would never have risen
to the position of eminence she occupied.

We parted on the understanding that she was to pay no more visits to
Lady Rollinson's house, but was to do her loyal best to avoid Violet
and her chaperon. I went away half inclined to think myself a brute for
having exacted that undertaking from her. Of course, if I had been the
man of the world I thought myself, I should never have gone to see her,
never have shown my hand, but should have awaited the development of
events after having told Lady Rollinson what I knew, and having left her
to safeguard her own interests and mine.

The whole business had been cruelly unpleasant, and I left the
baroness's house thinking that on the whole I was very well out of it. I
was sorry for the little lady herself, and did really and seriously
give her credit for good intentions, which proves either that she was an
exceptionally fine actress, or that I was an exceptional greenhorn.

I had scarcely left the house when I heard my name called in a loud
whisper, and, turning, saw the gaunt figure of Ruffiano within half a
dozen yards of me. He was astonishingly shabby still, but he rejoiced
in clean linen, and had been recently shaven, so that he looked far more
presentable than usual.

His eyes were blazing, and the whole of his long bony frame was hitching
and jolting with suppressed excitement.

"I have news!" he said; "such news! Which way go you? The man is here."

I turned in the direction indicated, and saw a foreign-looking fellow in
a huge beard, a slouched hat, and a melodramatic cloak, looking for
all the world like a conspirator in an Adelphi or Olympic drama at that
date. It was raining slightly, but the man stood with folded arms in the
middle of the pavement at the street corner, like a statue of patience,
with the keen February wind buffeting his long cloak picturesquely about
him, and blowing his wild hair and beard in all directions. At a signal
from Ruffiano he crossed over to us, and the droll old Quixote, with
superabundant gesture, began to question him in Italian, the man
answering, of course, in the same tongue. When they had talked together
for four or five minutes Ruffiano turned upon me with his hands spread
wide, and his face beaming with triumph.

"You see," he said.

"You forget, my dear count," I told him, "that I don't understand a word
of what you have been saying."

The count reviled himself, and plunged into apologies so fluent