“What are we expected to do with this fellow, anyway?” asked the second speaker.
“Why, when we get him,” said the other, “to carry out our agreement, we must get into a quarrel with him and dispose of him—that’s all.”
The shaft went home to Vivienne’s heart. “They have come here to murder my friend in need,” she said to herself. She sank upon her knees and raised her clasped hands. “Great God in Heaven, save him!” was her unspoken prayer. Could she do anything to avert the danger which threatened him? It was her duty, surely, to watch and listen.
“What’s all the trouble about?” asked the second man.
“What usually causes trouble—a love affair.”
“And the woman?”
“That Batistelli girl—Vivienne, I believe her name is. This young Englishman met her one day and she, fool-like, gave him a flower. The Count saw her do it, and asked the fellow to give it up. He refused and they had it out with their fists, the Count getting the worst of it.”
“Why didn’t he use his stiletto?”
“He tried to, but the Englishman took it from him with one hand and knocked him down with the other.”
“How do you happen to know so much?”