“Basta!” cried the younger man, frowning, his eyes shining with unnatural fire. “Can I ever forget them? Enough! All is past. It does neither of us good to rake up that wretched affair. It is over and forgotten.”
“No, scarcely forgotten,” the Doctor said in a low, impressive tone. “Having regard to what occurred, don’t you think that Vittorina has sufficient incentive to expose us?”
“Perhaps,” Romanelli answered in a dry, dubious tone. “I, however, confess myself sanguine of our success. Certainly you, as an English country doctor, who is half Italian, and who has practised for years among the English colony in Florence, have but very little to fear. You are eminently respectable.”
The men exchanged smiles. Romanelli glanced at his ring, and thought the ancient blue scarabaeus had grown darker—a precursory sign of evil.
“Yes,” answered Malvano, with deliberation, “I know I’ve surrounded myself with an air of the most severe respectability, and I flatter myself that the people here little dream of my true position; but that doesn’t effect the serious turn events appear to be taking. We have enemies, my dear fellow—bitter enemies—in Florence, and as far as I can discern, there’s absolutely no way of propitiating them. We are, as you know, actually within an ace of success, yet this girl can upset all our plans, and make English soil too sultry for us ever to tread it again.” A second time he glanced around his comfortable dining-room, and sighed at the thought of having to fly from that quiet rural spot where he had so ingeniously hidden himself.
“It was to tell me this, I suppose, that you wired this morning?” his guest said.
The other nodded, adding, “I had a letter last night from Paolo. He has seen Vittorina at Livorno. She’s there for the sea-bathing.”
“What did she say?”
“That she intended to travel straight to London.”
“She gave him no reason, I suppose?” Arnoldo asked anxiously.