Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation. They were talking of the soldiers; a large detachment of carabinieri had been stationed at Palestrina, and the mountain roads were being patrolled. The carriage that night had passed two men on horseback stationed at the turning where the road to Castel Vivalanti branches off from the Via Prænestina. Mrs. Copley said something about its giving them a feeling of security at the villa to have so many soldiers near, and Melville replied that whatever the crimes of the Italian government, it at least looked after the safety of its guests, Marcia listened with a sigh of relief, and she rose from the table with an almost easy mind. They all adjourned to the salon for coffee, and as soon as she could speak to her uncle without attracting attention she touched him on the arm.
‘Come out on the loggia just a moment, Uncle Howard; I want to tell you something.’
He followed her in some surprise. She went down the steps and paused on the terrace, well out of ear-shot of the salon windows.
‘Uncle Howard, I saw the tattooed man to-day.’
Mr. Copley paused with a match in one hand and a cigar in the other. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.
‘Asleep in the ruined grotto.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘There was a crucifix tattooed upside down on his breast.’
‘So!’
He examined the pavement in silence a moment, then he raised his head with an excited little laugh such as a hunter might give when hot on the scent.
‘Well! I thought I had done for him, but it appears not.’ He strode over to the salon windows. ‘Sybert—ah, Sybert,’ he called in a low tone, ‘just step out here a moment.’
Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very deliberately scratched his match on the balustrade and lighted his cigar. ‘Tell your story, Marcia,’ he said between puffs.
She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he could take the information as casually as this, it could not be very serious. She repeated the account of what she had seen, and the two men exchanged a silent glance. Copley gave another short laugh.
‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’
‘I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your name you could expect the honour,’ Sybert growled.
‘What do you mean?’ Marcia asked quickly.
‘Just at present, Miss Marcia, I’m afraid that neither your uncle nor myself is as popular as our virtues demand.’
‘Oh, there’s no danger,’ said Copley. ‘They wouldn’t dare break into the house, and of course I sha’n’t be fool enough to walk the country-side unarmed. The first thing in the morning, I shall send into Palestrina for some carabinieri to patrol the place. And on Monday the family can move into Rome instead of waiting till Wednesday. There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he added, with a reassuring glance at Marcia. ‘Forewarned is forearmed—we’ll see that the house is locked to-night.’
‘Can you trust the servants?’ Sybert asked.
Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.
‘By Jove! I don’t know that I can. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t trust that Pietro as far as I could see him. He’s been acting mighty queer lately.’
Marcia’s eyes suddenly widened in terror, and she recalled one afternoon when she had caught Pietro in the village talking to Gervasio’s stepfather, as well as a dozen other little things that she had not thought of at the time, but which now seemed to have a secret meaning.
Sybert saw her look of fear and he said lightly: ‘There’s not the slightest danger, Miss Marcia. We’ll get the soldiers here in the morning; and for to-night, even if we can’t put much trust in the butler, there are at least three men in the house who are above suspicion and who are armed.’ He touched his pocket with a laugh. ‘When it comes to the point I am a very fair shot, and so is your uncle. You were wishing a little while ago that something exciting would happen—if it gives you any pleasure, you can pretend that this is an adventure.’
‘Oh, yes, Marcia,’ her uncle rejoined. ‘Don’t let the thought of the tattooed man disturb your sleep. He’s more spectacular than dangerous.’
The others had come out on to the loggia and were exclaiming at the beauty of the night.
‘Howard,’ Mrs. Copley called, ‘don’t you want to come and make a fourth at whist?’
‘In a moment,’ he returned. ‘We won’t say anything to the others,’ he said in a low tone to Marcia and Sybert.
‘There’s no use raising any unnecessary excitement.’
‘Marcia, if you and Mr. Sybert would like to play, we can make it six-handed euchre instead of whist.’
Sybert glanced down to see that her hand was trembling, and he decided that to make her sit through a game of cards would be too great a test of her nerves.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Copley,’ he called back; ‘it’s too fine a night to pass indoors. Miss Marcia and I will stay out here.’
The proposal was a test of his own nerves, but he had schooled himself for a good many years to hide his feelings; it was an ordeal he was used to.
With final exclamations on the beauty of the night, the whist party returned to the salon. Sybert brought a wicker chair from the loggia for Marcia, and seated himself on the parapet while he lighted a cigar with a nonchalance she could not help but admire. Did she but know it, his nonchalance was only surface deep, though the cause for his inward tumult had nothing to do with the man of the ruined grotto. They sat in silence for a time, looking down on the shimmering Campagna. The scene was as beautiful as on that other night of the early spring, but now it was full summer. It was so peaceful, so idyllic, so thoroughly the Italy of poetry and romance, that it seemed absurd to think of plots and riots in connexion with that landscape. At least Marcia was not thinking of them now; she was willing to take her uncle at his word and leave the responsibility to him. The thing that was still burning in her mind was that unexplained moment by the fountain. It was the first time she had been alone with Sybert since. How would he act? Would he simply ignore it, as if it had never happened? He would, of course; and that would be far worse than if he apologized or congratulated her, for then she would have a chance to explain. What did he think? she asked herself for the hundredth time as she covertly scanned his dark, impassive face. Did he think her engaged to Paul Dessart, or did he divine the real reason why the young man had so suddenly sailed for America? Even so, it would not put her in a much better light in his eyes. He would think she had been playing with Paul and—her face flushed at the thought—had tried to play with him.
Sybert was the one who broke the silence. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I could spot your man with the crucifix this very moment.’ He pointed with his cigar toward the hill above them, where little stone-walled Castel Vivalanti was outlined against the sky. ‘If I am not mistaken, he is in the back room of a trattoria up there, in company with our friend Tarquinio of the Bed-quilt, who,’ he added meditatively, ‘is a fool. Those carabinieri are not guarding the roads for nothing. A number of Neapolitans have come north lately who might better have stayed at home—Camorrists for the most part—and the government is after them. This fellow with the crucifix is without doubt one of them, and in all probability he just happened into the ruins this afternoon to rest, without having an idea who lived here. At any rate, I strongly suspect that your uncle it not the hare he’s hunting. Italy is too busy just at present to take time for private revenge—though,’ he smiled, ‘I have no wish to spoil your adventure.’