“Marietta Cignolesi,” Peter pronounced severely, looking her hard in the eyes, “I am told you are a witch.”
“No,” said Marietta, simply, without surprise, without emotion.
“I quite understand,” he genially persisted. “It's a part of the game to deny it. But I have no intention of sprinkling you with holy water-so don't be frightened. Besides, if you should do anything outrageous—if you should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, for example—I could never forgive myself. But I'll thank you to employ a little of your witchcraft on my behalf, all the same. I have lost something—something very precious—more precious than rubies—more precious than fine gold.”
Marietta's brown old wrinkles fell into an expression of alarm.
“In the villa? In the garden?” she exclaimed, anxiously.
“No, you conscientious old thing you,” Peter hastened to relieve her. “Nowhere in your jurisdiction—so don't distress yourself: Laggiu, laggiu.”
And he waved a vague hand, to indicate outer space.
“The Signorino should put up a candle to St. Anthony of Padua,” counselled this Catholic witch.
“St. Anthony of Padua? Why of Padua?” asked Peter.
“St. Anthony of Padua,” said Marietta.