‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he cried.
‘Gerald!’ Marcia breathed in a sobbing whisper.
‘Gerald!’ he repeated, anxious lines showing in his face. ‘Good heavens, Marcia! What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know; he’s gone,’ she said wildly. ‘Come up here, where Aunt Katherine won’t hear us.’ She led the way up into the hall again and explained in broken sentences.
Sybert turned without a word and strode back to Gerald’s room. He stood upon the threshold, looking at the empty little crib and tossed pillows.
‘It will simply kill Uncle Howard and Aunt Katherina if anything has happened to him,’ Marcia faltered.
‘Nothing has happened to him,’ Sybert returned shortly. ‘The scoundrels wouldn’t dare steal a child. Every police spy in Italy would be after them. He must be with Bianca somewhere.’
He turned away from the room and went on down the stone passage toward the rear of the house. He paused at the head of the middle staircase, thinking the matter over with frowning brows, while Marcia anxiously studied his face. As they stood there in the dim moonlight that streamed in through the small square window over the stairs they suddenly heard the patter of bare feet in the passage below, and in another moment Gerald himself came scurrying up the winding stone stairway, looking like a little white rat in the dimness.
Marcia uttered a cry of joy, and Sybert squared his shoulders as if a weight had dropped from them. Their second glance at the child’s face, however, told them that something had happened. His little white nightgown was draggled with dew, his face was twitching nervously, and his eyes were wild with terror. He reached the top step and plunged into Marcia’s arms with a burst of sobbing.
‘Gerald, Gerald, what’s the matter? Don’t make such a noise. Hush, dear; you will frighten mamma. Marcia won’t let anything hurt you. Tell me what’s the matter.’
Gerald clung to her, crying and trembling and pouring out a torrent of unintelligible Italian. Sybert bent down, and taking him in his arms, carried him back to his own room. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. Stop crying and tell us what’s the matter,’ he said peremptorily.
Gerald caught his breath and told his story in a mixture of English and Italian and sobs. It had been so hot, and the nightingales had made such a noise, that he couldn’t go to sleep; and he had got up very softly so as not to disturb mamma, and had crept out the back way just to get some cherries. (A group of scrub trees, cherry, almond, and pomegranate, grew close to the villa walls in the rear.) While he was sitting under the tree eating cherries, some men came up and stopped in the bushes close by, and he could hear what they said, and one of them was Pietro. Here he began to cry again, and the soothing had to be done over.
‘Well, what did they say? Tell us what they said, Gerald,’ Sybert broke in, in his low, insistent tones.
‘Vey said my papa was a bad man, an’ vey was going to kill him ‘cause he had veir money in his pocket—an’ I don’t want my papa killed!’ he wailed.
Marcia’s eyes met Sybert’s in silence, and he emitted a low breath that was half a whistle.
‘What else did they say, Gerald? You needn’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt your papa, but you must remember everything they said, so that we can catch them.’
‘Pietro said he was going to kill you, too, ‘cause you was here an’ was bad like papa,’ Gerald sobbed.
‘Go on,’ Sybert urged. ‘What else did they say?’
‘Vey didn’t say nuffin more, but went away in ve grove. An’ I was scared an’ kept still, an’ it was all nero under ve trees; an’ ven I cwept in pianissimo an’ I found you—an’ I don’t want you killed, an’ I don’t want papa killed.’
‘Don’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt us. And now try to remember how many men there were.’
‘Pietro an’—some uvers, an’ vey went away in ve trees.’
They questioned him some more, but got merely a variation of the same story; it was evidently all he knew. Marcia called Granton to sit with him and tremulously explained the situation. Granton received the information calmly; it was all she had ever expected in Italy, she said.
Out in the hall again, Marcia looked at Sybert questioningly; she was quite composed. Gerald was safe at least, and they knew what was coming. She felt that her uncle and Sybert would bring things right.
‘What shall we do?’ she asked.
Sybert, with folded arms, was considering the question.
‘It’s evidently a mixture of robbery and revenge and mistaken patriotism all rolled into one. It would be convenient if we knew how many there were; Pietro and Gervasio’s stepfather and your man with the crucifix we may safely count upon, but just how many more we have no means of knowing. However, there’s no danger of their beginning operations till they think we’re asleep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It is a quarter to ten. We have a good two hours still, and we’ll prepare to surprise them. We won’t tell the people downstairs just yet, for it won’t do any good, and their talk and laughter are the best protection we could have. You don’t know where your uncle keeps his revolver, do you?’
‘Yes; in the top drawer of his writing-table.’ She stepped into Mr. Copley’s room and pulled open the drawer. ‘Why, it’s gone!’
‘I say, the plot thickens!’ and Sybert, too, uttered a short, low laugh, as Copley had done on the terrace.
‘And the rifle’s gone,’ Marcia added, her glance wandering to the corner where the gun-case usually stood.
‘It’s evident that our friend Pietro has been helping himself; but if he thinks he’s going to shoot us with our own arms he’s mistaken. We must get word to the soldiers at Palestrina—did you tell me the servants were gone?’
‘I couldn’t find any one but Granton. The whole house is empty.’
‘It’s the Camorra!’ he exclaimed softly.
‘The Camorra?’ Marcia paled a trifle at the name.
‘Ah—it’s plain enough. We should have suspected it before. Pietro is a member and has been acting as a spy from the inside. It appears to be a very prettily worked out plot. They have waited until they think there’s money in the house; your uncle has just sold a big consignment of wheat. They have probably dismissed the servants with their usual formula: “Be silent, and you live; speak, and you die.” The servants would be more afraid of the Camorra than of the police.—How about the stablemen?’
‘Oh, I can’t believe they’d join a plot against us,’ Marcia cried. ‘Angelo and Giovanni I would trust anywhere.’
‘In that case they’ve been silenced; they are where they won’t give testimony until it is too late. I dare say the fellows are even planning to ride off on the horses themselves. By morning they would be well into the mountains of the Abruzzi, where the Camorrists are at home. We’ll have to get help from Palestrina. If we could reach those guards at the cross-roads, they would ride in with the message. It’s only two miles away, but–’ He frowned a trifle. ‘I suppose the house is closely watched, and it will be difficult to get out unseen. We’ll have to try it, though.’
‘Whom can we send?’
He was silent a moment. ‘I don’t like to leave you,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to go.’
‘Oh!’ said Marcia, with a little gasp. She stood looking down at the floor with troubled eyes, and Sybert watched her, careless that the time was passing.
Marcia suddenly raised her eyes, with an exclamation of relief. ‘Gervasio!’ she cried. ‘We can send Gervasio.’
‘Could we trust him?’ he doubted.
‘Anywhere! And he can get away without being seen easier than you could. I am sure he can do it; he is very intelligent.’
‘I’d forgotten him. Yes, I believe that is the best way. You go and wake him, and I’ll write a note to the soldiers.’ Sybert turned to the writing-table as he spoke, and Marcia hurried back to Gervasio’s room.