"Just so! It was the wood, I presume." He scowled. "One cannot be in ten places unless he is in ten pieces. I am glad to be here, and not here and there."
"Well, she wants you roasted by some fellow named Cardi—"
"Eh? What?" Ippolito started, jerking the horse's head by the bridle rein, through which he had thrust his arm. "What is this?"
"Belisario Cardi, I believe she said. I don't know him."
The Sicilian muttered an oath and disappeared into the stable; he was still scowling when he emerged.
Prompted by a feeling that he was close to something mysterious, Blake tried to sound the fellow.
"You are abroad early," he suggested.
But Ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied:
"Si, Signore, quite early."
He was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. Although his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like a man who is sure of himself.