door opened from the inside—a long, delicate, nervous hand (not my friend’s hand certainly) held it ajar. At the same time I heard Pesca’s voice saying eagerly, in low tones, and in his own language—“I remember the name, but I don’t know the man. You saw at the Opera he was so changed that I could not recognise him. I will forward the report—I can do no more.”
“No more need be done,” answered the second voice. The door opened wide, and the light-haired man with the scar on his cheek—the man I had seen following Count Fosco’s cab a week before—came out. He bowed as I drew aside to let him pass—his face was fearfully pale—and he held fast by the banisters as he descended the stairs.
I pushed open the door and entered Pesca’s room. He was crouched up, in the strangest manner, in a corner of the sofa. He seemed to shrink from me when I approached him.
“Am I disturbing you?” I asked. “I did not know you had a friend with you till I saw him come out.”
“No friend,” said Pesca eagerly. “I see him today for the first time and the last.”
“I am afraid he has brought you bad news?”
“Horrible news, Walter! Let us go back to London—I don’t want to stop here—I am sorry I ever came. The misfortunes of my youth are very hard upon me,” he said, turning his face to the wall, “very hard upon me in my later time. I try to forget them—and they will not forget me !”
“We can’t return, I am afraid, before the afternoon,” I replied. “Would you like to come out with me in the meantime?”
“No, my friend, I will wait here. But let us go back today—pray let us go back.”