“Well, not exactly, at present. Do you know where he is? Who are you? and whence do you come?”
“Signor General, I shall be most happy to answer all three of your questions, if you only allow me to do it in the order, inverse to that in which you have put them.”
“Answer them in what order you please; but do it quickly. The hour is late, and I’ve no time to stand here talking to an entire stranger.”
“Signor General, I shall not detain you many minutes. My business is of a simple nature, and my time, like yours, is precious. First, then, I come from the city of Rome, which I need not tell you is in Italy. Second, I am un procuratore—an attorney you call it in English. Thirdly, and lastly, I do know where your other son is.”
The General again started, Nigel growing paler.
“Where is he?”
“This, Signor General, will inform you.”
As he spoke, the procuratore drew a letter from under his capote, and presented it to the General. It was that which had been written by Henry Harding in the mountains, under the dictation of Corvino, the bandit chief.
Putting on his spectacles, and drawing the light nearer to him, General Harding read the letter with a feeling of astonishment, tinctured with incredulity.
“This is nonsense!” said he, handing the document to Nigel. “Sheer nonsense! Read it, my son.”