another
man by his looks? She believed not. How she had run! The man,
bareheaded, giving chase, and the burly policeman across the street!
Chorus-ladies--what in the world were they?

She stepped down from the alcove, wound the grey veil round the
riding-crop and tossed them into a corner. Somehow, in the daylight, the
magic was gone from his face, for she had recognized him that first day
in the park. He rode well. She knew that his interest in her had been
only casual. She touched a bell. A maid appeared.

"Signora?"

"Bettina, you will go to the office of this newspaper and inquire for a
letter addressed to Madame Angot. You can speak that much English. And
be quick, for I may change my mind."

"I go at once, Signora." And she was back in less than half an hour.

"There was a letter, then?" The points were dancing again in the blue
eyes.

"And here it is, signora." The maid's eyes sparkled, too. An intrigue!
It would not be so dull hereafter.

"You may go. Perhaps," and Bettina's mistress smiled, "perhaps I may let
you read it and answer it, after I am done with it. That would be rather
neat."

"But it will be in English, signora; and that I can not read." Bettina's
eyes filled with disappointment.

"You may use it as a lesson. In a few days you should be able to master
it."

The slight nod was a dismissal, and the maid went about her duties,
which were not many in this house. These were terrible days; the two of
them alone in this strange _palazzo_, and the stuffy, ill-smelling
_trattoria_ they dined at! _Che peccato!_ And that she should sit side
by side with her mistress! _Santa Maria_, what was the good world coming
to? And the ban on the familiar tongue! English? She despised it.
German? She detested it. But to be allowed to speak in French, that
alone made conversation tolerable. And this new mad whim! Oh, yes; the
signora was truly mad this time.

Meanwhile the lady with the Venetian hair toyed with the letter. Club
paper. Evidently he was not afraid to trust her. But would he amuse her?
Would he have anything to say that would interest her? She ran the
paper-knife under the flap. The contents gave her a genuine surprise.
She ran to the window. Italian! It was written in Italian, with all the
flourishes of an Italian born. She turned to the signature. Hillard; so
he had signed his name in full? She ruminated. How came such a name to
belong to a man who wrote Italian so beautifully? Here was som