On my arrival at Pisa I had made an appointment to see him, and as we now sat together in his narrow cell, I questioned him whether, by mere chance, he had ever heard of a certain lady named Yolanda Romanelli. It was quite a chance shot of mine, but I knew that he came from the same district as the lady.
He was evasive. He had heard of her, he admitted, but would go no further.
His attitude concerning the lady I had mentioned filled me with curiosity.
In his coarse brown habit and hood he had always been a mystery to me. He was about forty-five years of age. He knew English, and spoke it as well as he did French, for, though a monk, he was a classical scholar and a keen student of modern science.
“Now, Fra Pacifico,” I said, as I reseated myself. “I know you are cognizant of something concerning this lady, Yolanda Romanelli. What is it? Tell me.”
Thus pressed, he rather reluctantly told me a strange story.
“Well!” I exclaimed at last when he had finished. “It is all really incredible. Are you quite certain of it?”
“Signor Hargreave, what I have told you is what I really believe to be true. That woman is in a high position, I know. She married the Marchese, but I am convinced that she is an adventuress—and more. She is a wicked woman! God forgive me for telling you this.”
“But are you quite certain?” I repeated.