The man shrugged his shoulders, and after a suggestive pause murmured:
“Well—think of Salti.”
“I do refuse,” she said.
A door opened at the other end of the room, and a third man entered.
“The Chief!” said the younger of the men at the table. “He will continue the examination.”
The new-comer was comparatively youthful—under thirty—and had the look of a well-born Italian. He gave a glance at Vesea, stood still, and then approached the table and sat down.
“This is Louise Vesea,” the first speaker said, and rapidly indicated how far he had gone. There was a long silence.
“Thanks, brothers,” the Chief said. “By a strange coincidence I know this lady—this woman, and I feel convinced that it will be better, in the interests of our cause, if—if I examine her alone.” He spoke with authority, and yet with a certain queer hesitation.
The two men silently, but with obvious reluctance, rose and left the room.
When they were alone, the great singer and the Chief fronted each other in silence.