in a very low voice.

His hand shook as he laid it on her heart, bending low. Then he started
violently and stood bolt upright, as an unearthly howl rent the air.

Nino, Ercole's queer dog, was close beside him, his forepaws planted on
the upper step of the verandah, his head thrown up, his half-open jaws
showing his jagged teeth, his rough coat bristling like spikes of
bearded barley.

And Ercole, still a hundred yards away amongst the trees, shook his head
and hurried forward as he heard the long-drawn note of brute terror.

"Somebody is dead," he said to himself.

CHAPTER V

For a few weeks all Italy was profoundly interested in the story of
Marcello Corbario's disappearance and of his mother's almost
unaccountable death. It was spoken of as the "double tragedy of the
Campagna," and the newspapers were full of it.

The gates of the beautiful villa on the Janiculum were constantly
assailed by reporters; the servants who came out from time to time were
bribed, flattered, and tempted away to eat sumptuous meals and drink the
oldest wine in quiet gardens behind old inns in Trastevere, in the hope
that they might have some information to sell. But no one gained
admittance to the villa except the agents of the police, who came daily
to report the fruitless search; and the servants had nothing to tell
beyond the bare truth. The young gentleman had gone for a walk near the
sea, down at the cottage by the Roman shore, and he had never been heard
of again. His mother had been suffering from a bad headache, had lain
down to rest in a cane chair on the verandah, and had been found dead,
with a smile on her face, by her husband, when he came back from his
first attempt to find Marcello. The groom who always went down with the
carriage could describe with greatest accuracy the spot where the
Signorina Aurora had last seen him; the house servants gave the most
minute details about the cane chair, the verandah, and the position in
which the poor lady had been found; but that was all, and it was not at
all what the reporters wanted. They had all been down to the cottage,
each with his camera and note-book, and had photographed everything in
sight, including Nino, Ercole's dog. What they wanted was a clue, a
story, a scandal if possible, and they found nothing of the sort.

Folco Corbario's mourning was unostentatious and quiet, but none of the
few persons who saw him, whether detectives or servants, could doubt
that