“All I can say, then, is that he isn’t hurrying much. Why, it isn’t far to Naples. If I had gone I’ll guarantee I would have been back within three days.”
Bernard did not answer.
“I notice you don’t look so chipper as you did.”
“No. I have just as much confidence in Mr. Cunningham, but he may have met with some accident.”
“Very likely,” said Amos Sanderson sarcastically. “Or, he may have fallen into the hands of another gang of bandits on his way here.”
“It won’t be very lucky for us if he has. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
There was another cause for anxiety. The bandits, who, during the first three or four days, had treated their captives politely and even courteously, now wore a different expression. They looked gloomy and frowned ominously when they entered the apartment where their captives were confined. They made no conversation with them, but their looks were hostile. Finally—it was on the morning of the seventh day—they entered the room in a body, accompanied by the interpreter.
They took seats, and the interpreter addressed himself to Mr. Sanderson.
“Signor,” he said, “your friend has not returned.”
“I know it, and I am blamed sorry for it.”