“Well?” I inquired.
“Well, that is the reason why I live in dread of a catastrophe.”
“Answer me this question, Yes or No. Your mysterious visitor was a foreigner?”
I recollected what the innkeeper’s wife had told me—namely, that the word “Firenze” was on the tabs of his boots.
“Yes,” she answered in a half-whisper.
“An Italian?”
“How did you know that?” she gasped in quick surprise.
“From my own inquiries,” I answered.
“But do take my advice,” she cried earnestly, her hand upon my arm. “Make no further inquiries regarding him; otherwise I may be suspected and all my plans will be frustrated.”
“What plans?”