“From your son.”
“My son! He is in London.”
“Just so; and it was there I first heard of the Signor Francesco Torreani and his daughter, the Signorina Lucetta.”
“You astonish us. You know Luigi then?”
“As well as one man may know another who for twelve months has been his daily companion; who has shared his apartment and his studio, who—”
“Saved his purse—perhaps his life,” interrupted the sindico, approaching the Englishman, and warmly grasping his hand. “If I mistake not, you are the young gentleman who rescued my son from thieves, London bandits. It is you of whom Luigi has often written to us. Am I right in my conjecture, signore?”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Lucetta, also coming nearer, and contemplating the stranger with renewed interest. “I’m sure it is, papa. He is so like the description brother Luigi has given of him.”
“Thanks, signorina,” answered the young artist, with a smile. “I hope you except my habiliments. As for my identity, Signor Torreani, I might have been better able to establish that, but for my kind friend Corvino; who, not satisfied with taking the little cash I had, has also stripped me of the letter of introduction I brought from your son. I intended to have presented it in person, but have been hindered by the circumstances of which you are already aware.”
“But why did you not make yourself known to me while you were here?”
“I did not then know you, signore. I was even ignorant of the name of the town into which my captors had carried me. I had not then the slightest idea that its chief magistrate was the father of Luigi Torreani—much less that the fair young lady I saw standing in a balcony was the sister of my dearest friend.”