All the fight seemed to have gone out of Carucci, and he squirmed away, appealing and protesting in a torrent of Italian too fast and mutilated for my ear. Sheila answered incongruously in the same language.
"He says he don't know anything about it," she told me finally, "and for once I believe him, sir. He can lie well enough to some folks, but he can't lie to me."
"Well," said I, "if you believe him, you ought to know. But I wish you'd get him away from here, Sheila. He's been sending black hand letters to Mr. Tabor."
"He has, has he, the sphalpeen!" and again came the dual and ludicrous torrent of Neapolitan.
"'Twas just the lovin' heart of him, sir. He's that impetuous. But I'll learn him manners. You go on back to the house, an' you'll hear no more from Antonio. It's a beast he is sometimes when he is drunk, but he's sober enough now, sir, and when sober he has the sense to be afraid of me. Have no fear, I'll send him packin'. Leave him to me."
I laughed. "All right, Sheila," I said. "If you use the same persuasion with him that you've been using, I think you can teach him almost anything."
I reached the Tabors' out of breath, and stumbled panting up the steps; and at the door I stood a moment to gather my breath and thoughts, wondering if Lady and Mr. Tabor had returned. Mr. Tabor's hat was still missing from the rack; and I lit a cigarette as I strolled into the living-room to wait. Mrs. Tabor was sitting over a piece of embroidery by the window.
"You look hot," she said, glancing up, "what is the matter? Have you been running?"
"I've been looking for you," I stammered. "Sheila thought you were lost or something." The words were out before I could stop them.
"Lost?" Mrs. Tabor repeated, raising her brows, "lost? What should make you think I was lost?"