ean, grey-haired old man who watched and listened and waited. Whenever
he ventured into the moonlight the expression on his face was exultant
but sinister. He was watching and listening and waiting for the horse.
At the first sound of the animal's prancing hoofs on the stones by the
porter's lodge, the old man was prepared to steal to the self-appointed
place somewhat down the road. What befell there would be wholly in the
hands of God. Seven years! It was a long time. He had not hunted for
this man; he was breaking no promise; their paths had recrossed; it was
destiny. So he waited.

Within the ball-room the candles were sinking in their brass sconces and
little waxen stalactites formed about the rims. The leaving of the
guests had been hurried and noisy and without any particular formality
or directness. In truth, it resembled a disorderly retreat more than
anything else. The denouement was evidently sufficient; they had no
desire to witness the anti-climax, however interesting and instructive
it might be. _Carabinieri_ and tableaux and conjugal reunion; it was too
much to be crowded all into one night. Good-by! During this flight his
Highness the Principi di Monte Bianca, Enrico by name, had taken the
part of an amused spectator; but now that the last of the unwelcome
guests was gone, he assumed the role premeditated. He strode up and down
the floor, his spurs tinkling and his saber rattling harshly. He stopped
before this painting or that, scrutinized the corners to ascertain what
artist had signed it; he paused an interval before the marble faun,
which he recognized as a genuine antique. These things really interested
him, for he had never been inside the Villa Ariadne till this night. And
there was an excellent reason. Occasionally he glanced at the group on
the opposite side of the room. He laughed silently. They were as lively
as so many sticks of wood. Oh, he would enjoy himself to-night; he would
extract every drop of pleasure from this rare and unexpected moment. Had
she been mad, he wondered, to give him out of hand this longed-for
opportunity? A month longer and this scene would have been impossible.
At last he came to a stand in front of La Signorma, who was white and
weary. The two had not yet exchanged a word.

"So," he said, "after five years I find you, my beautiful wife!" With
one hand hipping his saber and the other curling his mustaches, he
smiled at her. "What a devil of a time you have given me! A