She leaned her elbows on the table, and bending forward, with her gloved hands held together, thus explained her object in seeking me:
“I have been sent to warn you,” she said with a strange look in her dark eyes—those eyes that had once haunted me in that sun-blanched city by the sea.
“But you called at my house at Antignano and obtained possession of the manuscript which I had bought of Father Bernardo,” I said. “Why?”
“Because its possession constituted a danger to you,” was her answer, still speaking in Italian.
And I wondered whether she were aware that its vellum leaves were impregnated with a deadly venom that had not yet lost its potency.
“But that was no reason why you should steal the manuscript,” I said, in Italian, rather bluntly.
She raised her wine-glass to her lips and drank slowly in order to reflect. Then, setting her claret down, exclaimed:
“Ah! my action was under compulsion. You should have been warned by the prior of the evil that possession of the book would bring upon you.”
“Well, now tell me, signorina—for I haven’t the pleasure of your real name—”
“Anita Bardi,” she interrupted.