na, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He
found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard's street,
and glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse
of the doctor's house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its
threshold. The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an
admirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard's
marriage.

"The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married,
signore."

"Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?"

"For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the
Maremma."

"But what happened--why was the marriage broken?"

The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation.

"And Miss Lombard still lives in her father's house?"

"Yes, signore; she is still there."

"And the Leonardo--"

"The Leonardo, also, is still there."

The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered
Count Ottaviano's injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to
think that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented
the marriage? If Doctor Lombard's death had been long delayed, time
might have acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady's resolve have
failed; but it seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which
Wyant had left the lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks.

As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed
a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like
an emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and
imminent which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range.
Wyant could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with
the ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work.

A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to
the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs.
Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations
of surprise.

Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might
shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was
still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above
the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of
needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen
her engaged.

Their visitor inquired discreetly