Chapter Ten.
The Man of Secrets.
“I don’t understand you,” I exclaimed, resenting this charge against the man who was my most intimate friend. “Seton has been even a better friend to poor Blair than myself.”
Fra Antonio smiled strangely and mysteriously, as only the subtle Italian can. He seemed to pity my ignorance, and inclined to humour me in my belief in Seton’s genuineness.
“I know,” he laughed. “I know almost as much as you do upon the one side, while upon the other my knowledge extends somewhat further. All I can say is that I have watched, and have formed my own conclusions.”
“That Seton was not his friend?”
“That Seton was not his friend,” he repeated slowly and very distinctly.
“But surely you make no direct charge against him?” I cried. “You surely don’t think he’s responsible for this tragedy—if tragedy it really is.”
“I make no direct charge,” was his ambiguous reply. “Time will reveal the truth—no doubt.”