He would have passed
Peter also like a whirlwind, unconscious of her existence, had she not
called out sharply, "Is it Prince Giovanni Della Robbia?"
He wheeled abruptly as a soldier on drill, and stared sombrely from
under frowning brows. His pallor and stifled fury of impatience made him
formidable, almost startling. Peter thought of a wounded stag at bay.
"I beg your pardon," she stammered, losing the gay self-confidence of
the spoilt and pretty American girl. "I'm a great friend of Mary
Grant's. I must know where she is."
The man's faced changed instantly. Fierce impatience became fiery
eagerness. For a second or two he looked at Peter without speaking, his
interest too intense to find expression in words. Then, as she also was
silent, he said:
"There is no one I would rather see than a friend of Mary's, except Mary
herself. Tell me where you knew her."
"At the convent in Scotland," Peter answered promptly. "I suppose she's
told you about it. Did she mention her friend Molly Maxwell?"
"She said she had two friends named Mary. We had little time to talk
together--not many days in all. When did you see her last?"
"In November, just before she left the convent. She went and stayed with
an aunt a few weeks in London, and then came here. She wrote me about
you, and I recognized you from her description. That's why I----"
"Forgive me. I believe you can be of the greatest service to Mary, and
to me." He glanced at Americo, who held the door open.
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