The two officers bowed and passed out into the corridor. Hillard raised his hat, and closed the door.
"Now, what the deuce has all this powwow been about?" demanded Merrihew; for he had understood nothing, despite his How to Speak Italian in One Day.
"It's that rascal Giovanni."
"Did he find his man and cut him up?"
"No. It seems that these carabinieri have remark-able memories; the old affair. Poor devil! I can't imagine how they traced him here. But I repeatedly warned him about going abroad in the daylight. Hello, what's this?" going to the table. It was a note addressed to him; and it was from the fugitive.
My kind master—The carabinieri are after me. But rest easy. I was not born to rot in a dungeon. I am going north. As for my clothes, send them to Giacamo, the baker, who lives on the road to El Deserta. He will understand. May the Holy Mother guard you, should we never meet again!
Hillard passed the note to Merrihew.
"That's too bad. I've taken a great fancy to him. It seems that the peasant has no chance on this side of the water. His child a painted dancer in Paris, and a price on his own head! It's hard luck. And the fellow who caused all this trouble goes free."
"He always goes free, Dan, here or elsewhere."
"Why, we'd have lynched him in America."