“Then you have no knowledge of the actual charge in this case?”
“No, signore, I have not. But,” he added, “the signorina must herself know the reason.”
Armytage turned quickly to her. Their eyes met for a single instant. Then she slowly nodded, saying in an indistinct voice: “Yes, yes, I know only too well the reason of this. I must leave Livorno—leave Italy, my own country that I love, never to return.”
“That would be the very best course to pursue,” the delegato urged. “If you leave Italy, signorina, you will, I think, hear no more of the unfortunate affair. Indeed, I have strong reasons for believing that the Questore has acted in the manner he has done purposely, in order that you should be afforded an opportunity to leave Italy.”
“He thinks that exile is preferable to imprisonment,” she said aloud, as if reflecting. “Well, perhaps he is right;” and she laughed a short, hollow laugh.
“Yes,” urged Armytage, “you must leave to-night.” She was silent. The police official exchanged glances with the tall, good-looking young Englishman, then said, bowing politely—
“I will wish you adieu, signore. A thousand pardons for disturbing you; but it was my duty, therefore pray forgive me.”
“Certainly, certainly,” he replied; and both men went out bowing, leaving Armytage alone with the woman he loved.
“All this is strange—very strange,” he observed when they had gone. He was puzzled; for, after all, he now knew no more than what Consul Hutchinson had already told him.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “to you it must appear extraordinary, but to me, who expected it and who dreaded it, it was only what might be anticipated. They have warned me out of Italy, it’s true; but if they knew everything,” she added—“if they knew everything, I should to-night be placed in a criminal’s cell.”