Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very deliberately scratched his match on the balustrade and lighted his cigar. ‘Tell your story, Marcia,’ he said between puffs.
She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he could take the information as casually as this, it could not be very serious. She repeated the account of what she had seen, and the two men exchanged a silent glance. Copley gave another short laugh.
‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’
‘I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your name you could expect the honour,’ Sybert growled.
‘What do you mean?’ Marcia asked quickly.
‘Just at present, Miss Marcia, I’m afraid that neither your uncle nor myself is as popular as our virtues demand.’
‘Oh, there’s no danger,’ said Copley. ‘They wouldn’t dare break into the house, and of course I sha’n’t be fool enough to walk the country-side unarmed. The first thing in the morning, I shall send into Palestrina for some carabinieri to patrol the place. And on Monday the family can move into Rome instead of waiting till Wednesday. There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he added, with a reassuring glance at Marcia. ‘Forewarned is forearmed—we’ll see that the house is locked to-night.’
‘Can you trust the servants?’ Sybert asked.
Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.
‘By Jove! I don’t know that I can. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t trust that Pietro as far as I could see him. He’s been acting mighty queer lately.’