The Captain, amid all his distress, marked the name.
"I trust her—I trust her!" cried the Count, raising his hands in an obvious stress of emotion, "as I trust myself, as I would trust my brother, my bosom friend. Yes, my dear friend, as I now trust you yourself. Go to her and say, 'I am Andrea's friend, his trusted friend. I am the messenger of love. Give me your love—'"
"What?" cried the Captain. The words sounded wonderfully attractive.
"'Give me your love to carry back to him.'"
"Oh, exactly," murmured the Captain, relapsing into altruistic gloom.
"Then all will be forgiven between us. Only our love will be remembered. And you, my friend, will have the happiness of seeing us reunited, and of knowing that two grateful hearts thank you. I can imagine no greater joy."
"It would certainly be—er—intensely gratifying," murmured Dieppe.
"You would remember it all your life. It is not a thing a man gets the chance of doing often."
"No," agreed the Captain; but he thought to himself, "Deuce take it, he talks as if he were doing me a favour!"
"My friend, you look sad; you don't seem—"