Orsino stared at him for a moment.

“You are in a philosophising mood this evening,” he said.

“We are only logic’s pawns,” continued Spicca without heeding the remark.  “Or, if you like it better, we are the Devil’s chess pieces in his match against God.  We are made to move each in our own way.  The one by short irregular steps in every direction, the other in long straight lines between starting point and goal—­the one stands still, like the king-piece, and never moves unless he is driven to it, the other jumps unevenly like the knight.  It makes no difference.  We take a certain number of other pieces, and then we are taken ourselves—­always by the adversary—­and tossed aside out of the game.  But then, it is easy to carry out the simile, because the game itself was founded on the facts of life, by the people who invented it.”

“No doubt,” said Orsino, who was not very much interested.

“Yes.  You have only to give the pieces the names of men and women you know, and to call the pawns society—­you will see how very like real life chess can be.  The king and queen on each side are a married couple.  Of course, the object of each queen is to get the other king, and all her friends help her—­knights, bishops, rooks and her set of society pawns.  Very like real life, is it not?  Wait till you are married.”

Spicca smiled grimly and took more wine.

“There at least you have no personal experience,” objected Orsino.

But Spicca only smiled again, and vouchsafed no answer.

“Is Madame d’Aranjuez coming back next winter?” asked the young man.

“Madame d’Aranjuez will probably come back, since she is free to consult her own tastes,” answered Spicca gravely.

“I hope she may be out of danger by that time,” said Orsino quietly.  He had resolved upon a bolder attack than he had hitherto made.

“What danger is she in now?” asked Spicca quietly.

“Surely, you must know.”

“I do not understand you.  Please speak plainly if you are in earnest.”

“Before she went away I called once more.  When I was coming away her maid met me in the corridor of the hotel and told me that Madame d’Aranjuez was not quite sane, and that she, the maid, was in reality her keeper, or nurse—­or whatever you please to call her.”

Spicca laughed harshly.  No one could remember to have heard him laugh many times.

“Oh—­she said that, did she?” He seemed very much amused.  “Yes,” he added presently, “I think Madame d’Aranjuez will be quite out of danger before Christmas.”

Orsino was more puzzled than ever.  He was almost sure that Spicca did not look upon the maid’s assertion as serious, and in that case, if his interest in Maria Consuelo was friendly, it was incredible that he should seem amused at what was at least a very dangerous piece of spite on the part of a trusted servant.

“Then is there no truth in that woman’s statement?” asked Orsino.