ain to the writing-table, without waiting to be
answered. Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as
she spoke. It was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity
were nearly worn out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as she
unlocked a desk which stood on the table. Opening a drawer in the
desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing. Some
ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, as if it
had been torn out of a book.

'Can you read Italian?' she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes.

Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head.

'The leaf,' the Countess proceeded, 'once belonged to a book in the old
library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. By whom
it was torn out you have no need to know. For what purpose it was torn
out you may discover for yourself, if you will. Read it first--at the
fifth line from the top of the page.'

Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. 'Give me a
chair,' she said to Henry; 'and I will do my best.' He placed himself
behind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help her
to understand the writing on the leaf. Rendered into English, it ran
as follows:--

I have now completed my literary survey of the first
floor of the palace. At the desire of my noble and gracious patron,
the lord of this glorious edifice, I next ascend to the second floor,
and continue my catalogue or description of the pictures, decorations,
and other treasures of art therein contained. Let me begin with the
corner room at the western extremity of the palace, called the Room of
the Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. This
work is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenth
century only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every part
of it. Still, there is a certain interest which attaches to the
mantel-piece: it conceals a cleverly constructed hiding-place, between
the floor of the room and the ceiling of the room beneath, which was
made during the last evil days of the Inquisition in Venice, and which
is reported to have saved an ancestor of my gracious lord pursued by
that terrible tribunal. The machinery of this curious place of
concealment has been kept in good order by the present lord, as a
species of curiosity. He condescended to show me the method of working
it. Approaching the two Caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead
(midway betwe