He bent forward, watching her as she stood in her white evening gown outlined against the dark tapestry of the wall, her face surrounded by glowing hair, her grey eyes big with amazement and fear.
He stretched out his hand toward her. ‘Marcia,’ he called in a low, insistent tone. ‘Come here, Marcia. Come out here and stand beside me, or I shall think you are a coward.’
She turned aside with a little shuddering gasp and hid her head against the wall. What if they should shoot him in the back as he sat there?
Sybert suddenly came to himself and sprang forward with an apology. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Marcia; I didn’t mean to frighten you. I don’t know what I’m saying.’
He began closing the doors and shutters farthest away. As he reached her side he paused and looked at her. Her eyes were shut and she did not move. He closed and barred the last shutter, and they stood silent in the dark. Marcia was struggling to control herself. ‘I shall think you a coward,’ was ringing in her ears. She had borne a great deal to-day, from the moment when she had first seen the man asleep in the grass; and now, as she opened her eyes in the darkness, a sudden rush of fear swept over her such as she had experienced in the old wine-cellar. It was not fear of any definite thing; she could be as brave as any one in the face of visible danger. It was merely a wild, unreasoning sensation of physical terror, bred of the dark and overwrought nerves. She stretched out her hand and touched Sybert to be sure he was there. The next moment she was beyond herself. ‘I’m afraid,’ she sobbed out, and she clung to him convulsively.
She felt him put his arm around her. ‘Marcia! My dear little girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of. When they find we are on our guard they won’t dare molest us. Nothing can hurt you.’ It was so exactly his tone to Gerald, she would have laughed had she not been crying too hard to stop. Then suddenly his arms tightened about her. ‘Marcia,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘Marcia,’ and he bent his head until his lips touched hers. They stood for an instant without moving; then she felt him become quickly rigid as he dropped his arms and gently loosened her hands. They groped their way into the hall without a word, and neither looked at the other. They were both ashamed. The tears still stood in Marcia’s eyes, but her cheeks were scarlet. And Sybert was pale beneath the olive of his skin.
He stepped to the threshold of the salon. ‘Ah, Copley,’ he said in a low tone. ‘Are you nearly through? I want to tell you something.’
Copley waved him off without looking up. ‘Sh—it’s a crucial moment. Don’t interrupt. The scores are even and only one hand more to play. I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Marcia sat down in a chair on the loggia. It was on the opposite side of the house from the ilex grove, and besides, her spasm of fear had passed. Everything was blotted out of her mind except what had just happened. Her thoughts, her feelings, were in wild commotion; but one thing stood out clearly. She had thrown herself into his arms and he had kissed her; and then—he had unloosed her hands. She shut her eyes and winced at the thought; she felt that she could never face him again.
And on the other end of the loggia Sybert was pacing up and down, lighting cigarettes and throwing them away. He, too, was fiercely calling himself names. He had frightened her when he knew that she was beside herself with nervousness; he had taken advantage of the fact that she did not know what she was doing; he knew that she was engaged to Paul Dessart, and he had forgotten that he was a gentleman. With a quick glance toward the salon, he threw away his cigarette, and crossing the loggia, he sat down in a chair at Marcia’s side. She shrank back quickly, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the brick floor.
‘Marcia,’ he said in a tone so low that it was barely audible, ‘I love you. I know you don’t care for me; I know you are engaged to another man. I didn’t mean to see you again; most of all I didn’t mean to tell you. I had no right to take advantage of you when you were off your guard, but—I couldn’t help it; I’m not so strong as I thought I was. Please forgive me and forget about it.’
Marcia drew a deep breath and shut her eyes. Her throat suddenly felt hot and dry. The rush of joy that swept over her made her feel that she could face anything. She had but to say, ‘I am not engaged to another man,’ and all would come right. She raised her head and looked back into Sybert’s deep eyes. It was he this time who dropped his gaze.
‘Mr. Sybert–’ she whispered.
A shadow suddenly fell between them, and they both sprang to their feet with a little exclamation. A man was standing before them as unexpectedly as though he had risen from the earth or dropped from the sky. He was short and thick-set, with coarsely accentuated features; he wore a loose white shirt and a red cotton sash, and though the shirt was fastened at the throat, Marcia could see the mark of the crucifix on his brown skin as plainly as if it were visible.
‘It’s the tattooed man!’ she gasped out, but as she felt Sybert’s restraining touch on her arm she calmed herself.
The man took off his hat with a polite bow and an impertinent smile.
‘Buona sera, signorina,’ he murmured. ‘Buona sera, Friend of the Poor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I come on business molto urgente.’
‘What is your business?’ Sybert asked sharply.
‘My business is with Signor Copley.’
‘What is this? Some one to see me?’ Copley asked, appearing in the doorway. ‘Well, my man,’ he added in Italian, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Uncle Howard, don’t speak to him! It’s the tattooed man,’ Marcia cried. ‘There’s a plot. He wants to kill you.’
An expression approaching amusement flitted over Mr. Copley’s face as he looked his visitor over.
‘I wish to speak to the signore alone, in private, on urgent business,’ the man reiterated, looking scowlingly from one face to the other. He did not understand the foreign language they spoke among themselves, and he felt that it gave them an advantage.
‘Don’t speak to him alone,’ Sybert warned. ‘He’s dangerous.’
‘Well, what do you want?’ Copley demanded peremptorily. ‘Say whatever you have to say here.’
The man glanced at Marcia and Sybert, and then, shrugging his shoulders in true Italian fashion, turned to Copley.
‘I wish the money of the poor,’ he said.
‘The money of the poor? I haven’t any money of the poor.’
‘Si, si, signore. The money you stole from the mouths of the poor—the wheat money.’
Marcia shuddered at the word ‘wheat.’ It seemed to her that it would follow her to her dying day.
‘Ah! So it’s the wheat money, is it? Well, my good man, that happens to be my money. I didn’t steal it from the mouths of the poor. I bought the wheat myself to give to the poor, and I sold it for half as much as I paid for it; and with the money I intend to buy more wheat. In the meantime, however, I shall keep it in my own hands.’
‘You don’t remember me, signore, but I remember you. We met in Naples.’
Copley bowed. ‘On which occasion I put you in jail—a pleasure I shall avail myself of a second time if you trouble me any further.’
‘I have come for the money.’
‘You fool! Do you think I carry thirty thousand lire around in my pockets? The money is in the Banca d’Italia in Rome. You may call there if you wish it.’