“Yes; why?” Arnoldo asked in surprise.
Smayle hesitated, fidgeted a moment, and then answered—
“Well, sir, there’s a lady there, in the Captain’s sitting-room, and she’s not well, and she can’t speak English.”
“A lady?” cried Romanelli, suddenly interested. “Young or old?”
“Young, sir. She’s Italian, I believe. And I thought, sir, that perhaps you wouldn’t mind assisting a friend of my master’s.”
“Of course not. Take me to her at once,” he said. “Is she very ill?”
“She had a bad fainting fit,” answered the servant as he led the way to the sitting-room. She was still lying back in the chair, now quite conscious, but still pale, dishevelled, and so exhausted as to be scarcely able to move her limbs. They seemed paralysed by the excruciating torture she had undergone.
The opening of the door aroused her, and looking up, her eyes met those of the young Italian.
“You—Gemma!” he cried in profound surprise, rushing forward. “Why are you here—in London? And in Tristram’s rooms?”
She held her breath in amazement at this unexpected meeting.