ng down into the empty hole,
just as Giovanni had done on the previous night. Giovanni was almost
consoled for his own disappointment when he saw his father's face.

"It is certainly gone," he said. "You did not bury it deeper, did you?
The soil is hard below."

"No, no! It is gone!" answered the old man in a dull voice. "Zorzi has
got it."

"You see," said Giovanni mercilessly, "when I saw the red and white
glass which he had made himself I was so sure of the truth that I acted
quickly. I saw him arrested, and I do not think he could have had
anything like a book with him, for he was in his doublet and hose. And
as he is safe in prison now, he can be made to tell where he has put the
thing. How big was it?"

"It was in an iron box. It was heavy." Beroviero spoke in low tones,
overcome by his loss, and by the apparent certainty that Zorzi had
betrayed him.

"You see why I should naturally suspect him of having stolen the
mantle," observed Giovanni. "A man who would betray your confidence in
such a way would do anything."

"Yes, yes," answered the old master vaguely. "Yes--I must go and see him
in prison. I was kind to him, and perhaps he may confess everything to
me."

"We might ask Marietta when she first missed her mantle," suggested
Giovanni. "She must have noticed that it was gone."

"She will not remember," answered Beroviero. "Let us go to the
Governor's house at once. There is just time before mid-day. We can
speak to Marietta at dinner."

"But you must be tired, after your journey," objected Giovanni, with
unusual concern for his father's comfort.

"No. I slept well on the ship. I have done nothing to tire me. The
gondola may be still there. Tell Pasquale to call it over, and we will
go directly. Go on! I will follow you."

Giovanni went forward, and Beroviero stayed a moment to look again at
the beautiful objects of white glass, examining them carefully, one by
one. The workmanship was marvellous, and he could not help admiring it,
but it was the glass itself that disturbed him. It was like his own, but
it was better, and the knowledge of its composition and treatment was a
fortune. Then, too, the secret of dropping a piece of copper into a
certain mixture in order to produce a particularly beautiful red colour
was in the book, and the colour could not be mistaken and was not the
one which Beroviero had been trying to produce. He shook his head sadly
as he went out and locked the door behind him,