“What has happened?” she asked quietly.
“He went prowling in Manitou, and in Barbazon’s Tavern they struck him down.”
“Who struck him down?” she asked. It seemed to her that the night-bird sang so loud that she could scarcely hear her own voice.
“A drunken Gorgio,” he replied. “The horseshoe is for luck all the world over, and it brought its luck to Manitou to-night. It struck down a young Master Gorgio who in white beard and long grey hair went spying.”
She knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. “He is dead?” she asked in a voice that had a strange quietness.
“Not yet,” he answered. “There is time to wish him luck.”
She heard the ribald laugh with a sense of horror and loathing. “The hand that brought him down may have been the hand of a Gorgio, but behind the hand was Jethro Fawe,” she said in a voice grown passionate again. “Where is he?” she added.
“At his own house. I watched them take him there. It is a nice house—good enough for a Gorgio house-dweller. I know it well. Last night I played his Sarasate fiddle for him there, and I told him all about you and me, and what happened at Starzke, and then—”
“You told him I was a Romany, that I was married to you?” she asked in a low voice.
“I told him that, and asked him why he thought you had deceived him, had held from him the truth. He was angry and tried to kill me.”