Ercole Ferruci was, as Diana had said, a singularly handsome man of thirty-five. He was dark, slender, and tall, with dark, flashing eyes, a heavy black moustache, and an alert military look about him which showed that he had served in the army. The above description savours a trifle of the impossible hero of a young lady's dream; and, as a matter of fact, Ferruci was not unlike that ideal personage. He had all the looks and graces which women admire, and seemed honest and fiery enough in a manly way—the last person, as Lucian thought, to gain his aims by underhand ways, or to kill a helpless old man. But Lucian, legally experienced in human frailty, was not to be put off with voluble conversation and outward graces. He wished for proofs of innocence, and these he tried to obtain as soon as Ferruci drew breath in his fiery harangue.
"If you are innocent, Count," said Lucian, in reply to the fluent, incorrect English of the Italian, "appearances are against you. However, you can prove yourself innocent, if you will."
"Sir!" cried Ferruci, "is not my word good?"
"Not good enough for an English court," replied Lucian coldly. "You say you were not in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve. Who can prove that?"
"My friend—my dear friend, Dr. Jorce of Hampstead, sir. I was with him; oh, yes, sir, he will tell you so."
"Very good! I hope his evidence will clear you," replied the more phlegmatic Englishman. "And this cloak?"
"I never bought the cloak! I saw it not before!"
"Then come with me to the shop in Bayswater, and hear what the girl who sold it says."