"Well, perhaps so; but I wouldn't trust one of them. I don't believe there's an honest vetturino in all Italy."
Lady Dalrymple elevated her eyebrows, and threw at Hawbury a glance of despair.
"He speaks English, too," said Lady Dalrymple.
"So do some of the worst rascals in the country," said the Baron.
"Oh, I don't think he can be a very bad rascal. We had better question him, at any rate. Don't you think so, Lord Hawbury?"
"Well, yes; I suppose it won't do any harm to have a look at the beggar."
The driver alluded to was summoned, and soon made his appearance. He was a square-headed fellow, with a grizzled beard, and one of those non-committal faces which may be worn by either an honest man or a knave. Lady Dalrymple thought him the former; the Baron the latter. The result will show which of these was in the right.
The driver spoke very fair English. He had been two or three times over the road. He had not been over it later than two years before. He didn't know it was dangerous. He had never heard of brigands being here. He didn't know. There was a signore at the hotel who might know. He was traveling to Florence alone. He was on horseback.
As soon as Lady Dalrymple heard this she suspected that it was Count Girasole. She determined to have his advice about it. So she sent a private request to that effect.
It was Count Girasole. He entered, and threw his usual smile around. He was charmed, in his broken English, to be of any service to miladi.