Jerry Junior

“I will serve you in other ways.”

Constance studied the mountains a moment. Should she tell him she knew, or should she keep up the pretense a little longer? Her insatiable love of intrigue won.

“Are you sure you wish to be taken back?”

“Si, signorina, I am very sure.”

“Then perhaps you will do me a favor on your way home tonight?”

“You have but to ask.”

“I wish to send a message to a young American man who is staying at the Hotel du Lac—you may have seen him?”

Tony nodded.

“I have climb Monte Maggiore wif him. You recommend me; I sank you ver’ moch. Nice man, zat yong American; ver’ good, ver’ simpatico.” He leaned forward with a sudden air of anxiety. “Signorina, you—you like zat yong man?”

“I have only met him twice, but—yes, I like him.”

“You like him better zan me?” His anxiety deepened; he hung upon her words.

She shook her head reassuringly.

“I like you both exactly the same.”

“Signorina, which you like better, zat yong American or ze Signor Lieutenant?”

“Your questions are getting too personal, Tony.”

He folded his arms and sighed.

“Will you deliver my message?”

“Si, signorina, wif pleasure.” There was not a trace of curiosity in his expression, nothing beyond a deferential desire to serve.

“Tell him, Tony, that Miss Wilder will be at home tomorrow afternoon at tea time; if he will come by the gate and present a card she will be most pleased to see him. She wishes him to meet an American friend, a Miss Hilliard, who has just arrived at the hotel this afternoon.”

She watched him sharply; his expression did not alter by a shade. He repeated the message and then added as if by the merest chance:

“Ze yong American man, signorina—you know his name?”

“Yes, I know his name.” This time for the fraction of a second she surprised a look. “His name—” she hesitated   tantalizingly—“is Signor Abraham Lincoln.”

“Signor Ab-ra-ham Lin-coln.” He repeated it after her as if committing it to memory. They gazed at each other soberly a moment; then both laughed and looked away.

Luigi had appeared in the doorway. Seeing no one more important than Tony about, he found no reason for delaying the announcement of dinner.

“Il pranzo è sulla tavola, signorina.”

“Bene!” said Constance over her shoulder. She turned back to Tony; her manner was kind. “If you go to the kitchen, Tony, Elizabetta will give you some dinner.”

“Sank you, signorina.” His manner was humble. “Elizabetta’s dinners consist of a plate of garlic and macaroni on the kitchen steps. I don’t like garlic and I’m tired of macaroni; if it’s just the same to you, I think I’ll dine at home.” He held out his hand.

She read his purpose in his eye and put her own hands behind her.

“You won’t shake hands, signorina? We are not friends?”

“I learned a lesson the last time.”

“You shake hands wif Lieutenant Count Carlo di Ferara.”

“It is the custom in Italy.”

“We are in Italy.”

“Behave yourself, Tony, and run along home!”

She laughed and nodded and turned away. On the steps she paused to add:

“Be sure not to forget the message for Signor Abraham Lincoln. I shall be disappointed if he doesn’t come.”

CHAPTER XV

Tony returned to the Hotel du Lac, modestly, by the back way. He assured himself that his aunt and sister were well by means of an open window in the rear of the dining-room. The window was shaded by a clump of camellias, and he studied at his ease the back of Mrs. Eustace’s head and Nannie’s vivacious profile as she talked in fluent and execrable German to the two Alpinists who were, at the moment, the only other guests. Brotherly affection—and a humorous desire to create a sensation—prompted him to walk in and surprise them. But saner second thoughts prevailed; he decided to postpone the reunion until he should have changed from the picturesque costume of Tony, to the soberer garb of Jerry Junior.

He skirted the dining-room by a wide detour, and entered the court-yard at the side. Gustavo, who for the last hour and a half had been alertly watchful of four entrances at once, pounced upon him and drew him to a corner.

“Signore,” in a conspiratorial whisper, “zay are come, ze aunt and ze sister.”

“I know—the Signorina Costantina told me so.”

Gustavo blinked.

“But, signore, she does not know it.”

“Yes, she does—she saw ’em herself.”

“I mean, signore, she does not know zat you are ze brover?”

“Oh, no, she doesn’t know that.”

“But she tell me zat she is acquaint wif ze brover for six years.” He shook his head hopelessly.

“That’s all right.” Tony patted his shoulder reassuringly. “When she knew me I used to have yellow hair, but I thought it made me look too girlish, so I had it dyed black. She didn’t recognize me.”

Gustavo accepted the explanation with a side glance at the hair.

“Now, pay attention.” Tony’s tone was slow and distinct.