He had no inclination for sleep, and although he felt certain that he would not again be disturbed, he maintained a vigilant watch upon both windows until, a few minutes after the appointed time, the train arrived at Marseilles. Having only the small portmanteau he carried with him, he was not detained more than two or three minutes there, took a fiacre and drove to the Hôtel de Marseilles, which his Bradshaw told him was close to the steamboat offices. After going upstairs and having a wash, he went down again, carefully locking the door after him and putting the key in his pocket. He then had some coffee and rolls, and while taking these, obtained from the waiter a time-table of the departures of the various steamers from the port, and found, to his great satisfaction, that one of the Rubattino vessels would leave for Genoa at twelve o’clock.
As soon as the steamboat offices were open he engaged a berth, walked about Marseilles for an hour, returned at ten to the hotel, took a hearty lunch, and then drove down to the port. On questioning the steward he found that there were not many passengers going, and with a tip of five francs secured a cabin to himself; having done this, he went on deck again and watched the passengers arriving. They were principally Italians; but among them he could not recognise the face of the agent who had levelled a pistol at him. Both men had, indeed, worn black handkerchiefs tied across their faces below their eyes and covering their chins, and the broad-brimmed hats they wore kept their foreheads and eyes in shadow; and although he watched his fellow-passengers with the faint hope of discovering by some evil expression on his face his last night’s assailant, he had no real belief that he should, even under the most favourable circumstances, recognise him again.
Two or three of the men wore beards, and seemed to belong to the sailor class—probably men who had landed from a French ship, after perhaps a distant voyage, and were now returning home. He saw no more of these, as they at once went forward. There were only eight other passengers in the saloon; seven of these were Italians, of whom three were evidently friends. Two of the others had, Frank gathered from their talk, just returned from Brazil; the sixth was an old man, and the seventh a traveller for a firm of silk or velvet manufacturers in Genoa. The three friends talked gaily on all sorts of subjects; but nothing that Frank gathered, either from their conversation on deck or at dinner, gave any clue as to their occupation. They had evidently met at Marseilles for the first time after being separated for a considerable period—one had been in England, one at Paris, and one at Bordeaux; their ages were from twenty-three to twenty-six. Their names were, as he learned from their talk, Maffio, Sarto, and Rubini. Before the steamer had left the port half an hour, one of them, seeing that Frank was alone, said to him as he passed, in broken English,—
“It is warmer and pleasanter here, monsieur, than it is in London.”
“It is indeed,” Frank replied, in Italian; “it was miserable weather there, when I left the day before yesterday.”
“Per Bacco!” the young man said, with a laugh, “I took you to be English. Allow me to congratulate you on your admirable imitation of——”
“I am English, signor—that is, I was born of English parents; but I first saw light in Rome, and my grandfather was an Italian.”
This broke the ice, and they chatted together pleasantly.
“We are going to Genoa. And you?”
“I also am going to Genoa, and perhaps”—for he had by this time quite come to a conclusion on the subject—“on the same errand as yourselves.”