“You were in disguise, a beggar. I gave you money. What have you done with the child?”
“What-a da child-a?” he asked, gruffly.
“Dorothy Thorpe!”
“He, he, he, he,” he again chuckled, and sharply turned on her: “Who tole-a you, Eesa gott-a da kid?”
“What did you want to meet me here for? Was it not to tell me where Dorothy is?”
“Oh, he, he, he, he,” he laughed. “Eesa jessa da thought-a youda like-a see me—alone—at night, Signora.” And he watched her from the corners of his eyes, as, with bent head, he muttered:
“Turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages, black-a da boots, steal-a da chil. Anyting dees-a gett-a da mon. Go back a da sunny Italy!”
“What was your motive for kidnapping the child?” she asked, without heeding his significant answer.
“Da mon!” he promptly replied. Up to that moment he had equivocated.
“You are frank,” she rejoined, and then asked: “Is Dorothy safe?”