The millionaire could put two and
two together as fast as most men; he was celebrated, even among his
quick-witted compatriots, for an uncanny faculty of walking round
people without getting off his chair. Common sense, he called it.
Many a time he had listened to Count Caloveglia's rounded periods anent
the Locri Faun. Taking his own personal experience as a guide, he had
come to the conclusion that a man does not explain things quite so
satisfactorily, unless he has some business in hand. Everything fitted
into a hypothesis which had been slowly maturing in his mind, namely,
that he was confronted by a fraud, a really noble fraud, a fraud after
his own heart, a fraud deserving the fullest support of every sensible
man and woman.
That vineyard, for instance, with those antiquities. A good many
friends of his in the States had made their pile out of salted gold
mines. Why not salt a vineyard? Oh yes; everything fitted in
beautifully. The remoteness of that vineyard . . . a town like Locri
was obviously unsafe, too public a place for such important
discoveries.
Pages:
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607