“Jacopo, we shall take the yacht and go shooting.”
Jacopo’s apathetic, olive-coloured face lighted up for a moment. He was a silent, ubiquitous boy, and devoted to his master.
“Si, Signore!”
“We start directly—you must be ready to-night.”
The boy stroked the pony’s nose solemnly with his dark fingers. Giles had chosen him because he was fond of animals—a rare thing in an Italian.
“For where, Signore?” he said.
“I don’t know yet; somewhere where there is something to shoot. Pack for cold weather and for hot. We shall be away a long time perhaps. Take Shikari, and put in a rug for him. That’s all, I think. Do you want any money?”
“No, Signore.”
Jacopo threw the reins on the pony’s neck and departed, whistling a little tune. The pony followed him like a dog.
Legard stayed a moment at the top of the steps, passing his hand over his brow, and trying to conjure up again the girl’s image, then he went into the house and began mechanically to overhaul his guns.