A suspicion flashed across my mind. "Look here," I said firmly, "if the scene of this story is laid in the Highlands, I refuse to listen to it. Call it off."
"No, no," Sinclair answered quickly, "that's all right. It's laid in Italy . . . time of Pius the something. He comes in—say, but he's great! so darned crafty. It's him, you know, that persuades this Franciscan . . . "
"Pause," I said, "what Franciscan?"
"Fra Fraliccolo, of course," Sinclair said snappishly. "You see, Pio tries to . . . "
"Whoa!" I said, "who is Pio?"
"Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius. He tries to get Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere to steal the document from . . . let me see; what was he called? . . . Oh, yes . . . from the Dog of Venice, so that . . . or . . . no, hang it, you put me out, that's all wrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever at all; he's a regular darned fool. It's the Dog that's crafty. By Jove, he's fine," Sinclair went on; warming up to enthusiasm again, "he just does anything he wants. He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings, you know, he's the tool of the Dog) . . .
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