The duke told the detective that he had no further orders to give; but thanked him for his zeal, congratulated him on his success, paid him liberally, and bowed him out.
That evening the Duke of Hereward, unattended by groom or valet, took a coupe on the night express train for the south of France, and started for Marseilles, en route for Italy.
On the evening of the third day after leaving Paris he reached his destination—the little hamlet of San Vito at the foot of the Appenines.
He stopped at the small hotel.
Coming alone and unattended, carrying a small valise in his hand, and looking weary, dusty, and travel-stained, the Duke of Hereward was not intuitively recognized as a person of distinction, and therefore escaped the overwhelming amount of attention usually lavished upon English tourists of rank and wealth by continental hosts.
He was shown to a little room blinded by clustering vines, and there left to his own devices.
He ordered a bottle of the native wine, and sent for the landlord.
The latter came promptly—a thin, little, old man, with a skin like parchment, hair and beard like a black horse's mane, and eyes like glowworms.
He saluted the shabby stranger with courtesy, but without obsequiousness; for how should he know that the traveler was a duke?
"Pray sit down. I wish to ask you some questions," said the Duke of Hereward, with a natural, courteous dignity that immediately modified the landlord's estimate of his value.