“The police have been busy examining the list of sailings, but his name does not appear anywhere,” Geoffrey said. “Again,” he went on, “why should he deceive me as to where he was staying?”
“I cannot think why he was not frank and open with you. What had he to fear?” Sylvia remarked.
“That’s just it! Perhaps he went in fear of something, and for that reason kept his whereabouts a secret,” said her lover as they stood together in the pretty morning-room looking out into Upper Brook Street. “Anyhow it’s a mystery which I intend to solve—if possible,” he added.
In order to try to solve it he obtained leave from the works, and travelled first to Pisa, the old marble-built city famous for its cathedral and leaning tower, and then on to Coltano.
The director, a tall, dark-haired, rather handsome man, received him warmly in his private office attached to the long row of buildings which form the power-house and operating rooms of the station.
When he heard the story, he exclaimed in Italian—a language which Geoffrey knew very well:
“All this is most amazing—incredible!” he cried. “Signor Rossi was sent to Chelmsford to obtain certain new apparatus, and in his last report, ten days ago, he wrote that all was in hand, and that he hoped to be back in a fortnight’s time. Why should he go to America?” asked the director, shrugging his shoulders significantly. “I cannot believe it! We can only leave it to the police. He has a brother living in Firenze.”
“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “I have heard him speak of him. He is an advocate, I think.”
“Yes. A very nice fellow. He lives in the Via Giotto.”
“I will go and see him,” the young Englishman said, and that same night he left for the Lily City.