“Yes. I saw her with him one day at the Mergellina. She was crying.”
“Perhaps she is unhappy. Her husband is in prison.”
“Because of Peppina.”
“Si.”
“And to-night you spoke to her for the first time?”
Artois laid a strong emphasis on the final words.
“Signore, I have never met her with Ruffo before.”
The two men looked steadily at each other. A question that could not be evaded, a question that would break like a hammer upon a mutual silence of years, was almost upon Artois’ lips. Perhaps Gaspare saw it, for he got up with determination.
“I am going to bed now, Signore. I am tired. Buona notte, Signore.”
He took up his hat and went out.