A telephone bell ringing clearly in the silence of the house! Well, it was a thing to give a man a start—and his nerves were not what they should be! Not until he had the receiver in his hand, and began to reply to the unknown at the other end of the wire, did he bethink him that here was companionship of a sort after all. This telephone would summon help from Ascona, if he needed it. He took heart at the thought, and cried "Halloa" in his old tone. This was the Benny of yesterday—the man who had done what no man had ever done before.
"Halloa—halloa!—this is the Villa Favorita—who do you say you are?—I don’t hear you!—Halloa—halloa!—the Abbé Villari?—Good God! Abbé—how did you know that I was here?—What, you didn’t know?—then that’s the rummest go of all—You wanted Sir Luton Delayne—Well, I’m d——d!"
He dropped the instrument and laughed aloud. His talk had been half in French, half in English, and he remembered that the abbé understood both tongues perfectly. But it was no time to apologise. The news was too astounding; he would not lose a word of it.
"You heard all about it from Susette—yes, I suppose she would tell a priest—And you warned the man this morning?—I wish you’d told me, Abbé—it would have saved me a matter of five thousand pounds. Of course, it was done for the best—all that’s granted.—Did you say you were at Brigue?—going up to the Hospice?—Yes, I remember, now—well, he’s away all right—the bird has flown.—Oh, I don’t know where—I hope it’s south—you’ll understand that—You haven’t seen Lady Delayne?—Ah! you never did like that charming lady, did you, Reverence?—Speak up a little, I don’t quite catch that.—The boy, Philip, has gone over the pass, did you say?—He might have been here, for all I know—I shall try to find out in the morning—Let me know if you hear anything of Lady Delayne—It was a big thing for you to do, and a very kind thing under the circumstances.—She won’t forget it, nor will I.—Good night, sir—and don’t forget to ring up in the morning."
He stood a little while when the abbé had ceased to speak, holding the instrument in his hand, and realising anew the weird stillness of the house. It was as though he remained incredulous, and could not grasp the meaning of the few words which had come across the mountains upon the frail wire—words which revealed in a twinkling the acumen of the little abbé and the reality of his friendship. Benny could have sworn that the priest did not know one word of the story, had hardly heard Sir Luton’s name, and would as soon have thought of connecting it with the episode upon the Zaat as with his own flight across Mont Blanc. And now the abbé had undeceived him in an instant, and spoken of his own shrewdness and perception beyond possibility of question.