“Last season there was here in Rome a man named Dubard. You introduced us one night when I dined here. I have since heard that he is aspiring to your daughter’s hand.”
“Well?”
“Watch him, and you will discover something that will surprise you. I shall say no more. The future is in your own hands.”
Chapter Eleven.
The Secret Agent.
A fat waiter conducted a well-dressed, lady-like girl up the great marble staircase of the Hôtel Brun, in Bologna, rapped lightly at the door of a private sitting-room, and ushered her in.
Angelo Borselli, who rose to meet her, bowed politely, with a smile on his sallow face, and welcomed his visitor.
She was about twenty-three, with very dark hair, fine big eyes, and a well-formed figure, rather stout, as are most of the Bolognese.