ay never wish to take it back."

"No, don't let us do that," the princess broke in, then hesitated, "I
can't tell you how I feel about it, but--I don't trust Scorpa. It is a
hard thing to say, but I have always believed he persuaded you into
buying the 'Little Devil' mine, knowing it could not be worked. Of
course, dear, that heavy loss may not have been his fault, but I'd so
much rather never have any dealings with him. Besides, the very thing I
wish to avoid is letting people know we must get money."

"But, _cara mia_, listen: It is all so well thought out, no one will
know. You see, we go to Rome; this picture hangs in an empty house,
which through the winter is very damp, and bad, therefore, for the
painting. Scorpa keeps his house open and heated; he takes care of it on
that account. Is that not a wonderful reason?"

"Whose reason was that?"

"Scorpa's own!" He danced a few steps in his excess of delight.

His wife arose and put her hand on his arm. "To please me, do not send
the picture. I can sell the jewels and have false stones put in their
places. We need not have any one know. But I don't want to remain in the
duke's debt!"

"The picture is already in his possession."

"In his possession? But how?"

"He drove over here just now, followed me in his motor-car, and took it
back with him."

The princess was evidently frightened. "What are his reasons?" she said
to herself, yet audibly.

Her husband looked at her, his head a little on one side, then he said
banteringly: "My dear, you Americans are too analytical. You always look
for a motive. Life is not of motive over here. Have you not learned that
in all these years? We act from impulse, as the mood takes us--we have
not the hidden thought that you are always looking for."

"You speak for yourself, Sandro _mio_, but all are not like you.
However, since the picture is gone--and since you have made that
arrangement--let it be. I may do Scorpa injustice; he has always
professed friendship for you--as indeed who has not?" She looked at him
with the softened glance that one sees in a mother's face.

Sansevero seated himself at the desk and took up the photograph of Nina.
"When will she arrive?" he asked buoyantly; then with sudden
inspiration, "Write to Giovanni and ask him to hurry home. If Nina
should fancy him, what a prize!"

The princess frowned. "On account of her money, you mean?"

"Ah, but one must think of that! We have no children; all thi