There was no doubt that Gilardoni was on his guard, and would not betray more than he could possibly help.
Paul Desfrayne would not give up yet, for that eager desire to know what secret reason this man had for hating Madam Guiscardini so bitterly as he seemed to do was almost unconquerable.
“They say,” he went on slowly, lowering his eyes, and taking a tiny nail-knife from his waistcoat-pocket, to keep his glances ostentatiously employed, “that the beautiful songstress is already married.”
These men were playing at cross-purposes. The master would have given all he possessed in the world to have learned the secret which was of no value whatever to the servant. Four monosyllables would have served to unlock those dreary prison doors, and let in the light of possible happiness upon that poor, weary soul, who was suffering the penalty of the one mistake of his young life.
Paul Desfrayne glanced for a swift instant at Gilardoni. The Italian’s strong, nervous hands were clutched fast upon the top of the chair in front of him; his face was alternately red and pale, and his eyes were gleaming like fire.
“Who told you that?” he demanded, in a sepulchral whisper.
“I don’t know,” Captain Desfrayne answered, slightly shrugging his shoulders. “People tell you all sorts of things about eminent singers and public characters generally.”
Gilardoni leaned his long, thin body forward, and stared his master in the face.
“Then where do they say her husband is?” he demanded, in the same sibilant whisper.
The mystery seemed clearer now. He was an old lover—perhaps once a favorite—of madam’s. It was hardly worth the trouble of talking to the fellow; and Paul Desfrayne felt half-enraged with himself for having done so. But now that he wished the conversation ended, or, rather, that he had not begun it, Gilardoni seemed determined to continue it.