“Listen, my little one,” he said, and his forefinger was laid against the side of his nose in a gesture of humorous confidence. “I will tell you something. Ignace Ferroni, who was fool enough to blow himself up, has become the young man whom our good friend Tony Lomazzi sent to us last night.”
“Father!” Her eyes widened in sudden amazement, not unmixed with alarm.
“You understand, my little one?” He wagged his head, and cackled softly. “Not a word! You understand?”
“Yes,” she said doubtfully.
“Good!” grunted the old bomb king. “I think Barjan has swallowed the hook. But I trust no one. I must be sure—you understand—sure! Go and telephone Emmanuel, and tell him to find Little Peter, and send the scoundrel to me at once.”
“Yes, father,” she said; “but——”
“It is for Tony Lomazzi,” he said.
She went from the room.
Nicolo Capriano lay back on the pillows, and closed his eyes. He might have been asleep again, for the smile on his lips was as guileless as a child's; and it remained there until an hour later, when, after motioning Teresa, who had opened the door, away, he propped himself up on his elbow to greet a wizened, crafty-faced little rat of the underworld, who stood at the bedside.
“It is like the old days to see you here, Little Peter,” murmured Nicolo Capriano. “And I always paid well—eh? You have not forgotten that? Well, I will pay well again. Listen! I am sure that the man who was killed with the bomb in the park last night was a prison bird by the name of Dave Henderson; and I told the police so. But it is always possible that I have made a mistake. I do not think so—but it is always possible—eh? Well, I must know, Little Peter. The police will investigate further, and so will Baldy Vickers' gang—they had it in for the fellow. You are a clever little devil, Little Peter. Find out if the police have discovered anything that would indicate I am wrong, and do the same with Baldy Vickers' gang. You know them all, don't you?”