“A thoroughly Western type,” said my professor a trifle acidly, I thought.
“Something of a desperado, I imagine.
Mrs Barnaby’s stories about him are a real treat.
Of course everyone’s been begging her to let him come over, but she says he’d never leave the wide open spaces.
He struck oil a year or two ago and now he’s got all the money in the world.
He must be a great character.
I’ve heard her keep the whole dinner-table spellbound when she’s talked of the old days when they roughed it together.
It gives you quite a thrill when you see this grey-haired woman, not at all pretty, but exquisitely dressed, with the most wonderful pearls, and hear her tell how she washed the miners’ clothes and cooked for the camp.
Your American women have an adaptability that’s really stupendous.
When you see Mrs Barnaby sitting at the head of her table, perfectly at home with princes of the blood, ambassadors, cabinet ministers, and the duke of this and the duke of that, it seems almost incredible that only a few years ago she was cooking the food of seventy miners.”
“Can she read or write?”
“I suppose her invitations are written by her secretary, but she’s by no means an ignorant woman.
She told me she used to make a point of reading for an hour every night after the fellows in camp had gone to bed.”
“Remarkable!”
“On the other hand One-Bullet Mike only learnt to write his name when he suddenly found himself under the necessity of signing cheques.”
We walked up the hill to our hotel and before separating for the night arranged to take our luncheon with us next day and row over to a cove that my friend had discovered.
We spent a charming day bathing, reading, eating, sleeping, and talking, and we dined together in the evening.
The following morning, after breakfast on the terrace, I reminded Barnaby of his promise to show me his books.
“Come right along.”
I accompanied him to his bedroom, where Giuseppe, the waiter, was making his bed.
The first thing I caught sight of was a photograph in a gorgeous frame of the celebrated Mrs Barnaby.
My friend caught sight of it too and suddenly turned pale with anger.
“You fool, Giuseppe.
Why have you taken that photograph out of my wardrobe?
Why the devil did you think I put it away?”
“I didn’t know, Signore.
That’s why I put it back on the Signore’s table.
I thought he liked to see the portrait of his signora.”
I was staggered.
“Is my Mrs Barnaby your wife?” I cried.
“She is.”
“Good Lord, are you One-Bullet Mike?”
“Do I look it?”
I began to laugh.
“I’m bound to say you don’t.”
I glanced at his hands.
He smiled grimly and held them out.
“No, sir. I have never felled a steer with my naked fist.”
For a moment we stared at one another in silence.
“She’ll never forgive me,” he moaned.
“She wanted me to take a false name, and when I wouldn’t she was quite vexed with me.
She said it wasn’t safe.
I said it was bad enough to hide myself in Positano for three months, but I’d be damned if I’d use any other name than my own.”
He hesitated.
“I throw myself on your mercy.
I can do nothing but trust to your generosity not to disclose a secret that you have discovered by the most unlikely chance.”
“I will be as silent as the grave, but honestly I don’t understand.
What does it all mean?”
“I am a doctor by profession and for the last thirty years my wife and I have lived in Pennsylvania.
I don’t know if I have struck you as a roughneck, but I venture to say that Mrs Barnaby is one of the most cultivated women I have ever known.