“There is one man. Her husband’s secretary——”
“Do you know him?”
“I have never seen him, but his name is Car—Carling!”
“Were they enemies?”
“No, not openly; but she feared him. She thought he—watched her. Mon Dieu! The man who came here to-day, as Giulia said, and asked for her. That was the man! I will find him! I will kill him!”
His haggard young face was terrible to see in the frenzy of hatred that distorted it; his slender hands moved convulsively as though he already felt his fingers clutching Roger Carling’s throat. Cacciola seized one arm, Snell the other, and he collapsed under their grasp, and fell into the chair, sobbing like a woman or like a man who has been shot.
“It is too much for him!” cried Cacciola. “Boris, Boris. Courage, my child!”
“Poor chap!” said Snell. “I won’t worry him any more, nor you either to-night, sir. And I must ask you to keep silence for the present. You’ll be worried by a horde of inquirers—journalists especially—for the next few days, but you tell your old Julia to lock the door. Don’t you see anyone, and take care he doesn’t.”
“You may trust us, signor,” said the old man.
“Then, good night, sir. Come on, Evans.”