As Phillis passed out from the table-d’hôte at the Alemagna that evening, the porter put a note into her hand.
“Get me what information you can,” it said, “address, name of firm, and anything you think useful. And, for pity’s sake don’t let my aunt and Cartouche be completely flattened by that woman in my absence.”
The next morning a note went to the Via della Croce.
“The information is simply wonderful. The firm is ‘Thornton and Hay.’ I do think it is the oddest coincidence!”
For “Thornton,” the senior of the two great ironmasters, was Peter Thornton of Hetherton Court, of whom mention has been made; and, under the circumstances, Phillis’s astonishment was not to be wondered at. Quite a fire of notes passed between the two streets that morning. The next was to this effect:
“Very queer, indeed. If I were you I would say nothing of this to his sister. Where are you going to-day?”
An answer came back.
“To the Vatican with the Peningtons. I send you an order in case you like to bring the Masters—”
Mr Penington was an excellent cicerone. His information was trustworthy, and he had that pleasant way of imparting it which never gives you the impression of mounting a pedestal and declaiming. Phillis thought her afternoon delightful, and it seemed as if he thought the same, for he claimed her interest eagerly. They were in the hall of the Muses standing before the beautiful and stern Thalia, who sits with a garland of ivy leaves on her head, looking out disdainfully at the world’s follies, when Mr Penington touched Phillis.
“The most lovely girl imaginable has just come in,” he said; “you must really get a good view of her.”