“Come in, Steccho,” he called pleasantly. “How goes this merry world with you? The cigarettes, Georges.”
Steccho accepted two from the long, narrow brown leather box the valet extended to him, and held them unlighted in his fingers. There had been a man in Sofia who had been extremely ill, even to the verge of death, after smoking cigarettes from that brown leather box.
The cravat tied, Jurka seated himself in an amber satin armchair, a black-velvet dressing-robe about his shoulders. He smiled musingly across at the boy, noting his drawn, harassed face. The hand that held the cigarettes shook slightly. The muscles around his lips twitched under that amused scrutiny.
“Have you found them?”
The question came hard and short finally. Steccho shook his head.
“Excellenza,” he said eagerly, “the opportunity has not come. I have followed them both unceasingly, day and night, and have seen nothing.”
“You have followed the girl. Day and night you have followed her, no one else. You have not yet ascertained where the jewels are kept, nor whether she has access to them. Are they in New York or in Italy? Are they in the possession of Maria Roma in their apartment, or in a safety-deposit vault? Why do you shadow the girl Carlota unless you are perhaps in love with her?”
Steccho’s eyes were brilliant with resentment that he dared not express in words.
“One must go slowly here, excellenza,” he said. “It is not Sofia. You yourself would not have the power to shield me or hold the jewels if I were caught. One must look the ground over thoroughly. Possibly, as you say, they are not even here in America, but have been left in Italy.”
Jurka smiled slowly.