“Gone,” was the laconic reply. Eventually he condescended to add, “An Englishman came to see her, and the signorina went away with him. I can tell you no more.”
He manufactured for himself another cigarette, with the air of a man who has done everything he could to prove himself hospitable, and is not quite certain whether he has succeeded in the attempt. At this juncture Burrell rattled the money in his pocket.
“Ask him if he thinks he would know the man again if he were to see him,” he said. “Tell him also that I will pay him well for any information he may give me.”
A vehement debate ensued—which might have lasted from three to five minutes. At the end the interpreter translated.
“He says, your Excellency, that he could pick the man out from a hundred.”
“He’s been a jolly long time saying it,” said Burrell, and as he spoke he took from his pocket half-a-dozen photographs which he had brought with him for that purpose. “However, he shall try!”
Among the number were likenesses of Fensden and Henderson. There were also others of men who had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. The proprietor of the ground floor rooms picked them up one by one and examined them critically. When he reached Fensden’s portrait he held it up immediately.
“That is the man,” he said to the interpreter. “I need look no farther. I should know him anywhere.”
Burrell replaced the photographs in his pocket.
“Ask him if he has any idea where the man he speaks of stayed when he was in Naples,” Burrell remarked to the man, but upon this subject it appeared that the other could give no sort of information, though he volunteered for a reward to find out. This help, however, Burrell declined. After rewarding him, he retraced his steps to the hotel.