“I—I called here,” she explained in a low, weak voice, “and became seized with a sudden faintness. I—I think I fell.”
“I trust you’re not hurt,” he said quickly. “You are pale and trembling. Shall I call a doctor?”
“No, no,” she answered. “In a few minutes I shall be quite right again.”
Romanelli noticed her necklet at his feet, and picked it up. Then he glanced across the room and saw the broken statuette, and his quick, dark eyes detected signs of a struggle in the disarranged hearthrug and the chairs pushed out of place.
“Merely fainting did not break this,” he said gravely, holding up the chain and picking up the tiny medallion enamelled with the picture of a dog’s head with the words beneath, “Toujours Fidèle.” The chain and its pendant were simple and old-fashioned, the one remaining link of her girlhood days at the Convent of San Paolo della Croce.
She held out her hand in silence, and the young man placed both chain and medallion in her palm. Then, with her great, pain-darkened eyes fixed upon him, she kissed the chain reverently, afterwards slipping both into her glove, and sighing.
“Gemma,” continued Romanelli, bending beside her chair, “what does this mean? Tell me. Why have you come to London?”
She shook her head.
“This man can’t speak Italian,” he explained, glancing at Smayle, who stood beside wondering. “We can talk quite freely. Come, tell me what has happened.”
“Nothing,” she assured him.