One afternoon about a month after the curious Affair of the Secret Signal, while Geoffrey was busy conducting some experiment in the research laboratory at Chelmsford, a tall, well-dressed young foreigner entered, and advancing to where he was seated, placed his hand upon his shoulder.
“Well!” gasped Geoffrey starting, his face lighting with pleasure. “Why, my dear Enrico! Wherever have you sprung from?”
“They’ve sent me over from Coltano about some new apparatus, and I heard you were in here. I arrived in London a week ago,” explained the dark, smooth-haired young fellow, who was one of the engineers at the powerful wireless station belonging to the Italian Government, and whose messages, prefixed by the call-signal, “I.C.I.,” are so well-known to all wireless men.
Enrico Rossi, the son of a distinguished Italian general, had spent many years in England. He had met Falconer during the war, when they had become fast friends. Rossi had been attached to the Intelligence Branch of the Italian Army, his duty being the interception of enemy messages. Then, after peace, the young man had resumed his responsible post at the great wireless station in Tuscany.
Falconer took off his head-’phones, and learning that his friend was returning to London at half-past five, agreed to accompany him, so that they might dine together at the club.
This they did, and afterwards Geoffrey took his friend along to Mrs. Beverley’s in Upper Brook Street. He had often spoken of Enrico to Sylvia--hence he was anxious to introduce him. The South American widow was one of those many enthusiasts who had fallen beneath the lure of Italy, therefore both mother and daughter made the young man most welcome.
“We are thinking of going to Italy very soon, Mr. Rossi,” said Mrs. Beverley, in the course of their chat in the big, elegant drawing-room. “It is five years since I was there.”
“Oh if you come, please do not fail to let me know,” said the good-looking young fellow, whose elegance of manner was so typically Italian. “I am frequently at our wireless station at San Paolo, outside Rome, and no doubt you will go to the Eternal City.”
“To Florence first, I think, mother,” Sylvia said. “I want to see the Pitti and the Uffizi.”