ip, and we turned
away.

It was a gay informal assembly. Among the men there were several naval
and military attaches from the Embassies, as well as one or two
Deputies with their wives. Once or twice I had brief chats with the
Marchesa, who, of course, was the center of her guests. One man, tall,
with deep-set eyes and a well-trimmed black beard, seemed to pay her
particular attention, and on discreet inquiry as to who he was, I
discovered him to be the well-known banker, Pietro Zuccari, who
represented Orvieto in the Chamber.

Now the reason of our visit to the Marchesa's was to see what manner
of company she kept, but I detected nothing suspicious in any person
in that chattering assembly. Yet I could not put away from myself what
Fra Pacifico had told me in the silence of the cloisters of San
Domenico.

Again I looked upon the handsome face of that gay society woman and
wondered what secret could be hidden behind that happy, laughing
countenance.

After leaving the Palazzo Romanelli that night I resolved to "fade
out" and watch.

Now Admiral the Marquis Romanelli, who was in charge of the important
port of Naples, had, during the late war, returned to his position as
a high naval officer, and with all his patriotism as the head of a
noble Roman house, had done his level best against the enemy until the
proclamation of peace.

Wherever one went one heard loud praises of "Torquato," as he was
affectionately called by his Christian name by the populace.

After due consideration I decided that we should move from Naples to
the pretty little town of Salerno at the other end of the blue bay,
and there at the Hotel d'Angleterre, facing the sapphire sea, I spent
several delightful days with the girl I so passionately loved.

"I cannot see the reason for all this inquiry, Mr. Hargreave," she
said one evening, as we were walking by the moonlit sea after we had
dined and Madame had retired. "Why should father wish you to watch the
Marchesa so narrowly? How can she concern him? They are strangers."

I was silent for a few seconds.

"Your father's business is a confidential one, no doubt. He has his
own views, and I am, after all, his secretary and servant."

"I--I often wish you were not," the girl blurted forth.

"Why?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh! I don't really know. Sometimes I feel so horribly apprehensive.
Madame is always so discreet and so mysterious. She will never tell me
anything; and you--you, Mr. Ha