“Rouse yourself, caro, and drink. It is I, maestro, who implore you. The signor is here to learn the truth, and you must aid him.”
Melikoff obeyed, and, after an instant’s hesitation, Snell accepted Cacciola’s invitation, poured out a glass of wine for himself and passed one to Evans with an affirmative nod.
The old man was right. It was jolly good wine, and jolly well they all needed it!
“That is better, eh?” said Cacciola, emptying and setting down his own glass, and looking with anxious affection at Boris, who sat upright and turned his brilliant, haggard eyes on Snell.
“You want to know—what?” he asked in perfect English, and in a low, singularly musical voice, tense with repressed emotion.
“Everything you can tell me concerning Lady Rawson, whom the Signor here says was your cousin. Is that so?”
“That is so. But I can tell you nothing more.”
“Come, come, Mr. Melikoff. That won’t do!” Snell retorted, more sternly than he had yet spoken. “I am in possession of many of your recent letters to her, and am aware of their contents. Do you understand me?”
“No,” said Melikoff curtly.
“Then I must try to make you.”