oom; his rotund shadow rested on the
wall of the passage. He held a travelling-bag in his hand.

"Monsieur," said I, "I am sorry that you are obliged to return already
to Milan. I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and
it would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due
only to the stupidity of the servants."

He stopped; the stroke had told.

"It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my
letters. But allow me to ask, since my card did not reach the host, what
secret you possess to enable yours to get to him?"

"No secret at all, still less any merit of my own. I am the bearer of
news of great importance to the owners of the villa, news of a purely
private nature. They will be obliged to see me. My first care, when
I had fulfilled my mission, would have been to mention your name. You
would have been able to go over the house, and inspect a collection of
medals which, I have heard, is a very fine one."

"Unique, Monsieur!"

"Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan
myself, for Paris."

"You have been some time in Italy, then?"

"Nearly a fortnight."

M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more
friendly.

"I thought you had just come. We have not been here so long," he added;
"my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us
to travel for change of air. Paris is not healthful in this very hot
weather."

He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in. I replied,
with an air of the utmost conviction, "That is putting it mildly. Paris,
in July, is uninhabitable."

"That's it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it. We soon
made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our
steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe.
And you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should
have been admitted to the villa?"

"Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am
entrusted."

M. Charnot hesitated. He was probably thinking of the blot of ink,
and certainly of M. Mouillard's visit. But he doubtless reflected that
Jeanne knew nothing of the old lawyer's proceedings, that we were far
from Paris, that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his
passion for numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm
and his scruples as a father.

"There is a later tr