CHAPTER IX.
PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES.
Captain Desfrayne selected a paper, and slowly turned over the pages as he cut them. Some time elapsed before he spoke; for he could not exactly frame words in which to put the question he meant to ask.
“What part of Italy did you come from?” he inquired carelessly, following the spiral line of cigar-smoke, as he breathed it from his lips.
Gilardoni looked at him with that furtive glance Captain Desfrayne had already noticed; but replied, without seeming to hesitate:
“From Florence, sir.”
“Ah! Have you any relatives living?”
“None, sir. Not one. My father and mother died when I was a young child, leaving me to the care of a distant relative, who has since died, and I never had either brothers or sisters.”
The faint suspicion that had arisen in Paul Desfrayne’s mind that the brilliant prima donna might be this fellow’s sister, was then negatived. Probably, some humble lover of her early days, whom she had despised, perhaps jilted? So superbly beautiful a creature, born in an Italian village, must have had many adorers; and he knew her to be arrogant and callous of other people’s feelings, and incredibly vain of her own manifold attractions.
“A countrywoman of yours,” he abruptly said, with an effort at smiling, as he turned out the large, oval engraving of Madam Guiscardini.