“Signore, I have told you what I know,” he answered gravely, tapping his great horn snuff-box and taking a pinch, tobacco being forbidden him by the rules of his Order. “I have told you what I know—and also what I suspect. You can make whatever use of the knowledge you like. Yolanda Romanelli is a handsome woman—as you will see for yourself if you meet her,” he added in a strange reflective voice.
“That means going down to Naples,” I remarked.
“Yes, go there. Be watchful, and you will discover something in progress which will interest you. But be careful. As an enemy she is dangerous.”
“But her husband, the Marquis? Does he know nothing?”
Fra Pacifico hitched up the rope around his waist and made an impetuous gesture.
“Poor fellow! He suspects nothing!”
“Well, Pacifico,” I said, “do be frank with me. How do you know all this?”
“No,” he replied. “There are certain things I cannot tell you—things which occurred in the past—before I took my vow and entered this place. I was once of your own world, Signor Hargreave. Now I am not. It is all of the past,” he added in a hard, determined voice.
“You have been in London. I feel sure of it, Pacifico,” I said, for by his conversation he had often betrayed knowledge of England, and more especially of London.