“Far from it, Princess,” replied the singer, speaking with a frankness that a second later she regretted.
“And perhaps, too, Signor Corsini is not exactly what he seems?” queried Nada. Intuition was leading her very near the truth.
“Of that I cannot speak with any certainty. Your brother has certain suspicions of him, but I have no means of knowing whether they are well- or ill-founded. One thing is certain, Prince Boris goes in fear of him and meditates harm to him.”
“You are sure of his intentions?” asked Nada.
Madame Quéro shrugged her shapely shoulders. “Should I be here, if I were not?”
The Princess questioned her a little more closely. “You will not tell me more than you wish, I know, but I think I am entitled to put this question. How did you learn his intentions, from himself or a third party?”
And the singer answered truthfully. “From his own lips.”
Nada was silent for some seconds. She was working it out in her own mind, on the somewhat scanty data that had been furnished her.
“You mean that the Prince intends to get Signor Corsini out of the way by some treacherous means?”