“Certainly,” was the queer old man’s response. “All my inquiries tend to show he is a man of secrecy and that he is concealing his real identity.”
“It may be that he keeps those rooms merely as an address for letters,” I suggested.
“Do you know, signore, that is my own opinion?” he said. “He may live in another part of Florence for aught we know.”
“We must find out. Before I leave here it is imperative that I should know all about him, therefore I will assist you to watch for his return.”
Babbo shook his head and fingered his long cigar, which he was longing to smoke.
“No, signore. You must not appear in the Via San Cristofana. They would note your presence instantly. Leave all to me. I will employ an assistant, and we shall, I hope, before long be shadowing this mysterious individual.”
Recollecting that strange letter in Italian which I had secured from the dead man’s effects, I asked the old fellow if he knew any place called San Frediano—the place appointed for the meeting between the man now dead and the writer of the letter.
“Certainly,” was his reply. “There is the market of San Frediano behind the Carmine. And, of course, there is the Church of San Frediano in Lucca.”
“In Lucca!” I echoed. “Ah, but it is not Florence.”
Nevertheless, now I recollected, the letter distinctly appointed the hour of meeting “at vespers.” The place arranged was therefore most certainly a church.