“Gaspare, I feel sure that you noticed long ago something very strange in Ruffo. Perhaps you noticed it almost at once. I believe you did. It is this. Ruffo has an extraordinary look in his face sometimes, a look of—of your dead Padrone. I didn’t see it for some time, but I think you saw it directly. Did you? Did you, Gaspare?”
There was no answer. Gaspare only cleared his throat again more violently. Hermione waited for a minute. Then, understanding that he was not going to answer, she went on:
“You have seen it—we have both noticed it. Now I want to tell you something—something that happened to-night.”
Gaspare started, looked up quickly, darted at his Padrona a searching glance of inquiry.
“What is it?” she said.
“Niente!”
He kept his eyes on her, staring with a tremendous directness that was essentially southern. And she returned his gaze.
“I was with Ruffo this evening. We talked, and he told me that he met you at the Festa last night. He told me, too, that he was with his mother.”
She waited to give him a chance of speaking, of forestalling any question. But he only stared at her with dilated eyes.
“He told me that you knew his mother, and that his mother knew you.”