“But, General; you would not wish it true that your son is a captive in the hands of banditti?”
“Of course I would. Better that than the other. I hope he is. I’d willingly pay the five thousand pounds to think so. How shall we find it out? What’s to be done?”
“What became of the messenger—my professional brother from the dominions of the Pope?”
“Oh, him! He’s gone back, I suppose, to those who sent him—brigands, or whatever they were. I came nigh kicking him out of the house. I should have done so, or else given him in charge to the police, but refrained—solely to avoid creating a scandal. Think, Mr Lawson, what’s to be done. I suppose there’s no immediate danger?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” answered the lawyer reflectingly; “these Italian bandits are cruel ruffians. There is no knowing how far they may go in execution of their threat. Did the man leave no clue by which he could be communicated with—no address?”
“None whatever. He only said I should hear from my son again, as the letter says. My God! they surely don’t mean to carry out the threat it contains?”
“Let us hope not.”
“But what had I better do? Apply to the Foreign Secretary; get him to write to Rome, and make a demand on the Pope’s Government—that is, if the story of my boy’s captivity be true?”
“Certainly, General; of course. But would all that not be too late? When did you get the letter?”
“Eight days ago. You will see by the date, that it has been written more than two weeks.”