Mark scanned his notebook in which he had made voluminous entries.  Then he nodded and shut it.

Suddenly Mr. Ganns laughed.  The other’s book reminded him of an incident.

“A funny little thing happened yesterday afternoon that I forgot,” he said.  “I’d turned in, leaving my notebook by my head, when there came a visitor to my room.  I was asleep all right, but my heaviest sleep won’t hold through the noise of a fly on the windowpane; and lying with my face to the door I heard a tiny sound and lifted one eyelid.  The door opened and Signor Doria put his nose in.  I’d pulled the blind, but there was plenty of light and he spotted my vade-mecum lying on the bed table a couple of feet from my head.  Over he came as quiet as a spider, and I let him get within a yard.  Then I yawned and shifted.  He was gone like a mosquito, and half an hour later I heard him again.  But I got up and he didn’t do more than listen outside.  He wanted that book bad—­you can guess how bad.”

For two days Mr. Ganns declared that he must rest; and then there came an evening when he privately invited Doria to take a walk.

“There’s a few things I’d like to put to you,” he said.  “You needn’t let on to anybody else about it and we won’t start together.  You know my favourite stroll up the hill.  Meet me at the corner—­say seven o’clock.”

Giuseppe gladly agreed.

“We will go up to the shrine of Madonna del farniente,” he declared; and when the time came, Peter found him at the spot.  They ascended the hill side by side and the elder invited Doria’s aid.

“Between ourselves,” he began, “I am not too well pleased with the way this inquiry is panning out.  Brendon’s all right and means as well as any bull that ever I worked with.  He does a clever thing here and there—­as when he shammed death up on the mountain; but what was the sense of setting that trap and then missing his man?  I shouldn’t have done that.  You wouldn’t have done it.  In plain words there’s some dope coming between Mark and his work, and I should like to hear what you think of him, you being an independent witness and a pretty shrewd cuss.  You’ve had a chance to study his make-up, so tell me what you think.  I’m tired of fooling around this job—­and being fooled myself.”

“Marco is in love with my wife,” answered Giuseppe calmly.  “That is what’s the matter with him.  And, as I don’t trust my wife in this affair and still believe that she knows more about the red man than anybody else, I think, as long as she hoodwinks Brendon, he will be no manner of use to you.”

Peter pretended to be much astonished.

“My stars!  You take it pretty cool!”

“For the good reason that I am no longer in love with my wife myself.  I am not a dog in the manger.  I want peace and quietness.  I have no use for intrigues and plots.  I am a plain man, Signor Pietro.  Mystery bores me.  Moreover I live in fear of getting into a mess myself.  I do not see where I come in at all.  My wife and this unknown rascal are after something; and if you want to get to the bottom of this, watch her—­not me.  The blow you fear may fall at any moment.”