-da letta would-a da fetch a-you.”
“What do you want—what am I—who are you?”
He turned his head aside, and muttered to himself. “She doesn’t recognize me as the old cripple,” and evaded a direct answer by asking her: “Donna you da know-a me?”
“Your voice sounds like”—and she thought of the old cripple who intruded on Mr. Harris’ grounds a few nights since. “Yes—what”— And she halted, unable to frame her thoughts into words.
He laughed low and gutturally. “He, he, he, he, eesa be a da fine-a artiste. Make-a da boss actor—like-a Salvina—bime by, eh?”
“You—you—you kidnapped little Dorothy,” she almost shrieked, forgetting her fear, and searching him with glittering eyes.
Jack Shore, for it was he, chuckled gleefully.
“You make-a da wild-a guessa, Signora, Eesa not-a da old-a cripple.”