CHAPTER XXXVII
TREVANION FINDS AN ALLY
Trevanion, the drunkenness slipped from his face and the irksome limp discarded, came from the osteria door. His audience dwindled, he was minded for fresh air and a stroll. Behind the red glow of his segar his dark face wore a smile.
Just at the fringe of the foliage two stolid figures in servant’s livery stepped before him. Startled, he drew back. Two others stood behind him. He looked from side to side, pale with sudden anticipation, his lips drawn back like a lynx at bay. He was weaponless.
A fifth figure joined the circle that hemmed him—Paolo, suave, smiling, Corsican.
“Magnificence!” he said, in respectful Italian, “I bear the salutations of a gentleman of Ravenna who begs your presence at his house to-night.” Without waiting answer, he called softly, and a coach with six white horses drew slowly from the shadow.
For an instant Trevanion smiled in grim humor, half deceived. A simultaneous movement of the four in livery, however, recalled his distrust.
“Are these his bravos?” he inquired in surly defiance.
“His servants, Magnificence!”
“Carry my excuses then—and bid him mend the manner of his invitations.”
“I should regret to have to convey such a message from the milord.” Paolo opened the coach door as he spoke. The inference was obvious.