‘It was good for him,’ she affirmed. ‘I was giving him a new experience—was widening his horizon. When I finally let him go he would have been so thankful to think of the danger he had escaped, that he would have been twice as happy a beetle as ever before.’ ‘That is one way of looking at it,’ Sybert agreed. Marcia watched him a moment speculatively. She was thinking about the Contessa Torrenieri. ‘Mr. Sybert,’ she suggested, ‘there are a lot of things I should like to know about you.’ ‘I can think of nothing in my past that ought to be hidden.’ ‘These are things that you wouldn’t tell me.’ ‘Try me and see.’ ‘Anything I choose to ask?’ ‘I am at your disposal.’ ‘Have you ever been in love with any one?’ He glanced up from his cigarette with an amused stare. ‘What’s this—a confessional?’ ‘Oh, no—only you don’t look as if you’d ever done such a foolish thing, and I just wondered——’ ‘Half a dozen times.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Oh, I dare say not—really,’ he laughed. ‘In my cub days I used to be—well, interested sometimes.’ ‘But you outgrew it?’ ‘It would be a rash man who would affirm that! You never can tell what’s waiting for you around the next corner.’ She would have liked to put a question or so in regard to the contessa, but instead she remarked, ‘There are some other things I’d like to ask you.’ ‘I’m not so sure I’ll answer if that’s a specimen.’ ‘Why were you carrying a revolver yesterday?’ ‘You strike me as a very inquisitive young woman, Miss Marcia.’ ‘You strike me as a very mysterious man, Mr. Sybert.’ ‘Why was I carrying a revolver? For a very simple reason. I have been travelling through the south, helping to quiet the rioters; and as that is not a popular occupation, I thought it wisest to go armed. A revolver is an excellent thing with which to persuade people, though in all probability I shall never have any occasion to use it. I hope you are satisfied.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Marcia. ‘Not that I believe you at all,’ she added with a laugh. He regarded her a moment with a slightly perplexed frown. ‘What on earth do you take me for, Miss Marcia? An anarchist, a bandit, a second Fra Diavolo in disguise? I am nothing so picturesque, I assure you—merely a peaceful private citizen of the United States.’ ‘How do you come to know the baker’s son, Tarquinio, so well?’ ‘I think I’ve answered questions enough. Suppose we have a confession from you, Miss Marcia. Have you ever been in love?’ Marcia rose. ‘It’s a quarter past four, and we ought to be going back. The Roystons have to catch the evening train into Rome.’ CHAPTER XVI