“I should inform the authorities,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t think that is necessary. It would be worth your while not to.”
Jean’s fur coat had been thrown across a chair. The doctor eyed it carefully. It was worth more lire than he had ever possessed at one time.
“Very well,” he said. “The vineyard across the lane is mine. We can go to my house that way and take them through the gate without ever coming out on to the road. I will go and tell my housekeeper to get the rooms ready.”
Vincenzo’s face brightened. “I will go in the car to-night to fetch the master’s brother. He is very rich. It will be worth your while,” he repeated.
“He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be able to do it alone?”
“Via!” cried the little man. “I am very strong. Go now and come back soon.”
When the other had left the room he crouched down again on the floor at Jean’s feet. “Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me! Look at me!”
But there was no voice now, nor any that answered.
For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent swimmer, struggling to reach a distant shore. The cruel cross-currents drew him, great waves buffeted him, and the worst of it was they were hot. All the sea was bubbling and boiling about him, and the sound in his ears was like the roar of steam. There were creatures in the water, too; octopi, such as he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian fishermen and flung on the yellow sands of the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering in the green curled edges of each wave that threatened to beat him down into the depths.