Hawbury looked at him earnestly.

"My dear boy," said he, "you're getting too excited. Be cool. Really,
I don't believe you know what you're saying. I don't understand what
you mean. Haven't the faintest idea what you're driving at. You're
making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I
don't know who they are. Hadn't you better try to speak so that a
fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?"

"Well, then, you understand this much--I'm going to Rome."

"I'm sorry for it, old boy."

"And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me."

"Me? What for?"

"Well, I want you. I may have need of you."

As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark and gloomy an expression
that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all
this menace.

"'Pon my life," said he, "my dear boy, I really don't think you're in
a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself. You look quite desperate.
I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion."

"I'm going to Rome!" repeated Dacres, resolutely.

Hawbury looked at him.