“If I were to tell you,” I said, “that I gave the girl the money out of pure philanthropy, gave it to help a wretched twin sister with an unborn babe,—what would you say?”
“I would say you were trying to bolster up your intrigue with a fiction. Bah! Young men don’t give purses of gold to pretty girls out of philanthropy. Besides, we have discovered that your precious friend is nothing more or less than a hotel thief. A detective arrived just after you left and identified her.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said indignantly. “These Italian women all look alike. Where’s the poor girl now?”
He grinned sarcastically. “Probably it is I who should ask you that.”
His meaning was so obvious I rose and smilingly opened the door. Off he went with a snort, and that was the last I ever saw of poppa.
But my second interview! It took place at ten in the evening. I was reading the Italian paper in bed when there came a soft knock at my door.
“Come in,” I said, thinking it was the valet with my nightcap. Then, as if moved by a spring I sat bolt upright. With one hand I tried to fasten the neck button of my pyjamas, with the other to smooth down my disordered locks. I verily believe I blushed all over, for who should my late visitor be but—Lucrezia.
She was dressed astonishingly well, and looked altogether different from the slim, trim domestic I had known. Indeed, being all in black, she might have well passed for a charming young widow. Of course I was embarrassed beyond all words, but if she shared my feeling she did not show it.
“Oh, signor, how can I thank you?” she cried, advancing swiftly.
“Not at all,” I stammered; “pray calm yourself. Excuse me receiving you in this deshabille. Please take a seat.”