e of Casa Felice was visible once more, detaching
itself from the surrounding darkness, she said to the boy carelessly:

"Where do you put the boat at night?"

"The signora has not seen?"

"No."

"Under the house. There is deep water there. One can swim for five
minutes without coming out into the open."

"I should like to see that place. Can I get out of the boat there?"

"Si, signora. There is a staircase leading into the piazza by the
waterfall."

"Then row in."

"Si, signora."

He was beginning to sing again, but suddenly he stopped, looked over his
shoulder and listened.

"What is it?" she asked quickly.

"There is a boat, signora."

"Where."

She looked into the darkness but saw nothing.

"Close to the house, signora."

"But how do you know?"

"I heard the oars. The man in the boat was not rowing, but just as
I began to sing he began to row. When I stopped singing he stopped
rowing."

"You didn't see the boat?"

"No, signora. It carries no light."

He looked at her mysteriously.

"_It may be the contrabbandieri_."

"Smugglers?"

"Yes."

He turned his head over his shoulder and whistled, in a peculiar way.
There was no reply. Then he bent down over the gunwale of the boat till
his ear nearly touched the water, and listened.

"The boat has stopped. It must be near us."

His whole body seemed quivering with attentive life, like a terrier's
when it stands to be unchained.

"Might it not be a fisherman?" asked Lady Holme.

He shook his head.

"This is not the hour."

"Some tourists, perhaps, making an excursion?"

"It is too far. They never come here at night."

His eyes stared, his attitude was so intensely alert and his manner so
mysterious that, despite her desperate preoccupation, Lady Holme found
herself distracted for a moment. Her mind was detached from herself, and
fixed upon this hidden boat and its occupant or occupants.

"You think it is _contrabbandieri_?" she whispered. He nodded.

"I have been one, signora."

"You!"

"Yes, when I was a boy, in the winter. Once, when we were running for
the shore, on a December night, the _carabinieri_ fired on us and killed
Gaetano Cremona."

"Your companion?"

"Yes. He was sixteen and he died. The boat was full of his blood."

She shuddered.

"Row in," she said. "That boat must have gone."

"Non, signora. It has not. It is close by and the oars are out of the
water."

He spoke with certainty, as if he saw the bo