“I thank you, signore,” he answered, “but I have supped, and I do not smoke.”

“Ah—­I forgot.  You are a singer, and must of course be careful.  That is perhaps the reason why you wander about the streets when the nights are dark and damp.  But I can offer you something more attractive than liquor and tobacco.  A great violinist lives with me,—­a queer, nocturnal bird,—­and if you will come he will be enchanted to play for you.  I assure you he is a very-good musician, the like of which you will hardly hear nowadays.  He does not play in public any longer, from some odd fancy of his.”

Nino hesitated.  Of all instruments he loved the violin best, and in Rome he had had but little opportunity of hearing it well played.  Concerts were the rarest of luxuries to him, and violinists in Rome are rarer still.

“What is his name, signore?” he asked, unbending a little.

“You must guess that when you hear him,” said the old gentleman, with a short laugh.  “But I give you my word of honour he is a great musician.  Will you come, or must I offer you still further attractions?”

“What might they be?” asked Nino.

“Nay; will you come for what I offer you?  If the music is not good, you may go away again.”  Still Nino hesitated.  Sorrowful and fearful of the future as he was, his love gnawing cruelly at his heart, he would have given the whole world for a strain of rare music if only he were not forced to make it himself.  Then it struck him that this might be some pitfall.  I would not have gone.

“Sir,” he said at last, “if you meditate any foul play, I would advise you to retract your invitation.  I will come, and I am well armed.”  He had my long knife about him somewhere.  It is one of my precautions.  But the stranger laughed long and loud at the suggestion, so that his voice woke queer echoes in the silent street.  Nino did not understand why he should laugh so much, but he found his knife under his cloak, and made sure it was loose in its leathern sheath.  Presently the stranger stopped before the large door of an old palazzo,—­every house is a palazzo that has an entrance for carriages, and let himself in with a key.  There was a lantern on the stone pavement inside, and seeing a light, Nino followed him boldly.  The old gentleman took the lantern and led the way up the stairs, apologising for the distance and the darkness.  At last they stopped, and, entering another door, found themselves in the stranger’s apartment.

“A cardinal lives downstairs,” said he, as he turned up the light of a couple of large lamps that burned dimly in the room they had reached.  “The secretary of a very holy order has his office on the other side of my landing, and altogether this is a very religious atmosphere.  Pray take off your cloak; the room is warm.”