nd stick on the chapel steps and began to explore
his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the
mystery; but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and
he was reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand
to have bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood
motionless before the picture.

At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and
turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d'hote.

The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand.

"I do not intrude?" he inquired suavely.

Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel,
glancing about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller.

"I see," he remarked with a smile, "that you know the hour at which our
saint should be visited."

Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous.

The stranger stood beamingly before the picture.

"What grace! What poetry!" he murmured, apostrophizing the St.
Catherine, but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he
spoke.

Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent.

"But it is cold here--mortally cold; you do not find it so?" The
intruder put on his hat. "It is permitted at this hour--when the church
is empty. And you, my dear sir--do you not feel the dampness? You are
an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover the head
when they are engaged in the study of the paintings."

He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant's hat.

"Permit me--cover yourself!" he said a moment later, holding out the hat
with an ingratiating gesture.

A light flashed on Wyant.

"Perhaps," he said, looking straight at the young man, "you will tell me
your name. My own is Wyant."

The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted
card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:--

Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi.

"I am much obliged to you," said Wyant; "and I may as well tell you that
the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat
is not there, but in my pocket."

He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale.

"And now," Wyant continued, "you will perhaps be good enough to tell me
what all this means."

There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this
request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile.

"I suppose you know," Wya