XIII
Emory was the only one near enough to Helen to observe the interview with Cerini. The old man’s words were uttered in too low a tone to reach his ears, but Emory saw Helen close her eyes for a fraction of a second and heard her draw a quick breath. Then she turned to him with a smile so natural that he nearly believed himself deceived, and found himself almost convinced that he must have been mistaken in what he thought he had discovered.
“Whose little old man is that?” Emory queried.
Helen laughed. Emory had a way of putting questions in a form least expected.
“Monsignor Cerini,” she answered, “and he belongs to Jack.”
“Oh, he is the librarian!” Phil recognized the descriptions he had heard at the villa. “Interesting-looking old chap; I don’t wonder Jack likes him.”
“He is a wonderful man,” assented Helen; “but his knowledge almost frightens one. I feel like an ignorant child every time I meet him.”
They strolled slowly through the brilliant throng out into the court, up the stairs, and into the library again. The room was wholly deserted, the other guests preferring to watch the spectacle below. No word was spoken until Helen threw herself into a great chair near the balcony.