death would have seemed very pleasant to
him. He was dying of loneliness, of disappointment and despair.

The people at the hotel had made several attempts to rouse him, but in
vain. He answered no questions, and in his quiet way resented intrusion.
He paid whatever was demanded, and he gave no trouble. The manager, who
knew his history from a short cutting in a newspaper which had
chronicled his arrival in London, was at his wits' end to know how to
save him. He had once endeavored to reason gently with his eccentric
visitor, and he had been bidden quietly to leave the room. On his
endeavoring to make one more appeal, the Count had risen quietly and
pointed to the door.

"I wish only to be left in peace," he said, with a touch of dignity in
his sad, calm manner. "If you cannot do that I will go away to another
hotel. Choose!"

The manager had bowed and withdrawn in silence. But he was a
kind-hearted man, and he was still troubled about the matter. Day by day
the Count was growing weaker; before long he would doubtless die from
sheer distaste of living as much as from any actual disease. Something
ought to be done toward communicating with his friends, if he had any.
With a certain amount of reluctance, the manager, as a last resource,
penned the following advertisement and sent it to the principal London
papers:

"If there are any friends or relatives still alive of Count
Leonardo di Marioni, who has recently been set free by the
Italian Government after a long term of imprisonment, they are
requested to communicate, personally, if possible, with the
manager of the Hotel Continental, where the Count is now lying
dangerously ill."

CHAPTER XIV

AN EVERLASTING HATE

At four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day, an open barouche,
drawn by a pair of magnificent bay horses, drove up to the door of the
Hotel Continental. The manager, who was standing at the window of his
private room, noticed two things--first, that there was a coronet upon
the carriage door; and secondly, that the lady who was alighting carried
in her hand a copy of the _Morning Post_ turned down, as though to mark
a certain place in it.

As she crossed the pavement he had a better view of her face, and
recognized her with a little start of surprise. In a moment he was
outside, and on the steps to receive her, an attention he very rarely
bestowed upon his guests.

The swing doors opened and closed