“If it will afford you any gratification to know, I do not object to admitting that it was given to me by a woman,” he said.
“By an Italian?”
“By an Italian? Yes.”
“It was a love-gift?”
An exclamation of anger escaped Gilardoni’s master, and he impatiently stretched out his hand.
“Enough of this nonsense!” he exclaimed, with displeasure. “Give me that packet, and get you to bed. Your wits are addled by the nap you were betrayed into.”
Gilardoni moved a step nearer to Captain Desfrayne, and, gripping him tightly by the wrist, looked with intent, searching earnestness into his face, as if he would read his soul. There was nothing sinister or menacing in his attitude, gestures, or expression. He had simply the appearance of a man carried away by some self-absorbing desire to learn a fact of paramount interest to himself.
“This cross,” he said, “was given to you by Lucia Guiscardini.”
“I do not understand why the fact should interest you,” answered Paul Desfrayne. “It certainly did come from her hand. What was Lucia Guiscardini to you, or you to Lucia Guiscardini, that the sight of her gifts to another should cause you so much emotion?”
“Did she tell you where she had obtained this toy?” asked Gilardoni.