She drew back in amazement. The next moment she welcomed me warmly, evidently under the impression that I had come there in order to forgive.
Aunt Hetty, looking quite spruce in black satin, and wearing a gay cap and an emerald brooch, came downstairs a few minutes later, and, after a brief explanation, we followed the others in to the table-d’hôte. As early arrivals, they had places near the head of the table, while mine was far down, near the end. Therefore, not until the meal was over, and we sat in rocking-chairs in the hall listening to the music, was I able to chat to her, and then nothing confidential could pass between us because of the other guests seated around, the men smoking and gossiping, and the women enjoying the lazy post-prandial hour before the arrival of the English mail with the two-days-old letters and newspapers.
After a long talk with her, mostly upon trivialities, I retired that night with a distinct impression that somehow my presence there was unwelcome. She had told me that they did not intend to remain much longer in Bordighera, and that they would either go on to Rome or back to England. I felt convinced that this decision had been suddenly arrived at since my advent.
On the following morning, after my coffee, I went forth for a stroll into the long high-street of the town, where, in the window of the British Vice-Consulate, was placed a board bearing a number of telegrams. I paused, finding that they gave the latest news of the war in the Transvaal, which was telegraphed from London twice daily. As I did so, another passer-by paused and eagerly peered into the window beside me.
He was a shabbily dressed Italian, smoking a long, rank Toscano, and as I turned away from the board my eyes fell suddenly upon his face.
It was Paolo Bertini.
Our recognition was mutual, and I saw in an instant that he became confused. He moved away, but I walked beside him.
“Why are you here?” I inquired in French with some warmth.
“I may put to you the same question,” he answered defiantly, his dark eyes flashing upon me with an evil gleam.
“Remember,” I said, “you have been already condemned as a French spy, although you are an Italian. They are not fond of French spies here, on the frontier.”