Finding his way up the three flights of stairs, Jacobelli knocked upon the door with his cane. Griffeth lay full length upon the cushions of the dormer window-seat, depressed and miserable. He had been awake all night, striving to get into communication with Carlota or Dmitri, and had missed them at every point. Still his flowers had not been returned. He had ascertained that much from the lad at the flower-stand in the old market. He had sent twice to Dmitri’s house and he had not returned since daybreak, they said.
The rap on the outer door made him spring to unlock it, expecting either Dmitri or a message from Carlota. Instead there stood upon his threshold Guido Jacobelli, from whom he had been parted by interested friends only a night before, the one man in New York whom he regarded as his enemy. He gave him no invitation to enter, but stood like a glowering, expectant young stag, ready for the onslaught of his adversary.
Jacobelli waved him aside airily, and entered the room, making himself at home in the large oak armchair, and stroking Ptolemy who strolled over to inspect him.
“We make friends, what you say, my boy?” he asked genially. “I forgive you from my heart all you do to me in the past, see? Why? Because I, Jacobelli, make the great discovery. You speak the truth. She is your pupil.”
“What do you mean?” asked Griffeth suspiciously. “I heard all that you said of her last evening. I understand perfectly that she is Paoli’s granddaughter and backed by the patronage of Ogden Ward. I do not know why it was her whim to come down here and play at being my pupil. It has ruined my work and broken my heart, but I wish her all the success and happiness in the world.”
Jacobelli beamed at him archly, his black eyebrows rising in crescents, his lips a smiling, close curve above his two double chins.
“She came here because she loves you, my boy, because she longed to give you her wonderful voice in your operetta. She is Love’s pupil. One day she opens her mouth to sing for me, and, my God! it is there, the temperament I have prayed for, it is there, and you have given it to her. I salute you.”
“Has she sent you to me?” asked Griffeth eagerly. “May I see her at once?”
Jacobelli chuckled, stroking the yellow fur of Ptolemy until it crackled.
“I know nothing of her. I have not seen her since last night, but the Signora Roma tells me she has tormented them all because they would not permit her to see you. In fact, she tried to reach you last night; you knew this?”