"Look here, Rossiter," he said frankly, "we are all friends here, and you may speak out. Mr. Herrick is very much interested in this young fellow, Cedric Templeton, and acts as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend to him. He has always put his foot down as far as the Jacobis were concerned; he and my wife were dead against them." "I never believed in the man," observed Malcolm; "there was no ring of true metal about him." "You are about right there," returned the American; "but I have come across worse fellows than Saul Jacobi. He is a clever chap--about as cute as they make 'em, and knows a trick or two; he is not too nice, does not stick at trifles, and the almighty dollar is his only deity." "Do you mind telling my friend Herrick all you said to us?" asked Colonel Godfrey. "Not the least, if you have a taste for chestnuts," and Hugh Rossiter laughed in a genial way. "I owe you a good turn, Colonel--" but here Colonel Godfrey held up a warning hand. "Well, I suppose I must spare your blushes, so I will take up my parable." "May I ask you one question first?" interrupted Malcolm. "How long have you known these people?" "About six or seven years, I should say," was the answer. "Jacobi was a billiard-marker in San Francisco when I first came across his trail, and his sister had just married an Italian count." "Married! Leah Jacobi married! What on earth do you mean?" "That's so," returned the American coolly. "Count Antonio Ferrari--that was the name; a hoary old sinner with a pedigree that nearly reached to Adam, and as rich and miserly as Shylock. He bid high for the girl, I can tell you that, but I believe our friend Saul had a tough job to get her to marry him." "He is a greater brute than I thought him," returned Malcolm in a disgusted tone. "That poor girl!" Then Hugh Rossiter looked grave. "It was a bit rough on her, but Jacobi was in Queer Street just then, and the old fellow gave him a helping hand." "Jacobi is an Italian Jew, is he not?" Mr. Rossiter nodded. "Yes, his father was an artist model in Rome--a fine-looking old fellow, I believe--and his mother sold flowers in the market. Some one told me she had been a model too, and that they were rather a shady couple; but peace to their manes! They have joined the majority long ago." "And Saul Jacobi was a billiard-marker?" "Yes, till they turned him out; and then he became valet to a young millionaire who had more dollars than brains. I was shooting grizzlies in the Rockies then, and did not come across him again until eighteen months ago. The millionaire was dead then; he never had any constitution worth mentioning, and he was evidently graduating for the idiot asylum. You bet, he would have taken a first class there, for he had fits, poor beggar; so it was a mercy that he went where the good niggers go." "May I ask where you met Jacobi, Mr. Rossiter?"