“Well?” said Vesea.
“Madame,” the Chief began slowly and thoughtfully. “Do you remember singing in Milan ten years ago? You were at the beginning of your career then, but already famous.”
His voice was rich and curiously persuasive.
Without wishing to do so, Vesea nodded an affirmative.
“One night you were driving home from the opera, and there was a riot going on in the streets. The police were everywhere. People whispered of a secret revolutionary society among the students of the University. As for the students, after a pitched battle near the Cathedral, they were flying. Suddenly, looking from your carriage, you saw a very youthful student, who had been struck on the head, fall down in the gutter and then get up again and struggle on. You stopped your carriage. ‘Save me,’ the youth cried, ‘Save me, Signorina. If the police catch me I shall get ten years’ imprisonment!’ You opened the door of your carriage, and the youth jumped in. ‘Quick, under the rug,’ you said quietly. You did not ask me any questions. You didn’t stay to consider whether the youth might be a dangerous person. You merely said, ‘Quick, under the rug!’ The youth crept under the rug. The carriage moved on slowly, and the police, who shortly appeared, never thought of looking within it for a fugitive young anarchist. The youth was saved. For two days you had him in your lodging, and then he got safely away to the coast, and so by ship to another country. Do you remember that incident, Madame?”
“I remember it well,” she answered. “What happened to the youth?”
“I am he,” the Chief said.
“You?” she exclaimed. “I should scarcely have guessed but for your voice. You are changed.”
“In our profession one changes quickly.”
“Why do you remind me of that incident?” she asked.