pon the door, opened it and permitted Paul to enter the room,
closing the door behind him. He found himself in a small square
apartment panelled in dark wood. A long narrow oak table was set against
the wall facing the entrance, and upon it were writing materials, a
scarlet biretta and a large silver crucifix. On the point of rising from
a high-backed chair before this table was a man wearing the red robe of
a Cardinal. He turned to greet his visitor and Paul looked into the eyes
of Giovanni Pescara. There was a clash definite as that of blade upon
blade, then the Cardinal inclined his head with gentle dignity and
extended a delicate white hand. A padded armchair stood beside the end
of the table.

"I am sincerely indebted to you, Mr. Mario, for granting me this
unconventional interview. My invitation must have seemed brusque to the
point of the uncouth, but chancing to learn of your presence I took
advantage of an opportunity unlikely to repeat itself. I return to Rome
to-night."

"Your Eminence's invitation was a command," replied Paul, and knew the
words to be dictated by some former Mario, or by an earlier self in
whose eyes a prince of the Church had ranked only second to the King. "I
am honoured in obeying it."

Giovanni Pescara, in spite of his frail physique, was a man of imposing
presence, the aristocrat proclaiming himself in every gesture, in the
poise of his noble head, with its crown of wavy silver hair, in the
movements of his fine hands. He had the prominent nose and delicate
slightly distended nostrils of his family, but all the subtlety of the
man was veiled by his widely opened mild hazel eyes. Seen thus closely,
his face, which because of a pure white complexion from a distance
looked statuesquely smooth, proved to be covered with a network of tiny
lines. It was a wonderful face, and his smile lent it absolute beauty.

"I should have counted my brief visit incomplete, Mr. Mario, if I had
not met you. Therefore I pray you hold me excused. In Italy, where your
fame is at least as great as it is in England, we are proud to know you
one of ourselves. Many generations have come and gone since Paolo Mario
settled in the English county of Kent, but the olive of Italy proclaims
itself in his descendant. No son of the North could have given to the
world the beautiful Tarone called _Francesca of the Lilies_. The fire of
the South is in her blood and her voice is the voice of our golden
nights. I have read t