Shows Signori of the Suburbs.
The wiry Italian with the bristly moustache glanced at him half suspiciously; then a smile lit up his face for an instant.
“The Signorina Mortimer is an English signorina whom I have known a long time. Francesco Marucci is a friend of all the English.”
“I know. But in this matter you are actually working against the efforts of your own department.”
“As I have already explained to the signore, I am but the signorina’s messenger,” he declared, in a tone which showed him to be a past-master in the art of evasion. “She urges you to pay an immediate visit to a certain person here in London, and to leave for the Continent to-morrow morning—for Italy.”
“To go to her? Why cannot she come to England?”
“Because just at present that is impossible,” the man replied.
“And this visit you speak of. To whom is it?” The Italian drew from his pocket a small and shabby wallet, about six inches square, of the kind used in Italy to carry the paper money. From this he took a card, on which was written an address at Penge.
“She asks you to call at the house indicated immediately this card comes into your possession,” he said. “As your visit is expected, you had better go to-night.”
“For what reason?”