Kestner was on his feet again, readjusting the iron-grey wig.
"You're sure this man Maresi is to be relied on?" he was asking.
"As true as steel," was Wilsnach's answer. "He's been doing Department work for us."
Kestner stopped to consult his watch.
"I've got to get back to that hotel. We can't leave here together. You have Maresi tip you off when the court is clear, and get away. Then I'll meet you in thirty minutes at Beppino's. You've got to plant me in that hotel. You see I'm deaf, and don't speak the language."
One half hour later, as the two drove away from Beppino's in a clattering carrozza, Wilsnach stared up through the soft-aired Sicilian evening with a shrug of vague apprehension.
"I hate this country," he said.
"It's a very beautiful place," retorted the old lady in dowdy black, as she stared out through her amber-coloured spectacles.
"You remember what happened just about here?" casually inquired the other.
They were crossing a square bathed in the soft golden light of a tropical evening. This square lay before them as calm and peaceful as a garden. But a small and ominous silence fell over the two of them, for Kestner remembered it was the square where a great man and a brave officer, once known as Petrosini, had been shot down.
