“Will you have the kindness to answer me?”
“Not when you ask questions of that kind.”
Arthur spoke sullenly; a curious, nervous irritability was taking possession of him. He knew by this time that many arrests had been made in both Leghorn and Pisa; and, though still ignorant of the extent of the calamity, he had already heard enough to put him into a fever of anxiety for the safety of Gemma and his other friends. The studied politeness of the officers, the dull game of fencing and parrying, of insidious questions and evasive answers, worried and annoyed him, and the clumsy tramping backward and forward of the sentinel outside the door jarred detestably upon his ear.
“Oh, by the bye, when did you last meet Giovanni Bolla?” asked the colonel, after a little more bandying of words. “Just before you left Pisa, was it?”
“I know no one of that name.”
“What! Giovanni Bolla? Surely you know him—a tall young fellow, closely shaven. Why, he is one of your fellow-students.”
“There are many students in the university whom I don't know.”
“Oh, but you must know Bolla, surely! Look, this is his handwriting. You see, he knows you well enough.”
The colonel carelessly handed him a paper headed: “Protocol,” and signed: “Giovanni Bolla.” Glancing down it Arthur came upon his own name. He looked up in surprise. “Am I to read it?”
“Yes, you may as well; it concerns you.”