The doorway of Gabriel Dasso's house stood open and the gleam of yellow light that cut into the darkness showed old Pieto the groom holding by the bridle a horse that seemed by its steaming hide to have been hard ridden and but newly arrived. Lieutenant Mozaro slackened his steps as he mounted the hill, asking himself what visitor this could be that rode in haste to Dasso at so late an hour.
Remembering the business of his own visit he drew back into the shadow of the stable yard of a little posada that stood nearly opposite. It was striking eleven down in the town and the inn had done its business of the day, and, save for a little square of light in an upper storey, was in darkness. Gaspar leant against the gate-post and watched the horse standing with outstretched neck and drooping head, and the form of the groom silhouetted against the glow of the hall. Old Pieto looked now and again, with a show of impatience, within the house, thinking, no doubt, of the interrupted supper awaiting him below stairs.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed—it seemed longer to the man waiting in the stable yard—when the booted and spurred figure of a young man came out upon the doorstep. He stood there a moment drawing on his riding-gloves, and turned and spoke to the master of the house who stood behind him, just within the hall. The young rider took the reins from old Pieto and swung himself gracefully into the saddle. He bent down for a final word or two, then brought his horse sharply round and with a dig of the heels set him at the hill that led inland.
Mozaro was about to leave his retreat when he heard the window of the inn open. From his point of vantage in the shadow, he saw a head emerge—a round bullet-shaped head that took the attitude of listening. It remained motionless until the clatter of the horse's hoofs upon the cobbled street died away, then it turned a face full upon the spot where he stood, and Mozaro gave a start as he remembered that he had not put out his cigar. The face was a strange one to him, and he knew that Detti, the host of the Three Lilies, did not entertain many guests. Moreover, it was not the face of a native of San Pietro. A moment the stranger regarded him fixedly, then with a muttering in a language that was certainly not Spanish, but was undoubtedly a curse, the window was slammed shut and the light extinguished.
The lieutenant turned towards the house opposite. Old Pieto had disappeared, but Dasso still stood upon the doorstep looking anxiously along the road towards the town. As Mozaro came out of the shadow he gave a start, then greeted him eagerly. He drew him inside and closed the stout oaken door.
"There has been great news to-night," he said, and led the way to the library.
The two men seated themselves at the table on which was strewn a few official-looking papers.
"Enrico is worse, Gaspar; I have just heard from the Palace that he may go at any time. The doctors wonder at his vitality."
"Threatened men live long."
"Yes, and there's another proverb, I believe, about it being hard to kill a weed—Enrico may laugh at the doctors yet. But," went on Dasso, "we must be in readiness. Miss Baxendale must be secured or silenced."