runow answered, "that I am the only man in England who
knows the truth about the matter. The world has given the Conte di
Rossano up for dead years and years ago. His daughter has no idea that
he is alive. Yet I saw him no more than six weeks ago."

"And you have not told her?" I asked.

"Why should I pain her for nothing?" he demanded in his turn. "She never
saw him. She never even knew enough of him to grieve for him. He is not
so much as a memory in her mind. And since they can never come together,
it is better for her to go on believing that he died while she was in
her babyhood."

"What is to prevent their coming together?" I asked.

"He is a prisoner," said Brunow, gravely. "Mind you, Fyffe, I tell you
this in the strictest confidence, and I know you well enough to trust
you."

I knew Brunow well enough to know that if there were any truth in
the story, it would be told in the strictest confidence until it was
property as common as the news of the town crier. I knew him well enough
to know also that if it were not true, but merely one of his countless
romances, it would be forgotten in the morning in the growth of some new
invention as romantic and as baseless as itself. In any case, I gave him
the assurance he asked for, and he went on with his story.

"More than two-and-twenty years ago Miss Ros-sano's grandfather, General
Sir Arthur Rawlings, and his wife made a trip through Italy. They took
with them their daughter Violet, and in Rome they met the Conte di
Rossano, who by all accounts was then a young, rich, handsome fellow,
and the hope of the National party. The National party in Italy has
always had a hope of some sort, and their hope is always just about as
hopeful as a sane man's despair."

"I am not so sure of that," I cried. "I shall live to see the Italians a
free people yet!"

"You are one of the enthusiasts," said Brunow, laughing. "And I suppose
that if you got an opportunity you'd lend the cause a hand." I said
"Assuredly," and Brunow laughed again. "Well, to keep to the story," he
went on, "the count saw Miss Rawlings, and fell head over ears in love
with her at first sight. He was young, he was handsome; he had spent
years in England, and spoke the language like a native. He made love
like Romeo, but the young lady at first would not listen to him. He
followed the party to England, stuck to his cause like a man, and
finally won it. The only objection anybody had to urge against him was