The face peered down into the darkness, and a stump of candle burning in a saucer threw a wavering beam on to Henry's face looking up.
“Già,” the voice assented to Henry's rather obvious statement. “Voul scendere, forse?”
Henry said he did, and a stool was handed down to him. In another minute he stood on the stone floor of a largish cellar, almost completely blocked with casks and wood stacks. From it steps ran up to another floor.
The owner of the plump Italian face had a small plump figure clad in shirt, trousers, and slippers. His bright dark eyes stared at his visitor, heavy with sleep. He had obviously been roused from bed. Surprise, however, he did not show; probably he was used to it.
He talked to Henry in Italian.
“You roused me from sleep. You have a message, perhaps? You wish something done?”
Henry, not knowing whether this Italian Swiss knew more than he ought to know, or whether he was merely assisting the police investigations, answered warily, “No message. But I have been down there on the business, and had to return this way. I must now go as quickly as possible in to the town.”
He added, at a venture, glancing sideways at the other, “Signor Wilbraham was down there with his colleagues.”
The man started, and the saucer wavered in his hand. Signor Wilbraham was obviously either to him a suspect name, or else his master and leader in intrigue. He was frightened of Wilbraham.
“Where is he now?” he asked. “Will he come here?”