ow well he thought it
worth while to pretend, he slapped his forehead with a sudden air of
recollection, turned again to the escritoire, drew from it a crumpled
dirty scrap of paper, and striding over to me thrust it into my hand.
"Read that," he said.

"These lines," I read, "are written by the Conte di Rossano, for more
than twenty years a prisoner in the fortress of Itzia. They are carried
at grave danger to himself by an attendant whose pity has been moved by
the contemplation of a life of great misery. Should they reach the hands
of the English stranger for whom they are intended, he is besought, for
the love of God, to convey them to the Contessa di Rossano, daughter of
Sir Arthur Rawlings, of Barston Manor, Warwickshire, who must long have
mourned the writer as dead."

"That was slipped into my hand as I was leaving the village," said
Brunow. "If the countess had been living--unless she had been married
again--I should have thought it my duty to let her know the truth. But
Miss Rossano knows nothing--guesses nothing. Why should I wound her with
a piece of news like this?"

We did not talk much more that night, but I had plenty to think about as
I walked home to my hotel.

CHAPTER II

If I had never seen that pencilled scrap of paper, I should have had
no belief in Brunow's story. But though he was a romancer to his finger
tips, and as irresponsible as a baby, I had never known him to take the
least trouble to bolster up any of his inventions, or to show the least
shame when he was discovered in a lie. I am told that people who suffer
from kleptomania cannot be taught to be ashamed of stealing, though
even a dog has grace enough to be abashed if you catch him in an act of
dishonesty. I have met in my lifetime two or three men like Brunow, who
lie without temptation, and who do not feel disgraced when detected.

For once I could not help believing him, and his story stuck in my mind
in a very disagreeable way, for Miss Rossano fairly haunted me, and
anything which was associated with her had an importance in my eyes. It
was a hard thing to think that such a living tragedy should be so close
to a creature so young and bright and happy. I praised Brunow in my
own mind for his sensible resolution to keep the secret of her father's
existence from her, but I was constantly thinking whether there might
not be some possibility of setting the prisoner free. If I had been a
rich man I could see quite enough cha