“I would prevent it.”
“How?”
“She is a Romany: she belongs to the Romany people; I will find a way.”
Ingolby had a flash of intuition.
“You know well that if Gabriel Druse passed the word, your life wouldn’t be worth a day’s purchase. The Camorra would not be more certain or more deadly. If you do anything to hurt the daughter of Gabriel Druse, you will pay the full price, and you know it. The Romanys don’t love you better than their rightful chief.”
“I am their rightful chief.”
“Maybe, but if they don’t say so, too, you might as well be their rightful slave. You are a genius in your way. Take my advice and return to the trail of the Gipsy. Or, there’s many an orchestra would give you a good salary as leader. You’ve got no standing in this country. You can’t do anything to hurt me except try to kill me, and I’ll take my chance of that. You’d better have a drink now and go quietly home to bed. Try and understand that this is a British town, and we don’t settle our affairs by jumping from a violin rhapsody to a knife or a gun.” He jerked his head backwards towards the wall. “Those things are for ornament, not for use. Come, Fawe, have a drink and go home like a good citizen for one night only.”
The Romany hesitated, then shook his head and muttered chaotically.
“Very well,” was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed a bell, and, in an instant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidently been at the keyhole. “Jim,” he said, “show the gentleman out.”
But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust it into the Romany’s hands. “They’re the best to be got this side of Havana,” he said cheerily. “They’ll help you put more fancy still into your playing. Good night. You never played better than you’ve done during the last hour, I’ll stake my life on that. Good night. Show Mr. Fawe out, Jim.”