For of course Angela was dead. Was she
not? Surely she must be--he had driven the dagger straight home!
"She could not possibly live," he muttered--"Not after such a well
directed blow. And that amazing picture! If I could but claim it as
my work, I should be the greatest artist in the world! It would be
quite easy to make out a proof--only that cursed dagger-sheath is in
the way!"
He was startled out of his reverie by another stoppage of the
carriage, and this time the driver jumped down from his box and came
to the door.
"This is as far as I can take you, Signor," he said, looking
curiously at his passenger,--"It is quite half way to Frascati.
There is the inn I told you of--where those lights are," and he
pointed towards the left,--"The carriage road does not go up to it.
It is a great place for artists!"
"I am not an artist!" said Varillo brusquely.
"No? But artists are merry company, Eccellenza!--" suggested the
driver, wishing to make up for his previous sulkiness by an excess
of amiability--"And for a night, the albergo is a pleasant resting
place on the way to Frascati, for even the brigands who sup there
are good-natured!"
"Ah! There are brigands, are there?" said Varillo, getting out of
the fiacre and beginning to recover something of his usual
composure,--"And I daresay you are one of them if the truth were
known! Here is your money.
Pages:
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720