As his lordship approached the end of the long, narrow street close to the Porta del Popolo, Garrett gave him a nudge, and glancing at an oncoming carriage he saw in it two pretty dark-haired girls. One, the better looking of the pair, was about twenty-two, and wore rich sables, with a neat toque of the same fur. The other about three years her senior, wore a black hat, a velvet coat, and a boa of white Arctic fox. Both were delicate, refined-looking girls, and evidently ladies.
Nassington raised his cap and laughed, receiving nods and merry laughs of recognition in return.
“I wonder where they’re going, Garrett?” he remarked after they had passed.
“Better follow them, hadn’t we?” remarked the man.
A moment later, however, a humble cab passed, one of those little open victorias which the visitor to Rome knows so well, and in it was seated alone a middle-aged, rather red-faced English clergyman.
His lordship and he exchanged glances, but neither recognised each other.
“Good!” whispered the man at the wheel to his servant beside him. “So the Parson’s arrived. He hasn’t been long on the way from Berlin. I suppose he’s keeping his eye upon the girls.”
“Trust him,” laughed the chauffeur. “You sent him the snap-shot, I suppose?”
“Of course. And it seems he’s lost no time. He couldn’t have arrived before five o’clock this morning.”
“When Clayton’s on a good thing he moves about as quickly as you do,” the smart young English chauffeur remarked.