“Then go to him and tell him the truth.”
“Ah, no, I cannot!” she cried. “That is quite impossible.”
“You know him, I do not,” the detective said. “Could you not induce him to leave Italy, say for a few weeks? It would be safer. These men, I tell you frankly, are desperate characters. They will hesitate at nothing.”
“But why should they attack an Englishman?” she asked.
“Because he knows—or they think he knows—some secret concerning them. That is my theory.”
“And they intend to close his lips?”
The detective nodded.
“S-h-h-h,” he whispered next second. “See yonder”—and he pointed down the hill to where a light had suddenly shone. “Someone is coming across the vineyard. Perhaps it is Signor Enrico—probably it is, I overheard him say something about catching the night mail to Rome. It is due in twenty minutes.”
“Addio, then,” she said hurriedly. “I will manage to warn Signor Waldron if, as you say, it is absolutely necessary,” and, taking the peasant’s hand in farewell, she ran back to where her car was waiting, and was soon on the road again speeding back over the thirty odd miles which lay between that nest of bad characters and the Eternal City.
While she was hurrying away, without waiting to switch on her lamps, Pietro Olivieri leisurely descended the hill. But as he passed on through the grove of dark cypresses a human figure crept stealthily out of the shadows and, looking after him, muttered a fierce imprecation.