"Have your eyes failed you, my good Aliandro?" he cried. "Don't you recognize the American?—the Signore Blake, who came here with the Count of Martinello? Look at me and tell me where your mistress has gone."
Aliandro arose and peered into his visitor's face, wagging his loose jaws excitedly.
"As God is my judge," he declared, finally, "I believe it is, Che Dio! Who would have expected to see you? Yes, yes! I remember as if it were yesterday when you came riding up with that most illustrious gentleman who now sits in Paradise. It is a miracle that you have crossed the seas so many times in safety."
"So! Now tell me what I want to know."
"They have gone."
"Where?"
"How do I know? Find Belisario Cardi—may he live a million years in hell! Find him, and you will find them also."
"You mean—"
"Find Belisario Cardi, that most infamous of assassins. My padrona has set out to say good morning to him. He may even now be on his way to purgatory."
Blake stared at the speaker, for he could not credit the words. Once more he asked: