‘I’m not so sure I’ll answer if that’s a specimen.’
‘Why were you carrying a revolver yesterday?’
‘You strike me as a very inquisitive young woman, Miss Marcia.’
‘You strike me as a very mysterious man, Mr. Sybert.’
‘Why was I carrying a revolver? For a very simple reason. I have been travelling through the south, helping to quiet the rioters; and as that is not a popular occupation, I thought it wisest to go armed. A revolver is an excellent thing with which to persuade people, though in all probability I shall never have any occasion to use it. I hope you are satisfied.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marcia. ‘Not that I believe you at all,’ she added with a laugh.
He regarded her a moment with a slightly perplexed frown. ‘What on earth do you take me for, Miss Marcia? An anarchist, a bandit, a second Fra Diavolo in disguise? I am nothing so picturesque, I assure you—merely a peaceful private citizen of the United States.’
‘How do you come to know the baker’s son, Tarquinio, so well?’
‘I think I’ve answered questions enough. Suppose we have a confession from you, Miss Marcia. Have you ever been in love?’
Marcia rose. ‘It’s a quarter past four, and we ought to be going back. The Roystons have to catch the evening train into Rome.’