He checked himself. After all, he had come here in search of a clue, and must say nothing that might put Cacciola on his guard.
“Now that is strange,” mused Cacciola. “Maddelena has been saying the same ever since we returned from the court, simply because she has decided that he does not look like a murderer—a woman’s reason!”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your niece yet. Does she live with you, sir?”
“It is her home, and has been these many years, since my brother died and left her in my charge. She and my poor Boris are to me as children. But she has not been at home except for holidays since she went to school; she has been educated here in England, and since two years has been studying in Milan. She should be there now, the naughty one, but the moment she heard the news of this terrible thing she came back, travelling night and day. I was vexed, yes; with a musician, music should always come first, and her impulse will retard her career; but I do not know what we should have done without her. None can manage Boris and our old Giulia as Maddelena does,” he added with an indulgent smile.
“Is that so? She’s evidently a very capable as well as a very charming young lady. Is she a singer, sir?” said Austin, conscious of a curious sense of relief. What dark suspicions had been in his mind ever since he saw that fury of hatred in the girl’s face as she stood by Paula Rawson’s grave he had not dared to formulate, even in thought, but they had been there, and now Cacciola’s words had dispersed them so far as Maddelena was concerned. However much she hated the dead woman, she could have had no hand in her death.
Yet he was still convinced that here, in this quaint Bohemian household, the heart of the mystery was hidden. How was he to discover it? At present all he could do was to cultivate his friendship with the genial, simple-minded old maestro, whom he was learning to like immensely. At the back of his mind he was secretly ashamed of employing this plan. It was a low-down trick, yet the only course that seemed possible at present. And Roger Carling’s life was in the balance: that grim fact overshadowed all other considerations!
Cacciola shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with a whimsical air of resignation.
“Alas! no. She has a voice indeed which, compared with most English voices for instance, would pass as good. But a Cacciola who sings must excel, and my Maddelena will never excel——”
“As a singer! My uncle is on his old grievance,” said Maddelena herself, as she entered carrying the coffee-tray, and flashed an amused glance from one to the other.
“Aha! What is the proverb about listeners never hearing any good of themselves?” chuckled Cacciola. “This is my little girl, Mr. Starr; and if she had come an instant later she would have heard something nicer, for one of these days she is going to be a great violinist.”