Dolly Dawson was walking at his side leisurely, chatting and laughing, while he ever and anon bent towards her making some remarks. As he raised his head to glance across the water I saw that above his overcoat showed a clerical collar with a tiny piece of Roman purple. The man was evidently a canon or other dignitary of the Catholic Church.
He was about fifty-five, grey-haired, clean-shaven and wore a silk hat of a somewhat ecclesiastical shape, a rather pleasant-looking man in spite of his thin sensitive lips and pale ascetic face.
In an instant it struck me that they had met clandestinely and were sauntering there in order to avoid possible recognition if they walked the streets. The old priest appeared to be treating her with studied politeness, and as I watched him I saw from his slight gesticulations as he spoke that he was no doubt a foreigner.
I pointed out the fact to Reggie, who said—“We must watch them, old chap. They mustn’t see us here. I only hope they’ll turn off the other way.”
For a moment we followed them with our eyes, fearing that, having crossed the bridge, they would turn in our direction, but fortunately they did not, but turned off to the right along the shore of the lake.
“If he really is Italian then he may have come specially from Italy to have an interview with her,” I remarked. For ever since I had met the monk, Antonio, there had seemed some curious connexion between the secret of the dead cardinal and the Church of Rome.
“We must try and find out,” declared Reggie. “You mustn’t remain here. It’s getting too cold for you,” he added, springing to his feet. “I’ll follow them while you return home.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll walk with you for a bit. I’m interested in the little game,” and, rising also, I linked my arm in his and went forward by the aid of my stick.
They were walking side by side in earnest conversation. I could tell by the priest’s quick gesticulations, the way in which he first waved his closed fingers and then raised his open hand and touched his left forearm, that he was speaking of some secret and the possessor of it who had disappeared. If one knows the Italian well, one can follow in a sense the topic of conversation by the gestures, each one having its particular signification.
Hurrying as well as I could we gradually gained upon them, for presently they slackened their pace, while the priest spoke earnestly, as though persuading the daughter of the ex-boatswain of the Annie Curtis to act in some way he was directing.