They had turned with a sudden swing from the broad canal to go speeding swiftly into a very dark and very narrow passage between high buildings.
“Why did you turn in here, Reggio?” demanded the professor, in Italian.
“Signor, it is best,” was the half-spoken, half-whispered answer. “Question me not, but trust me. Soon we will be again on the Grand Canal.”
“I certain believe the man is some bughouse,” said Buckhart. “He’s sure acting and talking a heap queer to-night.”
“I think he is perfectly trustworthy,” declared Dick; “and he’s the handsomest gondolier in all Venice.”
“You picked him out, pard, because he was handsome and graceful.”
“No; because I believed I could read honor and sincerity in his face. I believed he could be trusted.”
“If he’s daffy, he can’t be trusted to any great extent.”
Out of the canal they sped, Reggio’s body swaying rhythmically as he propelled the craft. He seemed almost feverish in his haste. Soon they swung again into another narrow channel, where it was very dark, Reggio turning his head to look round just as he did so. What he saw, if anything, caused him to increase his efforts.
They began to feel a touch of the almost fierce anxiety which had seized upon their gondolier. He seemed fleeing before something of which he was in mortal terror. In the moonlight, before they were sent rushing through this second dark channel, Dick had obtained a full view of the Italian’s face. It was pale and set, and his eyes seemed glowing with strange terror.