“Ah!” Dago George bowed profoundly. “But, yes—certainly! This way, then, if you please, madam.”
He led the way into the rear room, and closed the door.
The little figure in black raised her veil.
“Do you not know me?” she asked.
Dago George stared for a long minute into her face. He shook his head.
“I am desolated!” he murmured apologetically. “It is my memory that is unbelievably stupid, madam.”
“I am Teresa Capriano,” she said.
Dago George moved closer. He stared again into her face, and suddenly into his own there came the light of recognition.
“You—the so-little Teresa—the little bambino!” he cried. “But, yes—yes, it is true!” He caught both her hands, and began to pat them effusively. “Is it possible? Yes, yes! I begin to see again the little girl of the so-many years ago! Ah, no; Dago George has not forgotten, after all! The little Teresa! The little bandit queen! Eh? And you—do you remember that we called you that?” He led her to a chair, and seated her. “Well, well, the little Teresa! And your father, my good friend Nicolo—I had heard that he was sick. He is better—yes? And he is perhaps here, too, in New York?”
“My father is dead,” Teresa answered in a low voice.