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Chapter 22. Who passes by this Road so late?

           

           ‘Youhavejustnowdescribedamanwhowasbywhenyouheardthatsong;haveyounot?’

           ‘Yes!’saidMrBaptist,noddingfiftytimes.

           ‘AndwashenotcalledBlandois?’

           ‘No!’saidMrBaptist.‘Altro,Altro,Altro,Altro!’Hecouldnotrejectthenamesufficiently,withhisheadandhisrightforefingergoingatonce.

           ‘Stay!’criedClennam,spreadingoutthehandbillonhisdesk.‘Wasthistheman?YoucanunderstandwhatIreadaloud?’

           ‘Altogether.Perfectly.’

           ‘Butlookatit,too.Comehereandlookoverme,whileIread.’

           MrBaptistapproached,followedeverywordwithhisquickeyes,sawandhearditalloutwiththegreatestimpatience,thenclappedhistwohandsflatuponthebillasifhehadfiercelycaughtsomenoxiouscreature,andcried,lookingeagerlyatClennam,‘Itistheman!Beholdhim!’

           ‘Thisisoffargreatermomenttome’saidClennam,ingreatagitation,‘thanyoucanimagine.Tellmewhereyouknewtheman.’

           MrBaptist,releasingthepaperveryslowlyandwithmuchdiscomfiture,anddrawinghimselfbacktwoorthreepaces,andmakingasthoughhedustedhishands,returned,verymuchagainsthiswill:

           ‘AtMarsiglia—Marseilles.’

           ‘Whatwashe?’

           ‘Aprisoner,and—Altro!Ibelieveyes!—an,’MrBaptistcreptcloseragaintowhisperit,‘Assassin!’

           Clennamfellbackasifthewordhadstruckhimablow:soterriblediditmakehismother’scommunicationwiththemanappear.Cavallettodroppedononeknee,andimploredhim,witharedundancyofgesticulation,tohearwhathadbroughthimselfintosuchfoulcompany.

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