"I think so myself.
I will see him to-morrow."
"Will you take Mr. Link with you?"
"No, Miss Vrain.
As I have found out so much without Link, I may as well proceed in the matter until his professional services are required to arrest Count Ferruci. By the way, I have never seen that gentleman.
Can you describe his appearance to me?"
"Oh, as far as looks go there is no fault to be found with him," answered Diana. "He is a typical Italian, tall, slender, and olive complexioned.
He speaks English very well, indeed, and appears to be possessed of considerable education.
Certainly, to look at him, and to speak with him, you would not think he was a villain likely to murder a defenceless old man.
But if he did not kill my poor father, I know not who did."
"I'll call on him to-morrow at noon," said Lucian, "and later on I shall come here to tell you what has passed between us."
This remark brought the business between them to a close, but Lucian would fain have lingered to engage Diana in lighter conversation.
Miss Vrain, however, was too much disturbed by the news he had brought her to indulge in frivolous talk.
Her mind, busied with recollections of her deceased father, and anxiously seeking some means whereby to avenge his death, was ill attuned to encourage at the moment the aspirations which she knew Lucian entertained.
The barrister, therefore, sighed and hinted in vain.
His Dulcinea would have none of him or his courting, and he was compelled to retire, as disconsolate a lover as could be seen.
To slightly alter the saying of Shakespeare, "the course of true love never does run smooth," but there were surely an unusual number of obstacles in the current of Denzil's desires. But as he consoled himself with reflecting that the greater the prize the harder it is to win, so it behooved him to do his devoir like a true knight.
The next day, at noon, Lucian, armed for the encounter with the evidence of Rhoda and of the cloak, presented himself at the rooms which Count Ferruci temporarily inhabited in Marquis Street.
He not only found the Italian ready to receive him, but in full possession of the adventure of the cloak, which, as he admitted, he had learned from Lydia the previous evening.
Also, Count Ferruci was extremely indignant, and informed Lucian that he was easily able to clear himself of the suspicion.
While he raged on in his fiery Italian way, Denzil, who saw no chance of staying the torrent of words, examined him at his leisure.
Ercole Ferruci was, as Diana had said, a singularly handsome man of thirty-five.
He was dark, slender, and tall, with dark, flashing eyes, a heavy black moustache, and an alert military look about him which showed that he had served in the army.
The above description savours a trifle of the impossible hero of a young lady's dream; and, as a matter of fact, Ferruci was not unlike that ideal personage.
He had all the looks and graces which women admire, and seemed honest and fiery enough in a manly way—the last person, as Lucian thought, to gain his aims by underhand ways, or to kill a helpless old man.
But Lucian, legally experienced in human frailty, was not to be put off with voluble conversation and outward graces.
He wished for proofs of innocence, and these he tried to obtain as soon as Ferruci drew breath in his fiery harangue.
"If you are innocent, Count," said Lucian, in reply to the fluent, incorrect English of the Italian, "appearances are against you.
However, you can prove yourself innocent, if you will."
"Sir!" cried Ferruci, "is not my word good?"
"Not good enough for an English court," replied Lucian coldly. "You say you were not in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve.
Who can prove that?"
"My friend—my dear friend, Dr. Jorce of Hampstead, sir.
I was with him; oh, yes, sir, he will tell you so."
"Very good!
I hope his evidence will clear you," replied the more phlegmatic Englishman. "And this cloak?"
"I never bought the cloak!
I saw it not before!"
"Then come with me to the shop in Bayswater, and hear what the girl who sold it says."
"I will come at once!" cried Ferruci hastily, catching up his cane and hat. "Come, then, my friend! Come!
What does the woman say?"
"That she sold the cloak to a tall man—to a dark man with a moustache, and one who told her he was Italian."
"Bah!" retorted the Count, as they hailed a hansom. "Is all that she can say?
Why, all we Italians are supposed to be tall and dark, and wear moustaches.
Your common people in England never fancy one of us can be fair."
"You are not fair," replied Lucian drily, "and your looks correspond to the description."
"True!
Oh, yes, sir!
But that description might describe a dozen of my countrymen.
And, Mr. Denzil," added the Count, laughing, "I do not go round about saying to common people that I am an Italian.