Moroni! I recollected the name. He was one of the mourners!
“And the girl?” I asked.
“Ah! I do not know. I saw her out with an old woman the other day. But I have no idea who she is.”
“Is Doctor Moroni a doctor of medicine?” I inquired.
“Yes. The people at the pension of the Lung Arno where I live, always call him in. I was ill six months ago, and he attended me. He lives in the Via Cavezzo, near the Porta Romona—number six, I believe.”
“I am sure I am extremely obliged to you,” I replied very gratefully. “I have a very strong reason for asking these questions—reasons which concern the young lady,” I added.
The American woman smiled, and then, reiterating my thanks, I raised my hat and left her.
At least I had discovered the identity of the girl’s companion. He was a doctor, hence it was most probable that she was under his charge. Nevertheless, it was strange that he should take her to the Duomo and pray at her side. Doctors do not usually act in that manner with their patients.
When I returned to the Piazza the pair were nowhere to be seen, therefore I strolled to the nearest café, and sat down with a cigarette to think out the remarkable affair.