“Signor Luigi Filippo,” said Calvert, “my friend here—the son of that immensely wealthy mi Lordo up stairs—is in a bit of scrape; he had an altercation last night with a fellow we take to be an Austrian spy.”
The host spat out, and frowned ferociously.
“Just so; a dog of a Croat, I suspect,” went on Culvert; “at all events, he must put a bullet in him, and to do so, must get over the frontier beyond Como; we want therefore a little money from you, and your secrecy, till this blows over.”
The host bowed, and pursed up his lips like one who would like a little time for reflection, and at last said, “How much money, Signor?”
“What do you say, Bob? will a hundred Naps do, or eighty?”
“Fifty; fifty are quite enough,” cried Barnard.
“On a circular note, of course, Signor?” asked the host.
“No, a draft at six days on my friend’s father; mi Lordo means to pass a month here.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that, Calvert,” whispered Barnard; but the other stopped him at once with, “Be quiet; leave this to me.”
“Though payable at sight, Signor Luigi, we shall ask you to hold it over for five or six days, because we hope possibly to be back here before Saturday, and if so, we’ll settle this ourselves.”