The Signor received this piece of intelligence with a little smile and shrug.
‘The Signor is pleased to joke,’ he said. ‘Is it that we are masquerading?’
‘No, Signor; any masquerading that went on was in old days, when my friend Torwood and I used to change names with one another in a foolish, boyish fashion, which now I regret. You may have known my friend under the name of Debenham, but he was really Torwood; and I am Philip Debenham.’
Tor spoke quietly and firmly; but he did not like the gleam of distrust that sparkled in the stranger’s eyes. Even the tinted glasses did not conceal from Tor the glance of astonishment and disdain which was undoubtedly shot at him. It was evident that this man might be dangerous, and it behoved Tor to act towards him with all the firmness and acuteness which lay in his power.
‘You are perplexed, I see, Signor, by my statement,’ he said courteously.
‘I am, Signor.’
‘But why so, may I ask? Is it not enough when I tell you that I and my friend were more than once foolish and thoughtless enough to change our names one for the other? The whole matter lies there, if you can but see it.’
Signor Pagliadini made a little deprecating foreign bow, as if to apologize for any doubt he might cast upon his host’s veracity; but all his grace of manner could not hide from Tor the distinctly menacing look in those half-concealed eyes of his.
‘I could see that well enough, Signor,’ he said, with a certain unpleasant significance in manner. ‘It certainly seems an odd sort of amusement for grown men, this interchange of names. It does not sound very amusing, or profitable either. Still, of course, if the Signor says it was so, why then, without doubt, so it was. But still, I may be stupid—I do not see things quickly—I make hillocks into mountains, very likely, as you English say; but I cannot understand one thing.’
‘And what may that one thing be?’