I stared at the words utterly confounded. Somebody had assumed my identity! Yet how was that possible with Mabel present?
“What kind of man was madame’s husband?” I inquired, while my sister-in-law stood by astounded.
“He was slightly older than yourself, sir, with a moustache turning grey.”
Surely it could not be that arch-scoundrel Kershaw Kirk!
“Was he about fifty, and rather thin?”
“Yes,” replied the hôtelier. “He spoke Italian very well; indeed, with scarcely any accent.”
My suspicion at once fell upon Kirk. Yet how could he so impose upon Mabel as to be allowed to pass as her husband? She had never before spoken to the fellow, and had, I knew, held him in instinctive dislike.
“They were out all yesterday morning driving up to Fiesole,” he added.
“You don’t happen to know to which hotel they’ve gone in Rome?” I asked.
“No. There is a telegram here for madame. It arrived half an hour after their departure. They would leave no word with the hall-porter regarding the forwarding of letters.”