“Ah, yes,” she sighed. “I wonder who he is? I wonder what motive my father could possibly have in placing my affairs in the hands of a stranger?”
“He is probably an old friend of your father’s,” I suggested.
“No,” she responded, “I knew all his friends. He had only one secret from me—the secret of the source of his wealth. That he always refused point-blank to tell me.”
“I shall travel direct to Florence, and discover what I can before the lawyers give this mysterious person notice of your father’s death,” I said. “I may obtain some knowledge which will be of the greatest benefit to us hereafter.”
“Ah! it is really very good of you, Mr Greenwood,” she answered, lifting her beautiful eyes to mine with an expression of profound gratitude. “I must admit that the idea of being closely associated with a stranger, and that stranger a foreigner, causes me considerable apprehension.”
“But he may be young and good-looking, the veritable Paolo of romance—and you his Francesca,” I suggested, smiling.
Her sweet lips relaxed slightly, but she shook her head, sighing as she answered—
“Please don’t anticipate anything of the kind. I only hope he may be old and very ugly.”
“So that he will not arouse my jealousy—eh?” I laughed. “Really, Mabel, if our friendship were not upon such a well-defined basis, I should allow myself to act the part of lover. You know I—”
“Now don’t be foolish,” she interrupted, raising her small finger in mock reproval. “Remember what you said yesterday.”