"I have no patience with you Italians," he said, gruffly; "you bandy words and play with them as if you enjoyed it."
Diavolo, thought I, he is angry at my silence. What will he be if I speak?
"What do you wish to know, Signor Conte?" I inquired, in suave tones.
"I wish to know where my daughter is. Where is she? Do you understand? I am asking a question now, and you cannot deny it."
I was sitting in front of him, but I rose and pretended to shut the door, thus putting the table and the end of the piano between us, before I answered.
"She is in Rome, Signor Conte," I said.
"With Cardegna?" he asked, not betraying any emotion.
"Yes."
"Very well. I will have them arrested at once. That is all I wanted." He put his crutch-stick to the floor as though about to rise. Seeing that his anger was not turned against me, I grew bold.
"You had better not do that," I mildly observed, across the table.