The Lure of the Mask | Page 4

that the letter he
had in mind was not the simplest to compose. There were a dozen futile
efforts before he produced anything like satisfaction. Then he filled out
a small check. A little later he stole down-stairs, round the corner to the
local branch of the post-office, and returned. It was only a blind throw,
such as dicers sometimes make in the dark. But chance loves her true
gamester, and to him she makes a faithful servant.
"I should be sorely tempted," he mused, picking up a novel and
selecting a comfortable angle in the Morris, "I should be sorely tempted
to call any other man a silly ass. Leddy Lightfinger--it would be a fine
joke if my singer turned out to be that irregular person."
He fell to reading, but it was not long before he yawned. He shied the
book into a corner, drew off his boots and cast them into the hall. A
moment after his valet appeared, gathered up the boots, tucked them
under his arm, and waited.

"I want nothing, Giovanni. I have only been around to the post-office."
"I heard the door open and close four times, signore."
"It was I each time. If this fog does not change into rain, I shall want
my riding-breeches to-morrow morning."
"It is always raining here," Giovanni remarked sadly.
"Not always; there are pleasant days in the spring and summer. It is
because this is not Italy. The Hollander wonders how any reasonable
being can dwell in a country where they do not drink gin. It's home,
Giovanni; rain pelts you from a different angle here. There is nothing
more; you may go. It is two o'clock, and you are dead for sleep."
But Giovanni only bowed; he did not stir.
"Well?" inquired his master.
"It is seven years now, signore."
"So it is; seven this coming April."
"I am now a citizen of this country; I obey its laws; I vote."
"Yes, Giovanni, you are an American citizen, and you should be proud
of it."
Giovanni smiled. "I may return to my good Italia without danger."
"That depends. If you do not run across any official who recognizes
you."
Giovanni spread his hands. "Official memory seldom lasts so long as
seven years. The signore has crossed four times in this period."
"I would gladly have taken you each time, as you know."
"Oh, yes! But in two or three years the police do not forget. In seven it

is different."
"Ah!" Hillard was beginning to understand the trend of this
conversation. "So, then, you wish to return?"
"Yes, signore. I have saved a little money," modestly.
"A little?" Hillard laughed. "For seven years you have received fifty
American dollars every month, and out of it you do not spend as many
copper centesimi. I am certain that you have twenty thousand lire
tucked away in your stocking; a fortune!"
"I buy the blacking for the signore's boots," gravely.
Hillard saw the twinkle in the black eyes. "I have never," he said
truthfully, "asked you to black my boots."
"Penance, signore, penance for my sins; and I am not without gratitude.
There was a time when I had rather cut off a hand than black a boot;
but all that is changed. We of the Sabine Hills are proud, as the signore
knows. We are Romans out there; we despise the cities; and we do not
hold out our palms for the traveler's pennies. I am a peasant, but always
remember the blood of the Cæsars. Who can say? Besides, I have held
a sword for the church. I owe no allegiance to the puny House of
Savoy!" There was no twinkle in the black eyes now; there was a
ferocious gleam. It died away quickly, however; the squared shoulders
drooped, and there was a deprecating shrug. "Pardon, signore; this is far
away from the matter of boots. I grow boastful; I am an old man and
should know better. But does the signore return to Italy in the spring?"
"I don't know, Giovanni, I don't know. But what's on your mind?"
"Nothing new, signore," with eyes cast down to hide the returning
lights.
"You are a bloodthirsty ruffian!" said Hillard shortly. "Will time never
soften the murder in your heart?"

"I am as the good God made me. I have seen through blood, and time
can not change that. Besides, the Holy Father will do something for one
who fought for the cause."
"He will certainly not countenance bloodshed, Giovanni."
"He can absolve it. And as you say, I am rich, as riches go in the Sabine
Hills."
"I was in hopes you had forgotten."
"Forgotten? The signore will never understand; it is his father's blood.
She was so pretty and youthful, eye of my eye, heart of