He had been obliged to decline the maestro’s hospitable invitation to dinner, and had been assured by the old man that it did not matter how late he turned up: “I am not what the English call an early bird!”
Cacciola himself, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers and carrying a big curved meerschaum pipe in his hand, admitted and welcomed him cordially.
There was no one else in the spacious sitting-room, but Austin’s quick sense of disappointment was speedily banished by his host.
“Sit down, my friend. You will find that chair comfortable. Now, will you have wine—it is here ready? Or wait for the coffee which my Maddelena will bring soon? She is now preparing it.”
“Coffee for me, thank you, sir.”
“And none makes it better than Maddelena,” said the old man, settling himself in his own great chair, and resuming his pipe. “It is well indeed for us all that she is at home at this time, for, alas! we are a sick household, with Boris and my poor old Giulia so much distressed by this terrible event, which touched us so nearly through our poor Boris.”
“It’s a great and awful mystery that I’d give my right hand to solve,” said Austin bluntly.
Cacciola looked at him with grave surprise.
“Say a tragedy, yes. But where is the mystery? There is no doubt of the guilt of that unhappy young man.”
“Doubt! Man alive, Roger Carling is as innocent as I am; I’d stake my life on that! He’s been committed for trial, I know—one couldn’t expect anything else at present—but——”