“Perhaps one of the servants—” he began.
“No, Signore. I have asked them. And they would not dare to touch it.”
“The Signorina?”
He shook his head.
“She is in the garden. She has been there all the time. She does not know”—he lowered his voice almost to a whisper—“she does not know about the Signora and the fattura della morte.”
“We must not let her know—”
He stopped. Suddenly his ears seemed full of the sound of splashing oars in water. Yet he heard nothing.
“Gaspare,” he said quickly, “have you looked everywhere for the Signora?”
“I have looked in the house, Signore. I have been on the terrace and to the Signorina in the garden. Then I came to tell you. I thought you should know about the Signora and the fattura della morte.”
Artois felt that it was this fact of the disappearance of the death-charm which for the moment paralyzed Gaspare’s activities. What stirring of ancient superstition was in the Sicilian’s heart he did not know, but he knew that now his own time of action was come. No longer could he delegate to others the necessary deed. And with this knowledge his nature seemed to change. An ardor that was almost vehement with youth, and that was hard-fibred with manly strength and resolution, woke up in him.