“Pardon me, signore,” I exclaimed in Italian, “but if I mistake not we have met before—in London, a year ago—was it not?”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, his face relaxing into a pleasant smile as he extended his big, hard hand, “I have been wondering all this time, Signor Greenwood, if you would recognise me is this dress. I am very pleased to resume our acquaintance—very.” And he emphasised his words, meant or feigned, by a strong, close grip.
I expressed surprise at finding the erratic traveller and man-of-the-world to be, in reality, an inhabitant of the cloister, to which in a low voice, in reverence that we were within that sacred place, he responded—
“I will tell you all about it later. It is not so remarkable as it no doubt strikes you. As a Capuchin I assure you my quiet, reflective life is far preferable to that of the man who, like yourself, mixes with the world and is compelled to live the fevered life of to-day, wherein fortunate unscrupulousness is accounted meritorious and the greatest of sins is that of one’s evil living being found out.”
“Yes, I quite understand,” I replied, surprised nevertheless at his assertion and wondering whether, after all, he was merely attempting to mislead me. “The life of the cloister must be one of a sweet and infinite calm. But if I mistake not,” I added, “you are here by appointment to meet our mutual friend, Burton Blair.”
He raised his dark eyebrows slightly, and I could have sworn that my words caused him to start. Yet so cleverly did he conceal any surprise I had caused him that he replied in a quiet, natural tone—
“That is so. I am here to see him.”
“Then I regret to tell you that you will never see him again,” I said in a low, earnest voice.
“Why?” he gasped, his black eyes wide open in surprise.
“Because,” I answered, “because poor Burton Blair is dead—and his secret has been stolen.”