Again the ugly old man raised his shoulders expressively and opened out his hands—this time, however, in silence.
I rang the bell for Nello to show the fellow out. Then, when I had done this, he turned to me with knit brows and asked:
“Does the signore refuse absolutely to show me the ‘Book of Arnoldus’?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then it must be at the signore’s peril,” he said slowly, with a strange, deep meaningness and a curious expression on his brown, wrinkled face.
“I don’t believe in prophecy,” I cried in anger. “And if you mean it for a threat—well, only your age saves you from being kicked downstairs.”
The old fellow muttered beneath his breath some words I did not catch, then bowed as haughtily as though he were a courtier born, and, turning, followed the silent Nello through the long white door.
I believe it was a threat he uttered at the moment of parting; but of that I was not quite sure, therefore was unable to charge him with it.
Still the strange warning caused me to reflect, and the old hunchback’s movements and his secret inquiries about my antecedents all combined to induce within me a vague sense of anxiety and insecurity.
Through an hour in the blazing, breathless afternoon I dozed with cigarettes and my three-day-old English newspaper, as was my habit, for one cannot do literary work when the sun-shutters are closed and the place in cooling darkness. I was eager now to get back to England, and had already ordered Nello to make preparations for my departure. He was to go into town that afternoon and inform the professional packer to call and see me with a view to making wooden cases and crates for my collection of old furniture and pictures, all of which I intended to ship direct to London. Italy was a lovely country, I reflected, but, after all, England was better, especially when now, through no fault of my own, I had stumbled into a slough of mystery.