Mr. Laquedem conned all this for some while in silence, holding his chin
with finger and thumb.
"And it was here you discovered the plaque?" he asked at length.
I pointed to the exact spot.
"H'm!" he mused, "and that ship must be Greek or Levantine by its rig.
Compare the crowns on her masts, too, with that on the plaque . . ."
He stepped to the wall and peered into the frescoes. "Now this hand and
arm--"
"They belong to me," said a voice immediately behind me, and turning, I
saw that the poor girl had followed us into the church.
The young Jew had turned also. "What do you mean by that?" he asked
sharply.
"She means nothing," I began, and made as if to tap my forehead
significantly.
"Yes, I do mean something," she persisted. "They belong to me.
I remember--"
"What do you remember?"
Her expression, which for a moment had been thoughtful, wavered and
changed into a vague foolish smile. "I can't tell . . . something . . .
it was sand, I think . . ."
"Who is she?" asked Mr. Laquedem.
"Her name is Julia Constantine. Her parents are dead; an aunt looks
after her--a sister of her mother's."
He turned and appeared to be studying the frescoes. "Julia
Constantine--an odd name," he muttered. "Do you know anything of her
parentage?"
"Nothing except that her father was a labourer at Sheba, the manor-farm.
The family has belonged to this parish for generations.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200