“Yes, father,” she answered.
“To Dago George, then,” he said. “First—my affectionate salutations.”
Her pen scratched rapidly over the paper. She looked up.
“Yes, father?”
Nicolo Capriano's fingers plucked at the coverlet.
“You will say that the bearer of this letter—ah! Yes!” He turned with a whimsical smile to Dave Henderson. “You must have a name, eh, my young friend—since Dave Henderson is dead! We shall not tell Dago George everything. Fools alone tell all they know! What shall it be?”
Dave Henderson shrugged his shoulders.
“Anything,” he said. “It doesn't matter. One is as good as another. Make it Barty Lynch.”
“Yes, that will do. Good!” Nicolo Capriano gestured with his hand in his daughter's direction again. “You will say that the bearer of this letter is Barty Lynch, and that he is to be treated as though he were Nicolo Capriano himself. You understand, my little one? Anything that he asks is his—and I, Nicolo Capriano, will be responsible. Tell him, my little one, that it is Nicolo Capriano's order—and that Nicolo Capriano has yet to be disobeyed. And particularly you will say that if our young friend here requires any help by those who know how to do what they are told and ask no questions, the men are to be supplied. You understand, Teresa?”
She did not look up this time.