“What kind of man is the assassin?”
“The guard said he is a silk-weaver and an anarchist. That was the rumor from Monza. They have him in charge.”
At the word anarchist, Tarsis, with a quick movement, turned from Sandro and set his gaze on Mario Forza. The act was so marked that every eye followed his. Mario returned a steady look, and for a moment they stood thus, to the amazement of all.
Electric light flooded the scene, flashing back from the gems of the women. There was the hubbub of the crowd in the street, with its hue and cry. From the gardens the scent of magnolia came in on the evening breeze. With a shuddering fear Hera saw the veins of her husband’s neck strain, as she remembered them in that hour of wrath in the monastery. He moved a pace closer to Mario. “Honourable Forza,” he said, his voice like an edged blade, “the worst has happened. Are you content?”
The others were mystified, but Mario had an inkling of what he meant. “Why do you ask that?” he inquired, striving to be calm.
“Because it is your work!” the other answered, savagely.
“Do you mean, Signor Tarsis, that I have had a hand in this assassination?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“The assertion is absurd, and it is a lie!” Mario declared. “I regret that I have to say this to you in your own house, but you have forced me to it.”
Tarsis tossed his head and laughed mockingly. His studied decorum of the gentleman was forgotten, and he stood forth in the truth of his native self. A moment he eyed the man he hated in a vulgar effect of shrewdness, then shook an index finger sidewise before Mario’s face, as the Sicilian peasant uses to denote that he is not to be gammoned.