Bradley started at this, and listened more intently than before.
‘Yes,’ the first speaker said, ‘she is beautiful. I had her pointed out to me in Milan, and I thought her the best-looking woman I had ever seen.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Bradley, stepping up to the speakers. ‘I—I would like to know the name of the lady you refer to.’
‘Oh, certainly; her name is Miss Alma Craik.’
‘Alma living!’ Bradley shrieked, and staggered, like one in drink, out of the caffé.
Dazed and half maddened, he found his way to the lodging. He locked the door of his room and paced the floor, now clenching his hands together, then holding his forehead in them as if to still its bounding pain.
‘Taken by the Jesuits!’ he muttered.
‘Then she is dead indeed—ay, worse than dead!’
He paused at length at the window and looked out. The next instant he sprang back with a look of utter horror on his face.
‘What if she is over there!’ he gasped, and sank into a chair.