As he spoke he switched on his electric torch, handed the card to Cacciola, and watched the old man’s face as he read it—a plump, olive-complexioned, usually jolly face that now looked drawn and grief-stricken.
“By all means; enter, signor,” said Cacciola with grave dignity. “I—we—will give you all the assistance possible. You are not alone?” he added, narrowing his dark eyes in an endeavour to pierce the gloom beyond the circle of light.
“No. But perhaps you will permit my man to wait in your hall for me,” returned Snell blandly.
He did not anticipate danger, but anything might happen in that top flat, and, though he was courageous enough he never took unnecessary risks.
“But certainly. Lead the way, Boris. Will you continue the light, Signor? The stairs are very dark—and long.”
With hushed footsteps, and no sound beyond Cacciola’s heavy breathing, they stole in procession up the staircase, Evans bringing up the rear just behind Snell.
As they reached the top landing the door of Cacciola’s flat opened, and Giulia appeared on the threshold, a dark figure against the lighted hall, began to speak volubly in Italian, and then, seeing her master’s companions, and recognizing Snell, stopped short and retreated a pace or two, glancing nervously from one to the other.
“It’s all right, ma’am. No cause for alarm,” said Snell reassuringly. “I’ve been here before to-day, sir, in your absence, as I expect she was trying to tell you. Let her tell her story now, it will help us. And in English, please, as I don’t understand your language.”
“She shall do so. Come with us, Giulia. Take off your wet coats, my friends.”
Cacciola led the way into a large, comfortable room where a gas fire glowed cosily—a musician’s room, with the place of honour occupied by a magnificent grand piano.