“Take me there.”
Drew led the way.
The instant the girl entered Mrs. Ramacciotti’s cottage she began talking. She spoke in Italian, and Mrs. Ramacciotti, smiling for the first time since the tragedy, answered her in Italian.
“I’ll leave you,” said Drew. “I have some things to do.”
“Please do.” The girl sat down.
The two, the tall girl and the stolid Italian mother, talked for a solid hour, always in Italian.
When they had ended, the mother said, “If you are going to this place, you will not be safe. They will kill you. Unless I give you this, they are sure to murder you.” She drew from the folds of her dress the square of cardboard and pointed to the secret number in red.
“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “I understand. How perfectly grand!”
“And, Miss,” Mother Ramacciotti ran her hand across her face, “your hair, it is dark. Your eyes also. There is this which comes in bottles. Fine ladies who want to seem tanned, they use it. You speak so good Italian. Put this on hands and face. They will think you are Italian. It is better so.”
“Thanks a lot,” Joyce responded, “I will.”