He was careful to make himself agreeable to the elder lady, who was charmed to find an Englishman who understood her native tongue. She had contrived to learn a little English, but had made no such progress as her niece, and it was a labour to her to talk. What a pleasure, therefore, to find this suave, handsome Englishman, with his courtly manners, quick comprehension, and ready replies.
From la Zia he heard a good deal about Lisa’s early life; yet there was a certain wise reticence even on that loquacious lady’s part. She breathed no word of Lisa’s Englishman, the first Mr. Smith, or of the second. In all her talk of their old life, in Venice, at Milan, there was no hint of any one but themselves. They appeared to have been alone, unprotected, dependent on their own small earnings.
After waiting in vain for any allusion to Vansittart, Sefton came straight to the point, with a direct question.
“I think you know a friend of mine, Signora,” he said to Lisa. “Mr. Vansittart?”
“Vansittart?”
Lisa repeated the name slowly, with a look of blank wonder.
“Have you never heard that name before?”
“Never.”
“So,” thought Sefton, “she knew him under an alias. That means a good deal, and confirms my original idea.”
He put the boy off his knee almost roughly, and rose to depart.