“I neither know nor suspect anything,” she interrupted decisively. “I had not thought till to-day that there was any doubt. But you are right, the innocent must not suffer. I—we”—she glanced at her uncle—“will do all we can to help you.”
“What can we do?” asked Cacciola perplexedly. “I have heard you with much surprise, with much distress. I am grieved that Maddelena here is so hard; she knows it. It is not like her, signor, for she is truly a loving child.”
He looked so thoroughly upset and miserable that with one of her swift impulses Maddelena sprang up, and bent over the back of his chair, putting her arms caressingly round him.
“Never mind me, dear uncle. I love when I love and I hate when I hate; I am made like that, and it cannot be helped. But Mr. Starr is right: we must do what we can to bring the truth to light.”
“That’s so, Miss Cacciola. Now do either of you know the names of any of these Russians or where they live?”
“I do not, nor you, uncle? As I said, they came and went as they liked, and my uncle should have forbidden it; but he is so weak where Boris is concerned. And he is so sorry for them, as for all who are unfortunate.” She gave him another hug, and resumed her seat, continuing: “Do you know he used to give them food if he was at home and knew they were there with Boris, slinking in by one and two after dark? Well, he would bid Giulia make a good meal; and she did, grumbling. But she was never permitted to take in the dishes—no, nor even to peep into the room. Boris always came and took them from her!”
“What is a little food?” protested Cacciola. “I do not believe there is any harm in these poor souls; they are not Communists, but aristocrats who have escaped with their bare lives—whose lives are still perhaps in danger; and of one thing I am certain: not one of them would have lifted his hand against Paula—she was their best friend.”
“There may have been a spy among them for all that, as Mr. Starr suggested,” said Maddelena. “And I promise you that I will find out all I can about them. Boris will tell me, if I go to work in the right way.”
“I’m infinitely obliged to you, Miss Maddelena,” said Austin earnestly.
“And now let us talk of something pleasanter. Will you have some more coffee? Ah, it is cold! Some wine, then. That will make my uncle more cheerful. Will you move the coffee-tray, Mr. Starr? Set it on the piano—anywhere.”