"Let your master, then, come to London, or rather, into its neighbourhood. He can reside in one of the suburbs most remote from the count's haunts. In two days I will have found him a lodging and write to him. You trust to me now?"
"I do indeed,—I do, Excellency. Ah, if the signorina were married, we would not care!"
"Married! But she looks so high!"
"Alas! not now! not here!"
Randal sighed heavily. Jackeymo's eyes sparkled. He thought he had detected a new motive for Randal's interest,—a motive to an Italian the most natural, the most laudable of all.
"Find the house, Signore, write to the padrone. He shall come. I'll talk to him. I can manage him. Holy San Giacomo, bestir thyself now,— 't is long since I troubled thee!"
Jackeymo strode off through the fading trees, smiling and muttering as he went.
The first dinner-bell rang, and on entering the drawingroom, Randal found Parson Dale and his wife, who had been invited in haste to meet the unexpected visitor.
The preliminary greetings over, Mr. Dale took the opportunity afforded by the squire's absence to inquire after the health of Mr. Egerton.
"He is always well," said Randal. "I believe he is made of iron."