that was characteristically Latin, as exotic as the intonation of the English which he spoke almost without accent. But Kestner noticed that the outstretched hands were shaking a little.
"Tony," demanded the woman again, more sharply this time, "what does this mean?"
He took a step nearer to her before he spoke again. Kestner could detect a growing tenseness in that strange and swarthy figure. He could see an animal-like radiance in the seal-brown eyes. Malignancy was not the note of that passionate figure. It seemed more one of tragic misery.
"I can not wait—I can not!" Morello half-whispered, closing the fingers of his outstretched hands and then drawing his arms quickly back until the closed fists smote on his breast. It was an eloquent gesture; unconsciously it made the watching Kestner think of a grand-opera hero: its one redemption was its sincerity.
"You were to meet Fonaro in Washington," the woman said with a sharp note of reproof.
"No, that was useless. I have been shadowed. I was followed. I saw it was no good. So I turned back."
She stood studying him.
"Then you were followed here," she cried.
He shook his head.
"That was impossible," he replied, with his eyes always fixed on her face.
"Nothing is impossible, with things as they are!" she quickly warned him.
"It is impossible," he repeated.
"And you knew I was alone?"
