To this communication, albeit he felt little hope, Sir Walter made speedy response.He declared his intention of returning to England during the following week, after which he hoped that Signor Mannetti would visit Chadlands at any time convenient to himself.He thanked him gratefully, but feared that, since the Italian based his theory on a crime, he could not feel particularly sanguine, for the possibility of such a thing had proved non-existent.
Mary, however, looked deeper into the letter.She even suspected that the writer himself entertained a greater belief in his powers than he declared.
"One has always felt the Grey Room is somehow associated with Italy," she said."The ceiling we know was moulded by Italians in Elizabeth's day.""It was; but so are all the other moulded ceilings in the house as well." "He may understand Italian workmanship, and know some similar roofthat hid a secret."
"The roof cannot conceal an assassin, and he clearly believes himself on the track of a crime.Nevertheless, Sir Walter's interest increased as the hour approached for their return home.Only when that was decided did he discover how much he longed to be there.For the horror and suffering of the past were a little dimmed already; he thirsted to see his woods and meadows in their vernal dress, to hear the murmur of his river, and move again among familiar voices and familiar paths.
Chadlands welcomed them on a rare evening of May, and the very genuine joy of his people moved Sir Walter not a little.Henry Lennox was already arrived, and deeply interested to read the Italian's letter.Heand Mary walked presently in the gardens and he found her changed.She spoke more slowly, laughed not at all.But she had welcomed him with affection, and been interested to learn all that he had to tell her of himself.
"I felt that it would disappoint you to be stopped at the last moment," she said, "but I knew the reason would satisfy you well enough.I feel hopeful somehow; father does not.Yet it is hope mixed with fear, for Signor Mannetti speaks of a great crime.""A vain theory, I'm afraid.Tell me about yourself.You are well?" "Yes, very well.You must come to Italy some day, Henry, and let meshow you the wonderful things I have seen.""I should dearly love it.I'm such a Goth.But it's only brutal laziness.I want to take up art and understand a little of what it really matters.""You have it in you.Are you writing any more poetry?" "Nothing worth showing you."She exercised the old fascination; but he indulged in no hope of the future.He knew what her husband had been to Mary, despite the shortness of their union; and, rightly, he felt positive that she would never marry again.
A mournful spectacle appeared, drawn by the sound of well-known voices, and the old spaniel, Prince, crept to Mary's feet.He offered feeble homage, and she made much of him, but the dog had sunk to a shadow.
"He must be put away, poor old beggar; it's cruel to keep him alive.Only Masters said he was determined he should not go while Uncle Walter was abroad.Masters has been a mother to him.""Tell father that; he may blame Masters for letting him linger on like this.He rather hoped, I know, that poor Prince would be painlessly destroyed, or die, before he came back.""Masters would never have let him die unless directed to do so.""And I'm sure father could never have written the words down and posted them.You know father."Letters awaited the returned travellers, one from Colonel Vane, whodescribed his meeting with Signor Mannetti, and hoped something might come of it; and another from the stranger himself.He expressed satisfaction at his invitation, and proposed arriving at Chadlands on the following Monday, unless directions reached him to the contrary.
When the time came, Sir Walter himself went into Exeter to meet his guest and bring him back by motor-car.At first sight of the signor, his host experienced a slight shock of astonishment to mark the Italian's age.For Vergilio Mannetti was an ancient man.He had been tall, but now stooped, and, though not decrepit, yet he needed assistance, and was accompanied and attended by a middle-aged Italian.The traveller displayed a distinguished bearing.He had a brown, clean-shaved face, the skin of which appeared to have shrunk rather than wrinkled, yet no suggestion of a mummy accompanied this physical accident.His hair was still plentiful, and white as snow; his dark eyes were undimmed, and proved not only brilliant but wonderfully keen.He told them more than once, and indeed proved, that behind large glasses, that lent an owl-like expression to his face, his long sight was unimpaired.His rather round face sparkled with intelligence and humor.
He owned to eighty years, yet presented an amazing vitality and a keen interest in life and its fulness.The old man had played the looker-on at human existence, and seemed to know as much, if not more, of the game than the players.He confessed to this attitude and blamed himself for it.
"I have never done a stroke of honest work in my life," he said."I was born with the silver spoon in my mouth.Alas, I have been amazingly lazy; it was my metier to look on.I ought, at least, to have written a book; but then all the things I wanted to say have been so exquisitely said by Count Gobineau in his immortal volumes, that I should only have been an echo.The world is too full of echoes as it is.Believe me, if I had been called to work for my living, I should have cut a respectable figure, for I have an excellent brain.""You know England, signor7"
