“But if the Count is in town?”
“That makes no difference; the safest place is always the largest city. Every where else a foreigner is in himself an object of attention and curiosity.”
“True.”
“Let your master, then, come to London. He can reside in one of the suburbs most remote from the Count’s haunts. In two days I will have found him a lodging and write to him. You trust to me now?”
“I do indeed—I do, Excellency. Ah, if the Signorina were married, we would not care!”
“Married! But she looks so high!”
“Alas! not now—not here!”
Randal sighed heavily. Jackeymo’s eyes sparkled. He thought he had detected a new motive for Randal’s interest—a motive to an Italian the most natural, the most laudable of all.
“Find the house, Signior—write to the Padrone. He shall come. I’ll talk to him. I can manage him. Holy San Giacomo, bestir thyself now—’tis long since I troubled thee!”
Jackeymo strode off through the fading trees, smiling and muttering as he went.