“Of late he has gone about in daily dread of secret assassination,” I replied. “He was evidently afraid of the Ceco.”
“And surely he had need to be,” exclaimed Fra Antonio, his dark, brilliant eyes again turned upon mine in the semi-darkness. “The Ceco is not an individual to be dealt with easily.”
“But what took him to London?” I demanded. “Did he go with harmful intentions?”
The burly monk shrugged his shoulders, answering—
“Dick Dawson was never of a very benevolent disposition. He evidently discovered something, and swore to be avenged.”
His remarks made plain one very important fact, namely, that the man who went by the nickname of the “blind man” in Italy was really an Englishman of the name of Dick Dawson—an adventurer most probably.
“Then you suspect him of complicity in the theft of the secret?” I suggested.
“Well, as the little sachet of chamois leather is missing, I am inclined to think that it must have passed into his hands.”
“And the girl, what of her?”
“His daughter, Dolly, will assist him, that’s plain. She’s as shrewd as her father, and possesses a woman’s cunning into the bargain—a dangerous girl, to say the least. I warned poor Blair of them both,” he added, suddenly, it seemed, recollecting his letter. “But I am glad you have recognised one of these photographs. His name is Seton, you say. Well, if he is your friend, take my advice and beware. Are you certain you have never seen this other man—a friend of Seton’s?” he asked very earnestly.