's staff when I knew him first--an empty-headed fellow
rather; but a man's glad to meet anybody in a place like Itzia; and when
he asked me to dine with him at the fortress, I was jolly glad to go.
'We've got an old file here,' he told me, 'the Italians would give
anything to get hold of if they only knew where he was. I believe
they'd tear the place down with their nails to get at him.' It was after
dinner, and he was ridiculously confidential. He pledged me to secrecy
of course, and of course I told him that I should respect any confidence
he reposed in me. Of course I did, out there; and equally, of course,
I'm not bound here. It came out they'd got the Conte di Rossano there,
and when I heard the name I jumped. Reschia didn't take notice of my
surprise, and after a time I said I should like to see the fellow. He
pointed him out to me next day, taking exercise in the court-yard."

"The count," I said, still less than doubtful of the truth of Brunow's
story--"the count must have been a man of unusual importance to the
political party to be remembered with such a passionate devotion after
so many years."

"God bless your soul," cried Brunow, "it was devotion! Those Austrian
fellows are as cunning as the devil. The Italians have been made to
believe these twenty years that the count was playing fast and loose
with both parties. His jailers made out that he had been a paid spy
in their service, and pretended that he had been killed by one of the
Nationalist party, whom they hanged."

"Of course you made no effort to release him?"

"How the deuce could I? Release him! If you knew the fortress at Itzia
you'd think twice before trying that. Besides--hang it all, man!--I was
Reschia's guest; and he told me the story under the seal of confession."

I spoke unguardedly, but I was not allowed to go far.

"If your story is true, Brunow--"

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, with sudden anger. Everybody knew
how utterly irresponsible he was, but nothing made him so angry as to
be doubted. "The story's true; and if proof were wanted, here is proof
enough."

He rose with unusual vivacity, and, throwing open an escritoire, took
from it a disorderly little pile of papers. He searched this through,
muttering in a wounded tone meanwhile. "True? If the story's true? I'll
show you whether it's true or not! No! By George, it isn't here! Now
where on earth can I have put that paper?"

Just as I was laughing inwardly to think h