"Pleased to have the pleasure of your company, sir," was the landlord's reply.
They had reached the village, and were slowly making their way up the hilly, badly-paved street in the direction of the "Golden Owl," when Tyson, in a guarded tone, suddenly exclaimed, "Ah! here comes the siggnor with his dogs--her ladyship's brother--him that I told you about last night."
They were going up the street and he was coming down, carrying a dog-whip in one hand, while his two muzzled brutes ranged close upon his heels. As he passed them he bent on Burgo a keenly persistent stare. It was not the stare either of idle curiosity or of covert insolence; rather what it seemed to convey was, that, whensoever or wheresoever he might see Burgo again, he should not fail to recognise him.
But the latter did not fail to eye him closely in return. Tyson's account of him had excited his curiosity; but Burgo's stare was that of the trained man of the world which reveals nothing and implies nothing, which seems to take note of nothing while yet allowing nothing to escape it.
Burgo at once detected the Italian's marked likeness to his sister of which Tyson had made mention, coupled with a certain something at once sinister and malign, which, in her case, was merely latent, peeping out at odd times in her glance or her smile, but which in his had acquired the stamp of permanence. To those who had eyes to discern, it revealed him--that is to say, his inner self--after a fashion of which he was wholly unconscious. But how many of us, without being aware of it, reveal ourselves to our fellows in much the same way!
Said Tyson, half a minute later, after a backward glance: "By Jove! Mr. Lumsden, if the siggnor ain't standing stock still and staring after you. It must be after you, because he's seen me many a time afore--as if--well, as if you might just have escaped out of a menagerie, sir."
"He's welcome to stare as long as he likes," remarked Burgo, lightly. "There's no charge for the show." But the landlord's remark had the effect of opening up a new and disturbing train of thought.
What if Lady Clinton, suspicious that, notwithstanding all her precautions, she might be traced and followed, had described him, Burgo, to this brother of hers, with a request to him to keep a sharp look out, and at once report his arrival on the scene to her ladyship? If such were not the case, why should the mere sight of a stranger in the village have betrayed the Italian into such an excess of curiosity? It had been altogether contrary to his wishes and designs that Lady Clinton should become aware of his presence at Crag End. She would be more on her guard than ever, and even more determined than before, if such a thing were possible, that all channels of access to his uncle should be hopelessly barred against him. He felt unequivocally annoyed, but that in no wise altered the facts of the case.
From that time he felt nearly sure that he was being watched and his footsteps dogged wherever he went. There was a shabbily-dressed, slouching fellow, who looked half labourer and half fisherman, but who probably was something very different from either, of whom he caught glimpses in the distance a dozen times a day; who seemed never wholly to lose sight of Burgo in whichever direction his walks might take him, and who, when the latter was indoors, would lounge by the hour together at the corner of a side alley half-way down the street, whence he could take note of every one who entered or left the tavern of the "Golden Owl." The fellow never ventured within talking distance, and whenever Burgo made as though he would approach him, he slunk away more or less rapidly, never failing to maintain a respectful distance between himself and the dark, stern-faced young man, who looked fully capable of administering the thorough thrashing which he probably felt that he richly deserved.
By the time Burgo had been three days at Crag End it was impossible for him any longer to doubt that he was being "shadowed."