Then suddenly turning upon his prisoner, and drawing a pistol from his belt, he once more vociferated, “Sign!”
The obstinacy that would have resisted such an appeal could be only true foolhardiness—a reckless indifference to life. There could be no mistaking the intent of the robber, for the click of his cocked pistol sounded sharp in the captive’s ear. For an instant the young Englishman, whose hands were for the time untied, thought of flinging himself upon his fierce antagonist and trying the chances of a struggle. But then outside there was Doggy Dick, with a score of others, ready to shoot him down in his first effort to escape. It was sheer madness to think of it. There was no alternative but to sign—at least none except dying upon the spot. The young artist was not inclined for this; and, stooping over the table, he added to what he had already written, the name “Henry Harding.”
Doggy Dick, styled “Signor Ricardo,” was called in and asked if he could read.
“I beant much o’ a scholard,” replied the renegade, “but I dar’ say I can make out that bit o’ scribble.”
The letter was slowly spelt over and pronounced “All right.” It was then enveloped and directed, Doggy Dick giving the correct address. After which, the next duty this Amphitryon was called upon to perform was the retying of his captive, and transporting him back to his cell.
That same night the epistle, that had come so near costing Henry Harding his life, was despatched by the peasant messenger to Rome, thence to be forwarded by a postman of a different character and kind.