tely as he replied eagerly:

"Oh, si, signor! The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I
believe she receives no one since her husband's death. She is young and
beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too."

A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or
rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising
his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely:

"Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count
Romani well--perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be
delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him."

Oh, the old mellow music of his voice--how it struck on my heart and
pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our
youth. For an instant I could not speak--wrath and sorrow choked my
utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary--slowly I raised
my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly:

"I am your servant, signor. You will oblige me indeed if you can place
me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young
nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother--men
have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself," and
I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted
it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of
respect mingled with pleased surprise.

"The Conte Cesare Oliva!" he exclaimed. "I esteem myself most fortunate
to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the
avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well
aware," here laughing lightly, "of the distinctive right you have to a
hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news
should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an
absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only
cloud for you on our southern sunshine!"

And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which
are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of
his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in
mine? I must--if I would act my part thoroughly--for should I refuse he
would think it strange--even rude--I should lose the game by one false
move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also--it was
gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm press