“It looks good to me, all right!” said Dave Henderson, and stifled a yawn. “I certainly owe you my best thanks.”
Dago George shrugged his shoulders in expostulation.
“But it is nothing!” he protested. “Do you not come from Nicolo Capriano? Well, that is enough. But—you yawn! No, no; do not try to hide it! It is I who am to blame. I talk—and you would rest. But, one thing, my friend, before I go. It is my curiosity. The letter—it is signed by Nicolo Capriano, and I know the signature well—but it is written by a woman, is it not? How is that? I am curious. But perhaps you do not know?”
“Yes,” Dave Henderson answered, and yawned frankly this time, and smiled by way of apology. “It was his daughter who wrote it. Nicolo Capriano is sick.”
“Sick!” repeated Dago George. “I did not know! But it is so long since I have heard from him—yes? He is not very sick, perhaps?”
“I don't know,” replied Dave Henderson sleepily. “He's been laid up in bed for three years now, I think.”
“Godam!” ejaculated the Italian. “Is that so! But to-morrow—eh?—we will talk to-morrow. Goodnight, my friend! Good-night—and sleep well!”
“Good-night!” responded Dave Henderson.
He closed and locked the door as Dago George went out, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten.
“I'll stretch out for ten minutes before I turn in,” said Dave Henderson to himself—but at the end of ten minutes Dave Henderson was asleep.