"Ha! That is-a da romance. It seems that Signor Rolfieri was always fond of Maria, and when he hear that she have-a da baby, and he see her again — presto! he is in love wis her. So now they go to London to get-a da clothes, queeck, so she can go wis him for da honeymoon. So I tink we drink-a da wine till they come back."
They spent a convivial morning, which Simon Templar would have enjoyed more if caution had not compelled him to tip all his drinks down the back of his chair.
It was half-past one when a car drew up outside, and a somewhat haggard Rolfieri, a jubilant Alessandro Naccaro, and a quietly smiling Maria came in. Domenick jumped up.
"Everything is all right?" he asked.
"Pairfect," beamed Alessandro.
That was as much as the Saint was waiting to hear. He uncoiled himself from his chair and smiled at them all.
"In that case, boys and girls," he drawled, "would you all put up your hands and keep very quiet?"
There was an automatic in his hand; and six eyes stared at it mutely. And then Domenick Naccaro smiled a wavering and watery smile.
"I tink you make-a da joke, no?" he said.
"Sure," murmured the Saint amiably. "I make-a da joke. Just try and get obstreperous, and watch me laugh."